edit(2026) : i tried fixing the links but i really couldn't find some of the fics. maybe some authors have deleted their acc/deleted the fic im not really sure :(
one of my new favs. this one's for those who love cozy halloween and spooky stuff like me!! oc is a private investigator, assigned to solve a case in a mysterious town where she meets 7 peculiar (and hot) men.
Help Wanted (ongoing)
☆ jungkook x reader ☆
(1980s!au, singledad!jk x nanny, age gap, ceo, dilf!jk)
very cute but the slow burn is killing me. also very wholesome interactions between nanny and the kids. oc (20) is a struggling med student. she got a job to babysit the kids of a very busy ceo and a very strict dad, jungkook.
Anatomy of a Vampire (ongoing)
☆ jungkook x reader ☆
(vampire!jk x veterinarian, biology nerd oc, catdad!gguk)
love thissss. this is not your regular vampire fic. oc is a vet and she's very interested in the biological side of the supernatural. jungkook needed a vet for the kittens inside his closet.
the writing style in this one is very cool and unique! the story is so creepy and scary but in a good way. the 3 of them went to explore an abandoned mall and crazy shit began to happen.
OBJECTIVELY SPEAKING, HE'S A MENACE 🌹 (ongoing)
☆ jungkook x reader ☆
(spiderman!au, newsroom!au, spidey!gguk x journalist, side couple namjin, a little jimin x reader, romcom, superhero action)
super underrated. very fun and exciting to read. also all the characters are freaking hilarious especially jin. oc just got an internship at the biggest newspaper company in NYC. she's VERY determined to unmask spiderman to secure a permanent position. jeongguk is a computer engineering student and well.. he can save someone from a burning building but can't talk to women to save his life.
ONESHOTS
Office Hours
☆ namjoon x reader ☆
(college!au, e2l, prof!joon x student, tension, smut)
yknow it's gonna be freaky when it's prof. kim. joon is quite mean but he's doing it on purpose and it adds to the TENSION oh god. namjoon is a replacement lecturer in oc's class. she's a hardworking student, the type to give it all for her studies. but for some reason she failed her midterm.
Night Crawlers
☆ jungkook x reader ☆
(college!au, sketchy parts of the city, illegal activities, drugrunner x sugarbaby, smut)
for me this is very Like Animals coded so definitely try to listen while reading especially during the last parts. BIKER JK YUP. oc and jk are classmates. they're polar opposites but don't realize that they're similar in some kind of ways.
What's your motive 🌹
☆ namjoon x reader ☆
(2000s!au, new york city, undergroundrapper!joon, slice of life, smut)
so intimate ugh why can't things like this happen to me irl lol😔 LOTS of flirting. joon is so smooth and confident i was giggling n kicking my feet. they meet during one of namjoon's gig. oc has quite a hard time letting people in but joon is not the type to let go easily.
Mr. and Mrs.
☆ jungkook x reader ☆
(detective!au, undercover, kinda e2l, smut)
they want each other so baddd. oc and jungkook are both detectives. they're assigned to investigate an underground club. to get in, they pretend to be a married couple.
hidden temptations
☆ jungkook x reader ☆
(religious themes, cult!jk, innocence, moral dilemma, smut)
this one is very interesting. kinda sad it was just a one shot, i would definitely read a series with the same theme. kook is raised in a religious cult. they have certain beliefs and rules to obey but he's curious about certain things. he met oc and becomes instantly drawn to her.
DRABBLES
focus or fuck me
nerdbf!kook, study session but he's too hot you can't focus, smut
it's mostly jk fics and it's not really much but I'll update this blog and add more fics if i get free time :)
hope u find something u like. give the authors some love! 🫶🏼
In order to secure your dream job at the New York Times, you need the biggest scoop of the century. Unmasking Spider-Man should do it. Falling for him definitely won’t.
or
In which you’re willing to do whatever it takes to uncover the identity of New York’s newest superhero. There's only one problem: you might already know him—and you don’t even like him that much.
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pairing: spiderman!jeongguk × journalist!(f)reader | lowkey jimin x reader
wordcount: 18K (LMAO SORRY)
contents | warnings: swearing. descriptions of reckless driving and criminal acts, including robbery and gunfire. mentions of patriarchy and sexism in the workplace. implied abuse of power dynamics in the workplace. || one run bts! reference celebrating we are getting new episodes as i write this chapter. one reference to bts as a band if you squint. blonde jimin being a total snack in a suit!! i repeat everyone blonde jimin in a suit! possibly unrealistic scenes of Taehyung being the guy in the chair, but that’s the power of literature ladies so just play along and don’t come for me. jeongguk totally whipped by oc is my fav dynamic ngl HES SUCH A SOFTIE. OC being prejudiced (give her time she is literally the best i love her and will protect her with my life if necessary). constant misunderstandings. action. crack, crack, crack, and more crack.
a/n: yesterday, scrolling through the bottomless brainrot sea my fyp on tiktok is, i found a musician (@/dilan safari on spotify and tiktok) who composed a ridiculously hilarious piece when he was super stressed at university. believe me when i say that this is exactly what oc’s brain sounds like ever since she's on her mission to unmask Spidey. the piece is called 'opus. cortisolus'. i think that’s pretty self-explanatory (you can literally hear the stress).
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03. deadline high
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As you’d predicted, the next day’s Reporting class revolved around the events of the previous twenty-four hours, which included not only Amazon’s stock dropping by 1.3 percent, but also—obviously—Spider-Man and his latest stunt in Queens. The same thing happened in Thursday’s class, and then again the following Monday.
By the time the day arrived for you to start your internship at the New York Times, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man had already intervened a few more times around New York City: once to stop a fleeing van carrying nearly fifteen million dollars in gold stolen from the Federal Reserve Bank of New York—a story that had landed the masked vigilante on the evening news in half the countries in the world—and once to foil the robbery of a laundromat’s cash in the Bronx.
You loved Reporting classes and lectures because the debate was always heated. And Professor Barlow enjoyed them like a Mets game—of which, judging by the pin on his shirt and the team-logo patches sewn onto his briefcase, he was clearly a devoted fan—barely stepping in except to manage the students’ turns and keep the class from turning into a full-blown henhouse.
Seokjin, unsurprisingly, was the ace of debates. He always led one of the two teams the class split into, which he, of course, always named Team Kim Seokjin. That team always won. It didn’t matter what the topic was or what position Professor Barlow assigned them to defend. That day, much to the surprise of the entire class, you barely raised your hand to contribute anything to the debate.
Your mind was spiraling wildly around the slow sweep of the clock hands above the blackboard. On Friday morning, you’d received an email from the Times HR department confirming your internship schedule. Everything had worked out perfectly, clicking into place with the precision of a well-oiled mechanism. You’d be on the afternoon shift after your classes at the department, and it would also let you keep working dinner shifts at Phill’s burger joint whenever you needed to.
So there you were, with noon only minutes away.
You’d have to bolt for the university bus stop if you wanted to make it to Midtown in time, grab a veggie sandwich and a double iced americano at The Times Eatery, and be in the Human Resources office by exactly one o’clock. The bell rang out through the hallways, cutting Team Kim Seokjin’s debate-ending argument clean in half.
Professor Barlow clapped once from where he sat leaned back in his chair on the raised platform, one leg crossed over the other.
“Alright, everyone! We’ll pick this up again on Wednesday, okay?” The students began gathering their things. You already had your tote bag slung over your shoulder, your trench coat zipped up, your headphones in hand, and your whole body poised to sprint for your life to the bus stop. “And don’t forget to turn in your Investigative Techniques paper before next class.”
You took it as a sign and got up from your seat halfway through the classroom, with Jin on your left, before the stairs leading up to the professor’s platform and the door beside the blackboard could fill up with students moving far too slowly for your current needs. You took the steps two at a time, throwing Seokjin a kiss over your shoulder—he didn’t even have time to wish you luck.
Professor Barlow noticed, of course he did. And he raised a hand.
“Ah, Miss Bell. One second, please.”
Oh, no. Not today, please. Jesus Christ.
You forced your best smile for the professor and came to an abrupt stop, awkwardly changing direction. You already felt yourself sweating under the turtleneck, dark blazer, and trench coat.
Wait—had you packed deodorant in your tote? You probably forgot. Goddamnit.
You thanked every higher power available that you’d pulled your hair back into a neat, tight, professional bun. As you stepped up onto the platform toward his desk, you shot an anxious glance at the clock on the wall. Professor Barlow didn’t seem to notice, because he leaned back against the desk with his arms crossed in an easy posture.
“I heard you got the internship at the Times. Congratulations,” he began, wearing his usual warm smile.
You returned it automatically and almost forgave him for stopping you on a day this important. Well, you’d have to catch the next bus and settle for a cheap coffee from one of the vending machines you were pretty sure you’d seen in the landings and lobby the day of your interview.
Goodbye to the veggie sandwich, though.
“Thank you, Professor. It’s a dream come true.”
He nodded, pleased, and leaned over his desk to pull something from his Mets-customized briefcase.
“I won’t keep you long. I just wanted you to know that I spoke to a couple of colleagues I know there, just so they’ll keep an eye out for you and treat you well, hm?” he said, holding out a small rectangle of paper to you. A business card. “Here. This is my contact information, in case you need anything.”
You blinked, puzzled, and took it with something close to reverence.
“I—uh, thank you. Professor, really. I wasn’t expecting you to—”
He made a small, easy gesture with one hand, as though to calm you.
“No need to thank me, Miss Bell. Talent like yours deserves to be put to good use. Best of luck!”
You dipped your head, thanked him three more times in a row—earning a laugh from him—and turned on your heel to break into another run.
Seokjin and Namjoon were waiting for you, leaning against the doorframe. Namu had a small white paper bag in his hand with something written on it in pen. As you got closer, you made out his elegant handwriting curling across the paper:
Made with all the love. Fuel for uncovering the story of the year. :) ♥
Namu held it out to you with a smile, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he did.
“Extra pickles,” he said proudly.
Jin gave your hand a squeeze.
“Go knock ’em dead, babe.”
The urge to cry like a little girl surged up your throat and into your nose in a powerful wave that took everything you had to suppress. You’d run out of waterproof eyeliner, and there was no way in hell you were walking into the Times offices looking like a raccoon.
You shoved the sandwich into your tote bag and took off running, turning back to look at them.
“I’ll text you when I get out! I love you!”
They waved you off. Seokjin cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone so his voice would carry down the hallway after you.
“I want a full analysis of Park Jimin’s ass!”
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Until the day of your interview, you had never been that close to the doors of the New York Times offices. You’d spent weeks admiring the skyscraper from the other side of The Times Eatery’s fogged-up windows, but you had never once gathered enough courage to even step onto that side of the street—let alone climb the steps that separated the rest of mere mortals from the Mount Olympus of local and national journalism.
Now, that would become your routine, because you belonged to that world too—even if only temporarily.
You squared your shoulders, straightened your spine, lifted your chin, and arranged yourself into a posture that, at the very least, managed to disguise how badly your knees were shaking beneath your black tailored trousers. The pointed heels of your shoes clicked against the marble floor as you stretched out an arm and pushed through the revolving door at the entrance.
The lobby felt much bigger than you remembered, and the distance between the entrance and the reception desk seemed enormous—like no man’s land between trenches.
You felt like everyone was watching you, even though one man in a suit, briefcase in hand and phone pressed to his ear, nearly plowed right into you without noticing you at all, despite walking straight toward you. By the time you reached the desk, you could feel a bead of sweat slipping down your back. There were two employees seated there in front of their computers, both looking impeccably put together. The receptionist who had checked you in on the day of your interview looked up at you, but to your ego’s great humiliation, she didn’t seem to recognize you.
“Yes? How can I help you?” she asked politely, fingers paused over the keyboard.
You cleared your throat and assembled your best professional smile.
“Hi. I’m y/n Bell. I’m starting my internship today, and—”
“Oh, right!” she cut in, smiling and leaving you mid-sentence. “The new intern. Give me one second, he should be around here somewhere…”
The receptionist straightened slightly in her chair and looked past you over the top of her black, round-framed glasses. Her gaze landed on someone behind you.
“Ah, there he is— Mr. Park!” she called, lifting a hand in greeting.
Your body went rigid, as if it had been poured from wax. Your mind blanked all at once, and you blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
Wait… what did she mean, Mr. Park?
Oh, you had to be kidding. You turned so fast your head nearly spun all the way around on your neck like a screw.
And there he was, of course.
A few yards away, near one of the sleek sitting areas arranged beneath an enormous abstract installation you suspected was probably worth more than your entire degree, Park Jimin was standing in a small cluster of men in dark suits.
The Park Jimin.
He had one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers, the other holding a paper coffee cup and a folder resting loosely against his side. Even from where you stood, he looked exactly the way you had always imagined: expensive without a trace of ostentation, impossibly handsome, composed, charming. The kind of man who made everyone around him subtly reorient themselves toward him without even realizing they were doing it.
One of the men beside him was speaking. Jimin was listening with his head tipped slightly to one side, his expression attentive but unreadable.
Then he looked up.
His gaze went first to the receptionist, then to you.
And shifted—just enough for you to see recognition settle in. His brows lifting ever so slightly toward his hairline.
Oh my God.
You became acutely aware of everything all at once: your too-tight bun, the bead of sweat still crawling traitorously down your spine, the fact that Seokjin’s voice still seemed to be echoing in your skull about analyzing Park Jimin’s ass. You made a heroic effort not to drop your gaze from his face.
Oh, you were no better than a man.
Jimin said something brief to the men with him—too low for you to catch—and stepped away from the group. One of them gave him a light clap on the shoulder in farewell. He smiled politely, nodded once, and crossed the lobby toward you with the kind of calm, unhurried stride that only made your pulse race harder.
By the time he stopped in front of the desk, you had forgotten how arms were supposed to hang naturally at your sides.
Up close, he looked even less real. Younger than he sometimes seemed in photographs, somehow, though no less sharp for it. His tie was dark, loosened by maybe half an inch in a way that looked intentional rather than tired, and his eyes—
Well.
You had always known Park Jimin had a way of looking at things as though he meant to strip them down to the truth. Being on the receiving end of it was another matter entirely.
He was obscenely hot. Seokjin was going to lose his mind.
“Miss Bell?” he said.
His voice was warm, low, even. Professional, but not cold in the slightest.
Wait. Was he waiting for you? What the hell—?
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You cleared your throat, hated yourself, and tried again.
“Yes. Hi. Sorry. Yes. That’s me.”
Brilliant.
Jimin’s expression barely changed, but something faintly amused flickered in his eyes before professional smoothness settled over it again. He shifted the folder into his other hand and offered you his.
“Park Jimin,” he said, as if there were any chance on God’s green earth that you did not know that.
You took his hand, praying yours wasn’t sweaty. His grip was firm and professional. He gave you a polite smile and let go.
“I was waiting for you.”
Your brain, already operating at terminal velocity trying to process the fact that you were talking to the man you had spent years fantasizing about, came to a sudden halt as if someone had slammed the emergency stop on a nuclear reactor. You could almost hear an alarm siren going off somewhere inside your skull.
“Ah— really?” you said, in a thin, embarrassing little thread of a voice whose memory would haunt you for the rest of your life.
That amused glint crossed his eyes again, quick as a flash. It only made you more aware of the heat climbing up your neck into your cheeks. Thank God you’d had the foresight not to wear too much blush that morning.
“Mm-hm,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Professor Barlow asked me to meet you on your first day.”
What the fuck.
“You know Professor Barlow?” was the only sentence you managed to produce that didn’t sound completely insane.
Jimin nodded. “I was one of his students at Columbia. Are his Investigative Techniques classes still as fun as I remember?”
You nodded by sheer miracle.
Did that mean one of those “colleagues” he had at the Times was the Park Jimin?
Oh, God. Had he talked about you to the actual—
“He contacted me last week and sent over your résumé and transcript. Impeccable, Miss Bell.”
WHAT THE FUCK.
“Thank you,” you managed. “It’s—it’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Park.”
“Jimin’s fine,” he said easily. “You’ll hear ‘Mr. Park’ enough from people trying to scare me into answering emails.”
That startled a tiny, very human laugh out of you before you could stop it.
Jimin smiled, perhaps pleased to see you behaving for the first time like a normal person and not a bundle of nerves in human form. The receptionist, who had been watching the exchange with an expression of amused delight at your expense, handed a couple of documents to Jimin. He took them, glanced through them for a moment, then rested them against his folder. In the blur of moving ink, you caught the Columbia University seal, your name at the top, and your black-and-white student ID photo beside it.
You swallowed.
Your résumé and transcript, most likely.
“I’m going to take you upstairs,” Jimin began, “get you settled with HR, and then I’ll show you around before things get ugly.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your tote bag. “Ugly?”
He glanced toward the elevators. “It’s Monday.”
Which, somehow, told you everything.
The receptionist, already back at her keyboard, slid a visitor badge across the desk along with a form and a pen.
“If you’ll just sign in here, Miss Bell.”
You did, trying—and failing—not to become painfully aware of your own handwriting.
Jimin waited beside you with the easy patience of someone used to deadlines, junior staff, and the soft bureaucracies of large institutions. He took another sip of his coffee and glanced once toward the elevators, then back at you.
“How was the trip in?”
“Fine,” you said, then immediately hated how generic that sounded. “Crowded. But fine.”
He nodded, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m afraid that’s the universal New York commute experience.”
You smiled again, smaller this time.
God. He was easy.
That was almost worse than if he’d been intimidating.
You handed the pen back. The receptionist clipped the badge to a lanyard and slid it over the desk.
“Thank you. You’re all set.”
Jimin gestured lightly toward the bank of elevators, already turning. “Come on, then.”
You followed, only just resisting the urge to check that you weren’t walking strangely. Your heels clicked across the marble beside his quieter steps, and every inch of the lobby suddenly felt too bright and too polished.
Jimin pressed the elevator button.
“Thank you again for meeting me, Mr. Park,” you began, stepping up beside him as you adjusted your bag, because if you stayed silent a second longer you were pretty sure you’d combust on the spot. “If you’re very busy, I can—”
“As I said,” he cut in gently, “you can call me Jimin, and you don’t need to be so formal with me…” He glanced down at the sheet resting on top of his folder. “Y/n. Pretty name.”
You cleared your throat, trying to come up with something logical to say. All you could do was feel the heat rising through your body in the most ridiculous way. Thank God the elevator doors opened at that exact moment, saving you from embarrassing yourself further. Jimin stepped aside and extended an arm into the doorway, bracing his hand against the sensor so the doors wouldn’t close too quickly. He tipped his head.
“After you.”
You smiled at him, dipping your chin. “Thank you.”
You stepped inside, trying very hard not to look like you were entering a sacred site. The mirrored walls were merciless. They reflected your stiff posture, your too-bright eyes, the way your fingers kept tightening and loosening around the strap of your bag. Jimin stepped in after you and took his place at your side. You held your breath when he leaned in, his chest almost brushing your body, to press one of the dozens of buttons marking each floor.
On top of being handsome, intelligent, polite, and funny, he smelled divine.
Oh, God have mercy.
Against all your previous plans, and entirely without meaning to, you started praying they wouldn’t assign you to work with him. You probably wouldn’t survive it.
Jimin straightened beside you, settling the folder back against his forearm.
Just the two of you.
No pressure.
“So,” he said as the doors slid shut. “First-day nerves?”
You let out a breathy laugh through your nose. “Is it that obvious?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his eyes crease at the edges with a smile. Then he gave a small shrug.
“We’ve all been there. I remember on my first day here, I was so nervous I forgot my last name for a solid twenty minutes.” He laughed, shaking his head. “You can imagine the receptionist’s face.”
Somehow, that helped your shoulders relax a little and reminded you that you were neither the first nor would you be the last New York Times intern. The woman at reception had probably already forgotten your face because you were likely the thousandth nervous new intern to stumble trembling into that lobby since she’d started working there. You weren’t that important. Most likely, no one would even notice you.
You weren’t sure whether that was comforting or devastating.
“And look at you now,” you said at last, after clearing your throat. “One of the most acclaimed journalists in New York City.”
Jimin scratched the side of his neck with his index finger.
“You make it sound like some great feat, Miss Bell.”
“Well, it is. Everyone agrees your columns are the best thing published all month, myself included.”
At that, Jimin turned a little toward you. You saw the faintest hint of a smile in the mirror’s reflection.
“You read my work?”
You would have been less offended if he’d asked whether you were an idiot.
“Are you serious?” you asked, gathering your nerve and turning to look at him with your brows raised. “Of course I read your work. The latest piece you published on Spider-Man is brilliant.”
The compliment landed between you with just enough force to make him glance at you properly this time. Not the polite, passing kind of look he’d been giving you since the lobby. A real one. Curious. Slightly sharper. As if the mention of the article had nudged something in him awake.
“Oh?” he said.
You instantly became aware of the fact that you had spoken with far too much feeling for a first-day interaction with a journalist you admired to a frankly humiliating degree.
Still. Too late now.
You straightened a fraction. “It is,” you insisted, quieter. “Most people discussing Spider-Man right now are either turning him into a folk hero or acting like he’s single-handedly responsible for the collapse of law and order in Manhattan. But your piece doesn’t do either. It actually addresses the contradiction.”
You nodded. “That he keeps saving people, and that matters. Of course it matters. But the fact that his interventions have positive outcomes doesn’t automatically resolve the question of legitimacy. Or accountability.” You wet your lips, suddenly very aware you were rambling in an elevator at the New York Times to Park Jimin himself, but the words kept coming anyway. “And I liked that you didn’t frame the debate as hero versus menace in some simplistic way. It’s more uncomfortable than that. More— revealing, maybe. About the city.”
For a second, all you could hear was the hum of the elevator climbing. Then Jimin smiled. A real smile this time, softening his whole face in a way that felt genuinely unfair.
“Well,” he said, “that’s reassuring.”
You blinked. “Reassuring?”
“That at least one person understood what I was trying to do.”
You stared at him.
He laughed lightly, one shoulder lifting. “You’d be surprised how many people read opinion pieces only to confirm what they already wanted to believe.”
“Oh,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “No, I definitely believe people are stupid by default.”
The words fell out of your mouth with horrifying ease. Then Jimin barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded that it startled you into laughing too.
“Good,” he said, still smiling. “That’ll serve you well here.”
Heat flared up your neck again, but at least this time it came with relief. Jimin leaned back very slightly against the wall, folder still tucked under one arm.
“Were you at that conference Columbia hosted some years ago?” he asked.
You looked up in surprise. “The one on investigative ethics?”
He nodded. You smiled before you could help it. “Yeah, I did. Freshman year.”
“I thought so.” He tipped his head. “Front left section?”
Your mouth opened.
Again— What the fuck.
“Third row,” you said.
Jimin pointed once, very lightly, as if confirming a theory to himself. “You asked the question about whether objectivity in local reporting was ever truly possible when proximity itself changed the moral stakes.”
For one long second, all you could do was look at him.
“You remember that?”
He gave you a small, almost apologetic shrug. “It was a good question.”
Something warm and strange expanded in your chest.
You had spent so long imagining what it might feel like to be in the same room as him as a colleague that the reality of him remembering a question you’d asked as an overeager undergrad felt almost disorienting. Like a tiny rupture in the membrane between the life you had been dragging yourself toward for years and the one actually beginning now beneath your feet.
The elevator dinged softly as it passed another floor.
You glanced at the illuminated panel, then back at him. “I think I spent three days floating after that conference.”
Jimin’s mouth curved. You looked away first, mostly because the mirrored walls were beginning to feel like hostile witnesses.
The elevator kept climbing.
You could feel the shape of your nerves changing—not disappearing, exactly, but rearranging themselves into something a little more manageable. Less blind panic, more electric anticipation.
Jimin looked at the sheet again, then back at you. “You’re on the afternoon rotation for now, right?”
You nodded. “That’s what I was told.”
“Mm.” He tapped the corner of the folder absently against his palm. “Good.”
Your heart did something deeply unprofessional.
“Good?”
He glanced sideways at you. “It tends to be busier. You’ll learn faster.”
That was either the most exciting or most threatening thing anyone had ever said to you.
“Is that your way of warning me?”
“It’s my way of being nice on your first day.”
You huffed out a laugh. “I’d hate to see your version of unkind.”
“You probably will eventually,” he said, and though his tone stayed light, there was enough truth in it to make you straighten instinctively.
Right.
Of course.
He wasn’t just handsome and brilliant and absurdly kind to trembling interns in elevators. He was also Park Jimin, which meant he was sharp enough to cut through steel when he wanted to be. The warmth of the moment didn’t erase the fact that this building ran on deadlines, pressure and the quiet brutality of standards you had spent years dreaming of meeting.
Maybe he saw some flicker of that thought pass across your face, because his voice gentled again when he added, “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
You looked up.
“The people who will teach you the most here,” he said, “usually aren’t the ones most concerned with making you comfortable.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than you expected. The elevator slowed down.
You nodded slowly. “Ominous.”
Jimin looked up at the display, then back at you. “Here’s something no one tells you on the first day.”
The doors had not opened yet. You found yourself hanging on the pause.
“What?”
“That nobody knows what they’re doing as much as they pretend they do.”
You blinked.
He continued, tone lighter now.
“Not the interns. Not the assistants. Not the editors. Half the newsroom survives on caffeine and deadlines. The other half survives on fear of looking stupid. The trick is learning how to be useful before anyone notices which category you’re in.”
The elevator doors slid open at last.
Noise spilled in immediately—phones ringing, distant voices, footsteps, the sharp, charged atmosphere of a place already fully awake before most of the city had finished its first coffee. The newsroom stretched beyond the threshold in glass, steel and movement.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
Jimin stepped out first, then turned back when he noticed you hadn’t moved.
Your heart gave a stupid little leap.
He tipped his head toward the corridor beyond, one hand lightly resting against the elevator door so it wouldn’t close on you.
“Come on, Miss Bell,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Try not to look so terrified. They can smell it.”
The New York Times newsroom was everything you had ever imagined and, somehow, far more intimidating for it. It unfolded before you in a controlled kind of disorder: long rows of scarred wooden desks, battered rolling chairs, lamps casting warm pools of light over towers of paper and glowing screens, phones ringing with relentless insistence, voices rising and falling over the constant percussion of keyboards. It smelled like ink and coffee. Not the elegant, curated stress of a corporate office, but the dense, lived-in pressure of a place where things were written fast, rewritten faster, and sent out into the world before the world had even caught its breath.
There was nothing sterile about it. Every surface seemed touched by work. Reporters weaving between desks with legal pads in hand. Editors leaning over shoulders, red pen tucked behind an ear, asking for changes before the previous sentence had even been finished. A printer spitting out fresh pages in one corner. A television mounted high on the far wall running muted footage with the captions on. Coats slung over chairs, books stacked unevenly, papers pinned to corkboards, city maps marked in pen.
Even the glass offices around the edges of the floor looked less like monuments to authority and more like command posts in the middle of an ongoing endless campaign.
It felt less like entering an office than crossing into a frontline.
Jimin let you take in the atmosphere for a few moments before gesturing with an open hand and a slightly extended arm toward one of the offices along the side of the newsroom. You shook your head and followed him, your heels once again clicking out a rhythm that sounded far too loud to your own ears.
Even so, no one looked at you twice.
Keep a low profile, girl. Keep a low profile.
Jimin stopped in front of the glass door of an office. Inside, behind the desk, sat a woman in her fifties, gray at her temples, with the kind of face that looked like it wouldn’t let a single misplaced comma slip by. She had been working at her computer, but she looked up over the screen when she saw you both through the glass. One of her perfectly black, sharply lined brows arched in silent accusation.
On the door, in a gold plaque: Human Resources.
Jimin handed you the documents the receptionist had given him. You took them, feeling as though your hands had decided this was the ideal possible moment to stop belonging to you.
“That’s Susan Whitmore,” Jimin said, adjusting his grip on the folder, “head of HR. Whatever you do, never comment on the color of her blouse, and do not say the name Harry out loud, okay?”
You blinked, confused. He knocked twice on the door—more out of politeness than necessity.
“Why—?”
But it was too late. Jimin opened the door and leaned his head in. You stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the woman through the glass like a deer in headlights.
“Susan, I’ve brought you the new girl. Y/n Bell.”
The woman barely changed expression, but she stopped typing, and the silence stretched through the office for a few seconds.
“Barlow’s?” she asked, and her voice sounded like ice cracking to you.
That made you swallow. So they already had you flagged.
Great. Perfect, almost.
You wished the earth would open up beneath you, swallow you whole, and spit you out on the other side of the planet, where nobody knew your name, or Professor Barlow’s, or—
“Come in, Bell.”
Susan Whitmore’s voice snapped you out of your daze as fast as it had put you there.
You went rigid for a second, gathering enough courage to take a step into the room, which suddenly felt about as terrifying as walking toward the gallows.
Jimin, trying and failing to hide a smile at your expense, held out a small square card—white, elegant.
A business card.
Oh, God.
His business card.
“I have a correction to file, but when you’re done here, come find me at my desk. I’ll show you the rest of the newsroom so you can start getting familiar with the place—you’ll be grateful for it,” he said softly as you closed your fingers around the card. “You’ve got my number and my email in case you need anything. It’ll be the fastest way for us to communicate.”
Without even giving you the chance to thank him, he stepped back and left you alone on the front line.
“Welcome to the Times, Miss Bell.”
He tipped his head with a gallantry that, once again, had you mentally kicking your feet and not-so-mentally blushing. He gave you one last smile, then turned on his heel and walked back toward the heart of the newsroom without looking back.
The glass door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made your stomach drop.
For one absurd second, all you could do was stand there clutching Park Jimin’s business card in one hand and your onboarding documents in the other, as if either might save you from the woman seated behind the desk.
Susan Whitmore removed her glasses.
That, somehow, was worse.
Not because she looked unkind without them. Quite the opposite. Her face settled into something cooler, sharper, less buffered by the frame. It was the face of a woman who had spent twenty years shepherding nervous interns and ambitious assistants through the machinery of the New York Times and had emerged from the experience with less patience each time.
“Sit,” she said.
So you sat. The chair opposite her desk was far too low, or perhaps that was just the effect she had on a room.
Mrs. Whitmore held out one hand. You passed her the documents. She took them without looking at you. The silence stretched uncomfortably, at least for you.
Whitmore opened the folder, flipped a page, scanned it and hummed once through her nose.
“Y/n Bell. Columbia Journalism School. Reporting track.”
You smiled weakly, because what else was there to do? Throw yourself through the window?
“You’re from California.”
It was not a question.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes remained on the paperwork. “Northern.”
“Yes.”
She made a small noise that meant nothing and therefore terrified you.
“Barlow sends me one or two students every few years,” she said, almost casually. “Usually the sort who believe receiving praise from him entitles them to a personality.”
You blinked. Then, before you could stop yourself, a traitorous flicker of hope rose in your chest.
Careful.
Very carefully, you said, “I hope I won’t disappoint you, then.”
One eyebrow rose.
“Disappoint me?” she repeated. “Miss Bell, whether or not you disappoint me is one of the least important questions on this floor.”
Well. That was humbling.
She looked back down at your forms, and your spine stiffened another notch.
“You are here because somebody in editorial believed you might be useful. Human Resources does not deal in belief. We deal in paperwork, liability and avoidable disasters. My job is to ensure you do not become one.”
You nodded once. “Understood.”
“Good.”
Whitmore signed something with a fountain pen so sleek and expensive-looking it could probably authorize wars. Then she slid one sheet to the side, opened a drawer and withdrew a laminated badge on a clip.
Your name. Your photo.
The words New York Times beneath them.
For one dizzy second, the room seemed to tilt.
Mrs. Whitmore set it on the desk between you.
“You will wear this at all times until Security issues your permanent credentials,” she said. “You will not loan it, lose it or forget it.”
You stared.
She stared back.
“…I won’t,” you said.
“Mm.”
She handed you another packet.
“This is your intern handbook. Most of it is common sense, so naturally, no one reads it. You will read it.” Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “Highlights include confidentiality, media ethics, harassment policy, source handling and the extremely radical suggestion that you do not use company email to forward memes to your friends.”
You nodded solemnly, because to do otherwise felt like it might get you vaporized where you sat.
Whitmore leaned back in her chair, folding one hand over the other.
“For the next twelve weeks, you will report primarily to Metro unless that changes. You will assist as assigned. You will arrive on time, ask intelligent questions, and learn to distinguish between urgency and noise. The second one takes most people longer.”
A small, electric thrill went through you despite everything.
Metro.
New York.
Real city reporting.
“Metro?”
She looked up.
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No,” you said, maybe too quickly. “No, not at all. I just—” You stopped, because what you had almost said was I thought I might black out from happiness before noon, and that was, for a fact, extremely unprofessional. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
“Most interns expect Investigations,” Whitmore said. “Most interns also mistake ambition for readiness. Metro is where you learn how this city actually works.”
You nodded at once, trying not to look too thrilled and probably failing.
“It’s one of the strongest desks in the paper,” she went on, as though she were reading from a file inside your own skull and had found the exact sentence needed to shut down any lingering insecurity. “If you’re smart, you’ll treat it like a gift.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “And if you call me ma’am one more time, I may reconsider your paperwork.”
You stared.
“Sorry,” you said. “Sorry. Mrs. Whitmore.”
She gave you a look. Yikes.
You corrected instantly. “Miss Whitmore.”
“Better.”
She turned back to the papers and continued in that same cool, efficient tone.
“If you are ill, you inform your desk and then me. If you are delayed, you inform your desk and then me. If you are confused, you ask before creating more work for someone else. If you break something expensive, we will all know before lunch, so honesty is advised.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You should.” Whitmore handed you a final page. “Sign there.”
You did.
Your signature came out mostly legible, which under the circumstances felt like a miracle. She took the page back, reached for a pen, signed something with brutal efficiency, then pulled a printed schedule from a neat stack at the edge of her desk and slid it across to you.
You looked down.
Your name sat there in black ink, official and surreal.
Y.N. Bell — Metro Desk Intern
Below that, a week mapped out in blocks and notes: afternoon newsroom shifts, orientation windows, reporting support, archive review, editorial meetings to observe when permitted.
Your pulse beat harder.
“You’ll be shadowing and assisting under Park Jimin,” Whitmore said, almost casually.
Your head snapped up so fast it was a miracle you didn’t injure yourself. She noticed. Of course she noticed. One eyebrow rose.
“You have something to say?”
A thousand things, actually. Most of them unusable in a professional setting.
Instead you managed, “No. I mean— thank you.”
Whitmore gave you a long look. “Do not thank me yet. Park is excellent. He is also demanding, overbooked, and constitutionally incapable of tolerating avoidable incompetence. If he has agreed to mentor you, it is because someone believes you may be worth the administrative headache.”
You swallowed.
Right. Good. Humbling. Excellent.
She tapped the schedule once with the end of her pen.
“You report to Metro. You attend what you are told to attend. You ask questions before you make mistakes, not after. You will answer emails. Promptly. You will not flirt with sources, lie to editors, disappear mid-shift, or treat this internship like an accessory to your résumé. Are we clear?”
You sat straighter. “Crystal clear.”
“Good.”
She capped the pen and set it down with precise finality.
“Mr. Hastings would like to see you before you settle in.”
You looked up from your schedule.
“I already met him on the day of my interview,” you said, drifting perhaps a little too close to something like contradiction for Whitmore’s taste. That doomsday eyebrow rose again over the top of her glasses. “I mean, I—”
Possibly out of mercy, she spared you the chance to stammer like an idiot while scrambling for an excuse that would only, against all your wishes, make everything worse.
“Mr. Hastings likely forgot your face the moment you walked out that door, Miss Bell. You will go see him with a smile and pretend, for everyone’s convenience, that you have never met before.”
You swallowed.
“Of course, ma’am—Mrs— Miss. Miss Whitmore.”
She stood. That alone felt like a summons from a higher court.
“Bring your schedule.”
You scrambled up after her. Whitmore moved around the desk with the brisk certainty of a woman who had not wandered uncertainly through anywhere since the Reagan administration. You followed her out into the newsroom, where the noise and motion seemed louder now that you were officially part of it, however temporarily.
No one spared you a second glance.
The indifference of the place remained almost insulting in its efficiency.
Whitmore crossed between desks, and you hurried after her, trying not to trip in your heels or gape too openly at the organized chaos all around you. A young reporter with sleeves rolled to his elbows was arguing into a phone near the printers. Someone else swore softly at a screen full of text. Two editors stood bent over a layout mock-up like surgeons discussing an open chest cavity.
At the center of it all, the newsroom seemed to breathe around you without pause.
Whitmore stopped outside one of the larger glass offices on the far side of the floor. Unlike hers, this one was less immaculate than tightly controlled chaos: stacks of papers, annotated proofs, three open folders, a coffee mug serving as a paperweight, a photograph of a woman with a small boy dressed in a tie, and a little hula dancer figurine that wobbled every time the man behind the desk tapped his index fingernail against the wood. He was in his sixties with iron-gray hair and half-moon glasses, reading something with the expression of a man perpetually disappointed by the available state of the world.
He did not look up when Whitmore knocked.
“Mr. Hastings,” she said.
He held up one finger without lifting his eyes from the page.
Whitmore waited. So did you.
After a few seconds, Hastings set the paper down, removed his glasses, and looked first at Whitmore, then at you. You had the very strange sensation of being reviewed for structural weaknesses.
Of course. Last week, you had watched him get his own secretary’s name wrong three times in a row. You hadn’t expected him to remember your last name, but the mere fact that he had at least registered that the two of you had met before was enough to make the blow to your ego sting a little less.
“Bell, sir. Y/N Bell. Pleasure to meet you.”
He frowned slightly. “Don’t ‘sir’ me. Makes me feel dead.”
“Sorry.”
He tipped his head, accepting the apology, and lifted the mug to his lips. When he set it back down on the desk with a soft thud, the hula dancer swayed like seaweed underwater. Your eyes fixed on it. Whitmore did not look remotely impressed—if anything, quite the opposite.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Hastings said, leaning back in his chair as he flicked the figurine with his finger to set it moving again. “My driver’s a real joker. He’s got a matching one for the dashboard of my Mustang.”
There were so many things in that single sentence that made your skin crawl you had to make a conscious effort not to visibly gag on the spot. Behind her glasses, Whitmore rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly, likely long accustomed to men like him and their staleness.
Before the conversation could deteriorate any further—and, more importantly, waste any more of her precious time—Whitmore extended a hand toward your schedule. You passed it to her, and she handed it across. Hastings scanned it quickly, making a small noise under his breath.
“Afternoons,” he said. “Good. Metro gets ugly after lunch.” He looked up at you again. “You know why you’re here, Blair?”
You decided that, no matter how many times you corrected him, to this man you would be Blair until the day you died, so you simply accepted your fate. The question should have had an obvious answer, but his tone suggested all obvious answers would be wrong.
You chose your words carefully.
“To learn,” you said. “And to be useful.”
Hastings leaned back in his chair. “Useful is better than impressive. Most young reporters don’t understand that until too late.”
You nodded once.
He continued. “I don’t need another intern who thinks this place is a shrine. It’s a newspaper. You’re not here to admire it. You’re here to keep up with it.”
The words landed hard enough that you felt them somewhere behind your ribs.
“Yes,” you said quietly.
He glanced back down at the schedule, then tapped one box with his forefinger. “You’ll sit in on Metro editorial at four when permitted. Before that, Park will orient you. After that, you go where Metro needs you.” He looked at you over the edge of the paper. “You know the city?”
“Well enough,” you said. “Upper West, Morningside Heights, Midtown, parts of Brooklyn. I’m still learning the rest.”
“Keep learning it. The city will always know more than you do.”
That sounded less like advice and more like law.
Hastings set the schedule back down. “And Blair?”
“Yes?”
“If you find yourself trying to sound clever in copy, stop. Clever ages badly. Accuracy doesn’t.”
“I understand.”
He gave you one last once-over before signing your schedule and stamping it. Then he handed the paper back to Whitmore with a vague flick of the hand.
“Fine,” he said, slipping his glasses back on. “You can go disappoint Park now.”
Whitmore inclined her head once, already turning.
You hesitated for half a beat. “Thank you.”
Hastings was back on the page before you’d even finished saying it.
Whitmore ushered you back into the corridor with two clipped steps and closed the office door behind you. Only once you were back in the current of the newsroom did you dare take a fuller breath.
“Well,” she said, “you’ve now officially become one of the pretty, brainless faces who, in the words of our beloved editor-in-chief, have somehow managed to get into Columbia University—once respectable, now nothing more than another instrument in service of the woke system.”
That probably should have shocked you, or offended you, given everything loaded into the remark. But it was something you had expected and, in fact, something that had taken a surprisingly long time to arrive, considering that this field—like ninety percent of life, apparently—was still dominated by men.
So the only possible reaction left to you was a laugh, a soft breath of amusement through your nose.
Whitmore gave you the closest thing to a smile you had seen from her so far—and likely ever would. She led you back toward the heart of the newsroom, weaving past desk after desk. You followed, trying not to look too much like a rookie, though short of a neon sign strapped to your back, there was only so much you could do. In one section at the far end of the room, near the huge TV screen mounted on the wall and the oversized board covered with a city map and newspaper clippings linked together with lines and arrows, there was a cluster of desks that seemed especially busy, especially alive. A sign hung from the ceiling.
Metro Desk.
Whitmore stepped aside before you reached it and indicated your new area with a sweep of her arm.
You spotted Park Jimin instantly.
He had dropped into his chair with the ease of someone who belonged so completely to a place that even sitting down looked practiced. He was speaking to the woman at the next desk over while flipping open his folder, a pen caught between his fingers, his sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. On his desk, among the papers, notebooks, and coffee cups, his monitor glowed with a half-finished document dense with edits.
You didn’t realize you had already started walking toward him until a pointed clearing of the throat stopped you dead.
“Miss Bell.”
You turned.
Whitmore had already put her glasses back on and half-turned to head back to her office.
“Do not mention Harry, because Harry is my ex-husband, he works for the Post, and he has been dead to me since 2009.” She lifted her eyes to yours for one cold, precise second. “The blouse comment is simply because I do not enjoy feedback.”
A helpless smile twitched at the corner of your mouth.
“Understood.”
“Off you go, then. Jimin will be insufferable if kept waiting.”
You nodded, offering her a small dip of the head, and turned away before she could catch the ridiculous grin trying to break across your face.
﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊
When the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers, New York had a way of turning into the asphalt jungle in its purest form. Since getting back in the game a week earlier, Jeongguk had fallen into the habit of patrolling the skies over the Big Apple almost every night, and although he didn’t always intervene—and a lot of the time it was more of a ritual, a way to unwind and have fun pulling acrobatics between buildings—that night alone he had already stopped an armed robbery in the Bronx, prevented a multiple pedestrian collision at the intersection of Amsterdam Avenue and 155th, and helped an elderly woman get her cat down from a tree in Washington Heights.
And it still wasn’t even 7 p.m.
He heard it before he saw it.
Not the police sirens; by then, those were just another note in the infernal symphony that seemed to make up New York’s default soundtrack. No, it was the screaming, and the sound of tires tearing against the asphalt.
Without a second’s hesitation—and without waiting for whatever Taehyung was about to say through the AirPod lodged in his left ear—he changed course toward the source of the noise.
He landed in a crouch on the edge of a traffic light at the intersection of Canal and Lafayette, one hand braced against the metal, the other splayed against the pole above his head. Below him, horns screamed. Headlights streaked white and red across the wet asphalt. Somewhere to his left, someone yelled, “Holy shit, it’s him!”
Jeongguk barely heard it.
The dark courier van was too heavy for the speed it was carrying, fishtailing wide as it tore through Lower Manhattan traffic, one back door visibly buckled inward from some earlier impact. No company logo. No side markings. Just matte black paint, dented panels, and the kind of driving that screamed either desperation or a complete disregard for human life. The van shot through the intersection like a bullet, clipping the side mirror off a black sedan hard enough to send plastic shattering across the road. A delivery truck swerved. Pedestrians screamed and stumbled back onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, that’s bad,” he muttered.
In his ear, Taehyung’s voice came through.
“You say that every time you’re about to do something stupid.”
Jeongguk pushed off the traffic light and dropped, and Spider-Man sprang. His body cut through open air before the first web shot from his wrist with a sharp thwip. It latched high against the side of a building, and then he was flying—swinging low enough over the avenue that the wind of passing traffic punched against his ribs and the city blurred around him in streaks of yellow cabs, scaffolding, steam vents, brake lights, and startled faces turned upward too late.
The van tore around a corner.
He followed, one hand opening, releasing, the next web catching before gravity could claim him. The suit hugged every movement. Shoulders, core, thighs—every line of him sharpened by momentum and strain. He landed for half a second on the hood of a parked sedan at the corner, knees bent deep, one hand splayed against the metal, then launched again before the alarm had time to finish its first outraged blare.
“License plate?” he asked.
“Already on it. I’m pulling traffic cams now,” Taehyung replied instantly. Then after an instant, “Fake, of course. Van was registered two weeks ago to a courier company that does not exist. Also—”
The van slammed through a street market setup at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, sending oranges, flower buckets, and one folding table exploding across the asphalt.
“Jesus Christ,” Taehyung finished.
Spider-Man hit the side of a building feet first, ran three steps horizontally along brick, and fired two webs in quick succession. One caught a lamppost, the other the back doors of the van.
They held for less than a second before one tore free.
The force of it yanked him forward hard enough that his shoulder barked in protest, but it was enough to jerk the van sideways and slow it just enough to keep it from plowing straight through a crosswalk full of people.
Jeongguk swore and dropped lower still, one boot skimming the roof of a taxi before he launched himself again. The suit clung tight to his body with every movement, black and red catching flashes of passing streetlight, every stretch of muscle pulled into sharp relief beneath the fabric.
Inside a city bus passing by, faces stared back at him in open shock.
A little kid pressed both hands to the glass and beamed.
Spider-Man pointed at him through the window as he sprinted over the roofs of three cars. “Seatbelt on!”
The kid’s mother laughed in one sharp, hysterical burst, already half crying.
Then he was moving.
He vaulted onto the roof of a taxi, then onto the side of a delivery truck, fingers and boots sticking for a split second before he pushed off again. The police were gaining, but not fast enough.
The van barreled toward the entrance ramp down into an underpass.
“Uh,” Taehyung said.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“If that thing goes underground, this gets a lot more difficult.”
“No kidding.”
He landed on the roof of the van with a metallic boom that made the whole thing dip on its suspension. Both hands splayed for balance. One knee bent. His free hand shot out, webbing the windshield in a thick white splatter just as the driver looked up.
“Knock, knock,” Jeongguk said, upside down in the glass reflection. “Guys, this feels like a terrible way to spend a Monday night.”
Below him, the driver slammed the brakes without warning.
Jeongguk flew forward, rolled over the windshield in a blur of impact and instinct, and caught himself on the hood with one hand before launching clean off the front of the van just as it clipped a hydrant and sent a jet of water exploding upward into the night.
People were screaming now. Running. Phones out, recording.
The passenger leaned halfway out the open window with a gun in his hand.
“Oh, come on,” Jeongguk groaned.
The first shot cracked past his shoulder. The second shattered the window of a laundromat on the corner.
Jeongguk’s body moved before thought caught up. One web to the gun, one to the man’s wrist, yank hard, and the weapon went spinning uselessly into the street.
The guy shouted something in a language Jeongguk didn’t catch.
The van tore forward again.
Jeongguk hit the ground in a run, vaulted onto the hood of a parked car, and fired two webs straight at the rear doors of the van. They sealed with a wet snap, but only for a second. Something heavy slammed against them from the inside.
“Uh,” Taehyung said. “What exactly are they transporting?”
“Would love to know.”
“Well, find out faster.”
Jeongguk swung again, caught the roof, then dropped behind the vehicle and planted both feet against the rear bumper. Every muscle in his body screamed as he pushed, the soles of his boots skidding on the soaked road while the van dragged him forward anyway. His teeth clenched. His shoulders burned.
For one impossible second, he actually slowed it. Then the driver gunned the engine.
“Jesus Christ,” Jeongguk hissed, and let go just before he lost both arms.
The van barreled down the ramp anyway, clipped the concrete wall, showered sparks, and bounced off into the opposite barrier with enough force to send one of the back doors flying fully open.
Jeongguk saw the inside.
Not cash.
Not drugs.
Not electronics in any normal, civilian sense.
Crates. Black foam packing. Disassembled metal components strapped into place with military neatness. Cases lined with compact devices—dark, angular, expensive-looking, all antennae and reinforced housings. One had already broken loose and skidded toward the open door.
Jeongguk’s eyes narrowed behind the mask.
“What the—”
“Gguk,” Taehyung said, voice suddenly sharper in his ear. “You need to end this. Now.”
“Working on it.”
Spider-Man saw the tunnel ahead, the line of trapped cars, the narrow lane, the certainty of a pileup if that van kept going another ten seconds.
He didn’t think.
He jumped over the roof, shot webs to both tunnel walls, and caught the van dead center with all his weight and momentum behind him.
Everything in his body lit up with strain.
His shoulders screamed. His arms locked. His boots dragged sparks from the concrete. The webs stretched, shuddered, held. The van kept coming anyway, monstrous and roaring, until for one impossible, brutal moment Spider-Man was literally the only thing between it and the line of civilian cars ahead.
“Jeongguk—”
“I know!”
He bared his teeth under the mask and pulled.
Every muscle in his back went taut as cable. His suit stretched across shoulders, chest, thighs, all hard lines and motion and effort, body forced into a shape that looked almost obscene in its violence. Sweat ran down his spine. One knee buckled, recovered. The tunnel filled with the sound of tearing web, grinding brakes and screaming metal.
Then—
the van stopped.
Half sideways. Engine choking. Front bumper inches from a parked SUV whose driver sat white-faced behind the wheel, both hands locked around the steering wheel like prayer.
For a single breath, silence hit the tunnel.
Then people started shouting all at once.
Jeongguk used the chaos to move, not allowing himself even a second to catch his breath. Inside the tunnel, the signal was bad, the phone strapped against the skin of his chest was running low on battery, and he could barely hear Taehyung, but he managed to make out:
“Gguk,” Taehyung said, all trace of humor gone. “Police are two blocks out. You need to get out of there right now.”
Jeongguk ignored him.
He turned and jumped toward the back of the van, wide open now and exposing all its secrets. Ever since he’d stopped that one carrying fifteen million from the Federal Reserve, Jeongguk had thought he’d already pulled off the historic feat he’d be remembered for—but the inside of this one was far more disturbing. The driver and his passenger—the one who had shot at him—were still recovering from the impact with the steering wheel and the glove compartment, respectively. Gguk scanned the interior, trying to take mental snapshots of everything he’d seen before, when the doors had first flown open. Instinct told him—and it never failed him—that this was uglier than it had looked at first glance.
Near his foot lay a small black case.
Jeongguk crouched to pick it up, flipped it open, and a small metallic device stared back at him from the palm of his hand.
At that moment, something moved inside the van.
A third man—one Jeongguk hadn’t seen until then—who had been thrown against the crates strapped down at the rear of the cargo hold. Jeongguk made eye contact with him: pale blue eyes shining with rage and something close to fear from inside a black balaclava.
Jeongguk looked down at the device in his hand—compact, matte black, heavier than it looked, one corner cracked open from the impact.
Then he looked back up at the man.
That was when the man made the mistake of glancing past him and shouting, his voice ragged with panic:
“Don’t let him see the rest—”
Oh?
A gun went off somewhere behind him inside the van.
Taehyung’s voice exploded in his AirPod, edged with panic. “Gguk!”
Jeongguk ducked, twisted, drove his elbow backward into someone’s jaw, and kicked himself out of the cargo space just as the whole vehicle groaned and shifted.
“Gguk!” Tae shouted again. “Answer me!”
He webbed the device to the opposite palm and launched himself forward, catching the tunnel roof with fresh webs and fleeing over the tops of the cars toward the other exit. The flashing lights of police cruisers were already reflecting off the walls from the direction they had come in.
“I’m here,” Jeongguk answered. “I’m getting out.”
Taehyung sighed in relief. Gguk could practically picture him dragging both hands down his face on the other end of the line.
“You’re completely fucking insane, you know that?”
Jeongguk smiled inside the mask, then looked down at the thing webbed to his hand.
“Hey, Tae?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m bringing you a present.”
A beat. Then, disbelieving:
“Did you steal from armed criminals during an active chase?”
Jeongguk shot out of the tunnel and slammed straight into a wall of fresh air. The sky stretched above him—within reach, as it always was—like an endless sheet of black cut through by the skyscrapers of Manhattan. Gguk fired a web high into the darkness and let the city pull him upward.
“I prefer the term improvisational evidence collection.”
“You are unbelievable.” A second later, "Oh, and hurry the fuck up. We're meeting Jin and Joon in half an hour for D&D, you still have to shower and you are in the other fucking side of the city. You better put those webs to work!"
Below him, the avenue dissolved into flashing blue lights, wrecked metal, running cops, and a thousand phones lifted into the air.
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Because it was your first day at the New York Times, Phill had insisted you didn’t need to come in for the dinner shift that night, even though there was a reservation for fifteen people at the end of the evening for a birthday. He told you to take the night off—your last evening of semi-freedom before multiple jobs and student life drowned you in misery.
So the moment the clock mounted above the TV in the Times newsroom struck exactly 7:00 p.m. and they all but shoved you out the door, the first thing you did was call Namjoon.
“You are not going to believe who I’m working with!” you said, half shouting as you walked toward the subway stop at the corner of Times Square and 42nd St practically bouncing with every step.
Somewhere nearby in the city, a chorus of ambulance or police sirens echoed thorugh the streets, but it still didn't stop you from hearing Namu's reply on the other end of the line.
Namjoon gasped loudly. “Baby, wait, let me put you on speaker.” Then, from farther away, like he’d pulled the phone from his mouth, “Jin, love! Come here! Y/N just got out of the Times!”
The sound of the phone brushing against fabric and the decidedly not-old-man grunt Namjoon let out told you they had just flopped onto their new Maisons du Monde couch to give you their full attention.
“Tell us everything,” Seokjin demanded. “Start from the beginning. No, wait—start with Park Jimin. Was he unfairly handsome in person too, or just in pictures? Not gonna lie, he looks kind of short—”
You rolled your eyes, biting your lower lip so you wouldn’t give Jin the satisfaction of knowing that, despite everything, he was making you laugh. That was like pouring gasoline on a fire. You jogged down the station stairs, hearing in the distance the rumble of one of the trains approaching the platform on screeching rails.
“Okay,” you cut in. “First of all, the newsroom is insane.”
Namjoon made a soft, delighted sound. “I knew it.”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s like…” You trailed off, trying to find words big enough. “Like crossing the trenches into a war zone. Everyone’s moving all the time. Phones ringing. Printers. Editors breathing down people’s necks. There are papers everywhere. Actual towers of paper. You can smell the stress, Namu. Smell it. Isn’t it the best thing ever? I was born to be there!”
Seokjin gasped theatrically. “God. Erotic.”
The downtown train pulled in with a roar of wind and steel. You stepped inside with the crowd, immediately turning sideways to squeeze into a patch of standing room near one of the poles. The doors beeped shut.
“And?” Namjoon prompted. “Did you meet everyone?”
“Not everyone. Obviously.” You shifted your tote higher on your shoulder as the train lurched forward. “But Susan Whitmore from HR is terrifying in a way I deeply respect. Mr. Hastings is still exactly as crusty and intimidating as I remembered from the interview. And…” you said, dragging the word out just enough to make both of them go instinctively quiet, “I got assigned to Metro.”
There was a beat.
Then both of them screamed.
A teenage boy across from you looked up from his phone. A woman in a puffer jacket turned her head. You pressed your lips together and stared pointedly at the subway floor while Namjoon and Seokjin collectively lost their minds through your speaker.
“No way—”
“Metro?”
“Y/N!”
“Oh my God, babe—”
“That’s insane!”
“I know,” you hissed, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I know.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly around the words. Not in a bad way. In that terrifying, vulnerable way joy sometimes caught you off guard when it was too real to hold at arm’s length. You blinked hard and looked at the dark tunnel streaking past the window.
“And,” you said again, quieter now because this part still felt half impossible even in your own head, “I’m under Park Jimin.”
Silence.
Then Seokjin made a noise so high-pitched it barely qualified as human.
Namjoon, meanwhile, said very slowly, “Under him professionally, I assume?”
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“No, no, that’s a fair clarifying question,” Seokjin cut in. “Given your history of being both talented and catastrophically unlucky, we really need to establish the parameters here.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.
“He’s mentoring me,” you said. “On Metro. Which I still, in fact, do not fully believe, by the way.”
On the other end of the line, there was a brief rustle, like one of them had physically grabbed the other.
“Tell us exactly how that happened,” Namjoon said.
So you did.
You told them everything in exhaustive detail, from the moment you walked through the building doors that afternoon to the moment you left. It took the entire ride from Midtown to Bloomingdale, but it was even more fun with Namu and Jin on the other end of the line, helping you dissect every interaction you’d had throughout the day, feeding your grand delusions and the fact that you had started developing a deeply unprofessional crush on your mentor.
That, of course, you would never have admitted out loud in front of Seokjin even if someone paid you to do it, but there was very little you could do when your two best friends were perfectly capable of reading your mind.
“Baby, I’m genuinely going to start a campaign to find you a decent man. Between our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and Park Jimin, you are spread way too thin. I’m worried about you.”
You rolled your eyes, unable to help it, as you felt the train’s inertia shove you sideways when it slowed approaching your stop. Okay, you did have a crush on Spider-Man, but it was entirely platonic—fed by the thrill of not knowing, the uncertainty, the frustration, and the admiration. You were sure it would disappear as quickly as it had arrived the moment someone figured out who he was—
The moment you figured out who he was.
“You made the Spider-Man thing up in an act of pure betrayal and sold it to your weird little friends like it was the scoop of the century,” you accused him, knowing damn well it wasn’t true.
Namjoon laughed under his breath, but there was warmth in it. Pride, too. You knew that sound. Knew them both too well not to hear what sat beneath all the teasing. You looked down at your shoes as the train rattled into your station.
For a second, the world blurred a little at the edges.
You swallowed.
“I just…” You trailed off, suddenly unable to force the next sentence out cleanly. “I really don’t want to screw this up.”
That did it.
The noise on the other end of the line quieted immediately.
The train doors opened. Passengers shifted around you, some stepping off, others climbing on. You stayed where you were, fingers tightening around the pole for a brief moment before pushing your way out of the subway car.
Namjoon spoke first, and his voice had gone softer in that specific way it only ever did when he was trying to hold something steady for you.
“You’re not going to.”
You exhaled through your nose, not quite trusting yourself to answer.
Seokjin came in right after him, gentler than usual too, though not by much. “Baby, listen to me. You have wanted this for years. Years. And you didn’t get in there by accident.”
“I know, but—”
“No.” His tone sharpened just enough to stop you. “None of that tonight. Absolutely none. You are allowed one evening—one—to feel proud of yourself before you start chewing through your own organs with anxiety.”
A tiny laugh escaped you at that, wet around the edges.
“Very elegant image,” you murmured.
“Thank you. I’m a poet.”
Namjoon sighed fondly. “What he means is that you’re good. And smart. And scary as hell. You’ve got this, Y/N.”
“And if the Times doesn’t know what to do with that,” Jin added, “then they’re the problem and it’s their loss, honestly..”
You smiled, eyes stinging now for entirely different reasons.
Cold air poured in like a current, clearing out the stale atmosphere of the New York stations. You headed for the stairs, your gaze still fixed on the ground. On instinct, your hand drifted to your coat pocket, fingertips brushing the folded schedule there, then the crisp edge of Jimin’s business card tucked carefully behind it.
Real.
All of it real.
“Do you want to come over?” Namu asked then. “Tae and Gguk are coming for dinner and D&D. We’re about to finish the campaign we’ve been playing for almost two years.”
You let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. You remembered the day they’d started that damn campaign, back when you were still in undergrad. You were still waiting for the right moment to reveal the truth to Seokjin and Namjoon. The character sheet for Arianne Vale—a canonically slutty level fourteen half-elf College of Swords Bard, multiclassed into Swashbuckler Rogue—waited patiently tucked inside a plastic sleeve beside your father’s old dice and your campaign notebook on the nightstand in your studio.
“I think I’m gonna pass,” you said at last with a tired sigh, adjusting your trench coat as you reached the top of the station stairs. “I’m already in the neighborhood and, honestly, I’m exhausted. I’m about to sleep like the dead.”
The apartment intercom at your friends’ place blared loudly enough to be annoying even through the phone. You pulled your mobile slightly away from your ear with a wince as you heard Seokjin let out a startled curse.
“Jesus Christ, may whoever set up this godforsaken intercom rot in hell,” you heard him grumble while Namjoon laughed. “Oh, it’s Tae. He came alone. I swear to God, if Gguk shows up late again—”
Namjoon sighed. “Alright, babe. Get some rest. See you in class tomorrow, okay? And if you change your mind, our door’s open—and we’ve got a spare bed if you want to sleep over.”
You laughed softly. “Have fun at your little queer elf gathering. Love you!”
You kissed the phone screen several times in quick succession near the microphone and hung up.
You slipped your phone into your tote bag and started walking down the street. The city had softened around the edges by then.
Night had settled fully over the Upper West Side, washing the street in deep blue and amber. Light spilled from deli windows, from apartment buildings, from the tiny Dominican place on the corner where somebody was always laughing too loudly. A bike sped past. A cab honked. New York kept being New York, indifferent to your life-changing day.
Which, weirdly, helped.
You crossed at the light, smiling to yourself as you replayed the best parts of the call in your head. Seokjin’s shriek. Namjoon’s warm, steady confidence in you. The fact that you had said the words I’m under Park Jimin on Metro out loud and the sky had not split open under the weight of your own main-character delusions.
You were almost at the Bakers’ building when you heard footsteps.
Fast.
Not the normal rhythm of a passerby, not someone jogging with purpose or chasing a bus. These were uneven. Too quick. Too close. Barely there one second and suddenly right on top of you the next, accompanied by the slap of sneakers on wet pavement and what sounded suspiciously like someone muttering shit, shit, shit under their breath.
You turned your head instinctively toward the narrow alley between your building and the laundromat next door—
—and got hit full-force by what felt like a human missile.
The impact drove the air clean out of your lungs.
You let out a short, startled cry as the force of it took you sideways. Your tote bag slipped from your shoulder, your phone flew from your hand, and then the ground came up hard and fast and unforgiving beneath you. One knee clipped pavement. Your palm scraped concrete. Your whole body jolted.
“Fuck—!”
The voice above you was male. Young. Horrified.
For one stunned second, all you could do was blink up at the sky between the buildings and wonder whether New York had finally chosen today to kill you in the stupidest way possible.
Then a face loomed into view.
A very familiar one.
Oh.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Wide dark eyes. Black hair falling messily over his forehead. Lip ring catching the streetlight. The whole alarmingly pretty package.
Jeon Jeongguk.
You stared at him. He stared back.
And whatever little color had been left in his face vanished so completely that for a second you thought he might be the one about to pass out.
“Oh my God,” he breathed.
You were still on the ground, one hand braced behind you, your coat twisted under one hip. You pushed up onto one elbow, dazed and furious in equal measure.
“What the hell—”
“I know. I know. Sorry— sorry, shit, I’m so sorry—” He dropped to a crouch in front of you so quickly he almost lost his balance on the wet pavement. “I didn’t— I wasn’t looking— are you hurt?”
You blinked again.
This was somehow the most coherent you had ever heard him sound.
Then the pain in your palm and knee arrived properly, sharp and stinging.
“I’m not dead,” you said, wincing as you looked down at your hand. “Which feels generous, considering whatever the hell that was.”
Jeongguk made a noise of pure anguish and immediately reached toward you, holding out a hand.
“Can you stand?”
You stared at it for one beat, partly because your knee hurt, partly because you were still processing the sheer absurdity of this, and partly because Jeongguk looked like he might actually pass out from stress if you took too long to answer.
“I don’t know,” you snapped. “Can you not assault women in dark alleys?”
“I did not assault—” He cut himself off, apparently recognizing that this was not the time to litigate terminology. “Sorry. Sorry. Jesus. Can you please just—”
You looked from his hand to his face.
He looked genuinely stricken. Not awkward. Not merely embarrassed. Fully horrified, like he’d just committed vehicular manslaughter with his own body.
Against your better judgment, you let him pull you up. His grip was warm and careful and much stronger than it needed to be. He got you back onto your feet so quickly and easily it was almost insulting. Your knees wobbled. He tightened his grip instinctively.
“Easy.”
You stared at him.
His eyes flicked to yours and immediately away again. The moment you were upright, he stepped back like your skin had become electrically charged. You hissed as you put weight on one foot. “Ow.”
His whole face tightened. “Where?”
“My knee, my elbow. And my pride, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “I’m really sorry.”
He crouched to grab your tote bag before you could, nearly bumping into you a second time in his haste, and thrust it back at you like an apology offering. Then, realizing a split second later that your phone was missing, his head snapped around.
“Your phone.”
“Oh, shit.”
He was already crouching again, peering under the parked car. “I see it.”
Before you could say anything, he dropped onto one knee on the filthy sidewalk and reached underneath the bumper with the concentration of a man defusing an explosive. His sleeve tugged up at the wrist, exposing a flash of tattoo ink across the back of his hand before he shoved his arm deeper and retrieved your phone in triumph.
Well.
Triumph was generous.
He stood and handed it over with absurd care, as though returning a sacred relic.
“Still works,” he said, sheepishly.
You checked the screen. Somehow, miraculously, it did.
“Great,” you said slowly. “So the only thing catastrophically damaged here is me.”
He flinched.
“Sorry.”
You slipped the phone back into your pocket and looked at him properly now. At the flushed ears. The backpack. The suspicious alley behind him. The way he kept shifting his weight like his body was still halfway into a sprint.
Your reporter brain, treacherous and immediate, began assembling possibilities. None of them flattering.
“What were you doing in there?” you asked.
His entire posture changed.
Just slightly. But enough.
“In where?”
You pointed, deadpan, at the alley he had just launched himself out of as if he was fleeing a crime scene. He glanced over his shoulder. That was all the answer you needed to know he was not going to give you a real one. Then back at you.
“I was just—cutting through.”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Through the alley.”
“Yes.”
“The alley with no exit?”
That shut him up.
He looked past you, then back again, and you had the distinct impression that somewhere behind his eyes a tiny man in a control room had just started screaming. He actually looked… off.
Not drunk. Not high. Not exactly scared either, though maybe close. More like someone running on the last fumes of focus after something intense. His breathing was still a little too shallow. There was a faint flush high across his cheekbones, dampness at his hairline like he’d been sweating under the cold. And his clothes—
Black hoodie. Dark jeans. Sneakers. Nothing weird about that on paper. Except he looked like he’d put them on in under fifteen seconds with a gun to his head.
“Amazing,” you said softly. “So you’re either lying to me, stupid, or both.”
Jeongguk’s ears, as always, went pink.
“I’m not stupid.”
You looked him up and down. “The jury is still out.”
He blinked once at that, and for the briefest second something dangerously close to a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth before he crushed it flat again.
Well.
That irritated you more than it should have. You tightened your grip on your bag strap. “Should I be concerned?”
His expression changed instantly.
“What?”
“Should I,” you repeated, “be concerned that my best friends introduced me last week to someone who, apparently, spends his evenings popping out of alleys in upper Manhattan looking like he’s one police siren away from an arrest record?”
He looked almost offended.
“I’m not in trouble.”
It came out quick. Firm. Too immediate to sound fully casual.
Huh.
You looked back toward the alley one last time. Nothing moved there now. No one shouted. No footsteps. No sirens turning the corner. Just bins, brick and shadow.
Still.
Your instincts prickled.
“Jeongguk.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Whatever’s going on,” you said lightly, though you didn’t mean it lightly at all, “if Namjoon and Seokjin end up on the evening news because one of their weird little engineer friends is secretly running a chop shop or laundering money through a vape store, I’ll be really annoyed.”
Jeongguk flinched and swallowed, maybe searching for some way to defend himself.
Your brain was faster than his.
Drugs? No, not quite. Too alert. Some kind of side hustle? Delivery? Debt? Something worse? Whatever it was, it was enough to make him come flying out of alleyways like he had enemies.
Your gaze dropped briefly to his hands. Knuckles a little red. Your eyes narrowed.
Oh, absolutely not.
“You’re definitely in some kind of trouble,” you said.
“I said that I am not—” He stopped himself, inhaled sharply, then let it out in visible frustration. “I am really, really late.”
You looked at him in silence for a few moments.
Yes, you knew he was late to his hangout with Tae, Jin, and Namu to play D&D. That explained why he’d been in such a rush he’d plowed into you like a missile (you probably would have too if Seokjin’s scolding had been on the line—punctuality irritated him almost as much as gender roles did), but it did not explain why the hell he had been in that alley or why he looked so nervous he might actually explode.
So you simply arched an eyebrow, making it very clear that you believed anywhere from little to none of whatever he was about to tell you.
“For your little elf meeting.”
“D&D is not—” He cut himself off again and looked up at the sky like he was asking a deeply unhelpful God for strength. “Please don’t tell Jin and Joon I knocked you over.”
You stared at him. The audacity of the request. The sheer, breathtaking audacity.
“You think that’s my main takeaway here?”
He looked genuinely torn between mortification and flight. “No?”
A hysterical laugh almost escaped you.
Then, before either of you could say another word, he stepped back. Just one pace. Then another.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Really.”
You pointed at him. “Jeon Jeongguk—”
“I’ll have Jin texting you” he said, already retreating. “To make sure you get home okay.”
“That is not the issue!”
“I know!”
Then he turned and ran.
Ran for his life.
Before your stunned brain had fully caught up enough to form a coherent insult, Gguk bolted in the opposite direction at full speed, vanishing down the block like a man who was, in fact, horrifically late to something.
You stood there on the sidewalk, scraped palm stinging, elbow throbbing, and stared after him in total disbelief. A woman passing with a tiny dog slowed, took one look at your expression and the direction he’d fled in, and said, “Men,” with deep civic exhaustion before continuing on her way.
Then you looked once toward the alley. You scanned the darkness with narrowed eyes, listening—possibly for the first time in your life—to the instinct for self-preservation screaming at you that, whatever you did, you should not go into that alley. Jeongguk might look like a bundle of nerves incapable of hurting a fly, but he was still a tall, strong man, perfectly physically capable of defending himself.
And he had run out of there.
Nope.
You shook your head and started walking, glancing back over your shoulder every so often toward the mouth of the alley and the corner where Jeongguk had vanished.
A week ago, at dinner, you had mostly filed him away under attractive, bizarre and possibly unable to maintain oxygen intake around women. Though the bruises on his knuckles hadn’t escaped your notice.
Now, putting all the pieces together? Now you were starting to suspect Jeon Jeongguk might be hiding something, as he was, as you decided, definitely involved in some weird shit.
Whether it was criminal weird shit or just regular weird shit remained to be seen.
You touched your sore elbow and hissed.
Then you muttered to the empty street, “If that man is secretly in a gang, I swear to God.”
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The apartment was dim. Mrs. Baker was in the living room, barricaded into her bottle-green velvet armchair with her feet propped up on an ottoman, wearing bunny-head slippers. She had a plate in her lap and was peeling fruit with her eyes fixed on the television, where an old episode of The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon was playing—one where he was interviewing a Korean boy band whose members all had different violently bright hair colors.
Mrs. Baker was a die-hard fan of both Jimmy and that band (whose name, if you were being honest, you could never quite remember, though you were pretty sure it was an acronym), and by then it was routine to find her rewatching the same episode over and over again, laughing every time as if it were the first.
The woman didn’t even notice you standing beneath the archway of the living room, watching her warmly for a few moments. One of the band members did something mildly funny and Mrs. Baker burst into laughter so suddenly it nearly made you laugh too. Shaking your head, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of your lips, you headed toward the rooftop door at the end of the hallway’s narrow spiral staircase.
The studio felt warm when you arrived, and you assumed Mrs. Baker had turned the heat on for you. While you showered, a notification on your phone briefly interrupted the opening verse of Taylor Swift’s Cruel Summer.
Closing your right eye so the shampoo wouldn’t get into it, you peeked past the shower curtain to look at the glowing screen of your phone. A notification from the group chat with Namu and Jin.
jin [20:03]: babe gguk told us he ran into u. the hell did u do to him? he looks like he just came back from vietnam lol
You climbed out of the shower still muttering to yourself.
Water dripped down your neck and between your shoulder blades as you wrapped a towel around your body with one hand and snatched your phone from the edge of the sink with the other. The mirror had fogged over completely, turning your reflection into a damp, vaguely furious ghost.
You unlocked the group chat with your thumb.
You stared at the screen.
The audacity. Againg. The absolute breathtaking audacity of men.
You typed with wet fingers, making three typos before finally managing to send the message.
you [20:05]: what did I do to him??? tell him i’m calling my health insurance provider first thing tomorrow morning
A second later, Seokjin’s reply appeared.
jin [20:05]: LMAOOOOOOO
namu [20:05]: wait what happened?
Jeongguks plea came to your mind. Please don’t tell Jin and Joon I knocked you over. Well fuck him and his weird as fuck —and probably dangerous and illegal— habits.
you [20:06]: your friend came flying out of an alley like a rabid raccoon and body-slammed me into the pavement
jin [20:06]: oh my god
jin [20:06]: romantic
you [20:06]: i hope u choke on a dice
namu [20:07 p.m.]: are u hurt??
Your anger softened a fraction, because of course Namjoon would ask that first.
you [20:07]: scraped knee, scraped palm, wounded dignity. i’ll live.
jin [20:07]: he’s sitting here looking like we’re about to put him on trial
you [20:08]: good
you [20:08]: proceed
You tossed the phone onto your bed and finished drying off, still grumbling under your breath as you padded barefoot through the warm little studio. The radiator hissed softly near the window. Outside, the city glowed beyond the rooftop ledge, lights smeared slightly by the steam still clinging to your skin and the damp ends of your hair.
You pulled on an oversized Columbia sweatshirt, a pair of sleep shorts, and fuzzy socks, then climbed onto the bed with every intention of opening your laptop, eating half a cookie Mrs. Baker had left on your counter, and finally letting your brain collapse into the blessed silence of doing absolutely nothing.
Your phone buzzed again.
You reached for it lazily, expecting another update on the public execution of Jeon Jeongguk by court of Kim Seokjin.
Instead, Namjoon had sent a link.
namu [20:17]: uh
namu [20:17]: wasn’t this near you?
The thumbnail loaded.
A shaky, vertical video. Flashing police lights. A dark underpass. People shouting.
And there, frozen mid-frame in the blur of motion and red-black suit—
Spider-Man.
Your entire body went still.
You sat up so fast your wet hair slapped against the side of your face.
“What?”
You tapped the link. The tweet opened at once.
@/nyc_lens: SPIDER-MAN JUST STOPPED A VAN FROM PLOWING INTO TRAFFIC IN LOWER MANHATTAN??? cops everywhere. something BIG is happening. #SpiderMan
The video began automatically.
For five seconds, all you saw was chaos.
A tunnel lit by headlights and emergency lamps. Smoke or steam drifting near the ceiling. Civilians stumbling out of cars. Someone screaming, “Back up! Back up!” A van wedged half sideways across the lane, front end crumpled, white webbing stretched in thick, trembling lines from its chassis to both tunnel walls.
Then Spider-Man dropped into frame.
Your heart lurched so hard it was almost embarrassing.
He moved like something impossible.
Not graceful in the soft, polished way people used the word when they meant pretty. No. This was harsher than that. Sharper. Athletic and brutal and controlled down to the smallest flick of his wrist. He landed near the back of the van, shoulders rising and falling, then turned toward the open cargo doors.
The person filming gasped.
“Yo, what’s in there?”
Spider-Man looked inside.
Even through the blur, even through the distance, you could tell something changed.
It was subtle. The angle of his head. The stillness that came over him for one beat too long. Then he vanished into motion again, a streak of red and black cutting across the frame as a gunshot cracked somewhere inside the van.
The camera jolted. Someone screamed. The person filming ducked, swore, nearly dropped their phone.
When the frame found Spider-Man again, he was already moving away.
The video ended.
You didn’t move.
Your bedroom suddenly felt much too small.
Another message appeared.
jin [20:20]: oh shit
jin [20:20]: they're saying everywhere it was around 7. u didn't see anything fr?
You stared at the message. That was the time you left the Newsroom. In Midtown. Right next to Lower Manhattan. A cold, electric pulse moved under your skin.
Then you opened Twitter properly.
It was already everywhere.
Different angles. Different captions. Different levels of sanity.
SPIDER-MAN STOPS VAN CHASE IN LOWER MANHATTAN
Masked vigilante involved in suspected weapons transport incident?
NYPD refusing to comment on Spider-Man’s role in tunnel crash
you’re telling me spidey stopped a whole van with his body and then just LEFT????
not to be dramatic but I would let that man ruin my life
there were GUNSHOTS???? what the fuck is happening in this city
You clicked another clip, then another, then another.
Traffic camera footage, reposted and zoomed in until it was barely pixels. A shaky TikTok from a stopped cab. Someone’s Instagram story, full of screaming and sirens. Every video showed the same thing in fragments: Spider-Man swinging low between cars, the black van tearing through traffic, webbing snapping taut, the impossible force of his body holding the vehicle back.
Your pulse thudded in your throat.
You had been so close.
Not right there, no. But close enough. Close enough that the same sirens had probably been the distant ones you’d heard on your walk to the subway stop. Close enough that while you were standing on the sidewalk accusing Jeongguk of secretly laundering money through a vape store, Spider-Man had been fleeing the place of his last damn stunt.
You made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan, then flopped backward onto the bed with your phone held above your face.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
A year.
A whole year of missed chances, blurry footage, grainy photos, secondhand reports, conspiracy podcasts and breathless breaking news alerts. And now, on your very first day at the Times, after spending the entire afternoon inside the actual newsroom, after being assigned to Metro under Park Jimin himself, Spider-Man had pulled off one of his most public, most violent, most interesting interventions yet—
and you had been busy getting tackled by Jeon Jeongguk.
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The newsroom was already on fire when you arrived the next afternoon.
You had arrived fifteen minutes early, powered by vending machine coffee and the kind of nervous energy that made your hands cold. The Metro desk was already in full motion. Phones rang. Screens flashed with footage from the night before. Someone had pinned a map of Lower Manhattan to a board and circled three intersections in red marker. The muted television on the wall replayed the same clip every few minutes: Spider-Man bracing against the van inside the tunnel, stopping it inches from a line of trapped cars.
Every time it played, people glanced up.
Not for long. Never for long. This was still a newsroom, and spectacle only mattered until someone had to write about it. But the attention was there, passing through the room like static.
Spider-Man had changed something last night.
You could feel it in the way people spoke. Lower voices, sharper questions. Less amused debate, more unease.
Because saving a kid from a burning building was one thing.
Stopping a van carrying stolen gold from the Federal Reserve had been another.
But interfering in what looked increasingly like an organized criminal transport operation?
That was different.
You found Jimin at his desk.
Or rather, you found the epicenter of the storm, and Jimin happened to be sitting in the middle of it.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. His tie was gone. His hair, perfect yesterday, had surrendered slightly at the front, one light strand falling near his brow as he scanned a printed page covered in red marks. Two coffee cups sat beside his keyboard, one of them empty, the other one halfway there. His phone was wedged between his shoulder and his ear while his fingers moved over his laptop with terrifying speed.
“No, I understand what he said,” he was saying, voice calm in a way that suggested he was three seconds from murder. “What I’m asking is whether he said that on record, or whether we’re all pretending ‘a senior official close to the investigation’ is enough to build a paragraph on.”
He looked up as you approached.
His eyes found your face, registered you, and softened by a fraction so brief you might have imagined it.
Then he pointed to the chair beside his desk without interrupting his call.
You sat.
On his monitor was a draft with a headline that seemed to change every time someone breathed near it.
SPIDER-MAN INTERVENES IN SUSPECTED WEAPONS TRANSPORT CASE
Below it, another possible version:
AFTER FEDERAL RESERVE GOLD HEIST, SPIDER-MAN INCIDENT RAISES NEW QUESTIONS
Your mouth went dry.
Weapons.
So the rumors were already there.
Jimin ended the call with a restrained, “Call me back when someone is willing to use verbs,” and set the phone down with more care than the situation probably deserved.
Then he looked at you properly.
“Welcome back,” he said.
“Is it always like this?” you asked.
“No,” he said. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
You blinked. Mr. Hastings’ office door opened across the floor. The newsroom didn’t go silent.
It wasn’t that kind of place.
But attention shifted. Subtly. Immediately.
Hastings stepped out with a paper in one hand, half-moon glasses low on his nose, his expression carved from impatience and caffeine.
“Park.”
Jimin looked up from his monitor.
There was a fraction of a pause. Small enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed. You did.
Then Jimin stood.
“Give me five,” he said to you, voice low.
He grabbed a folder from his desk and crossed the newsroom toward Hastings’ office. The glass door closed behind him.
You pretended not to watch.
You absolutely watched.
Through the glass, you saw Hastings speak first. His posture was casual only if someone had never seen a man use stillness as a weapon. Jimin stood opposite him, folder tucked under one arm, listening with that same composed expression he had worn in the lobby yesterday. Attentive. Controlled.
But not relaxed.
A woman at the next desk leaned toward her phone and muttered, “Yeah, NYPD still hasn’t confirmed the cargo. No, I need that on record, not from your cousin’s boyfriend.”
The TV replayed the tunnel clip again. Spider-Man’s body snapped taut against the webs. You looked away.
Five minutes became ten.
Then fifteen.
Then Jimin came back, and the tension in his jaw was visible. Not obvious. Not dramatic. But there, beneath the surface of his polite expression. He set the folder down on his desk, too precisely.
“Everything okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Jimin’s eyes flicked to you. For one second, you thought he might brush you off. Then he exhaled through his nose and gave you a small, humorless smile.
“The editor-in-chief wants the impossible yesterday,” he said. “So, standard Tuesday.”
You glanced toward Hastings’ office, then back at him. “Spider-Man?”
Jimin didn’t answer immediately. That was answer enough.
He sat, rolled his chair closer to the desk and clicked open a document dense with notes. “The city is getting nervous. Last week he stopped a van full of stolen Federal Reserve gold. Last night he intervened in an active police pursuit involving a vehicle connected to what looks like organized crime. Before that, rescues, robberies, fires, traffic accidents.” His eyes moved across the screen. “The pattern is expanding.”
You stood very still.
“The pattern?”
Jimin looked up at the television just as the footage replayed again. This time, the van’s rear door burst open for half a second before the clip cut.
“He started as a neighborhood phenomenon,” Jimin said quietly. “Human-interest heroics. Local crime. Rescue work. The kind of thing people could turn into memes and murals and think pieces about civic failure.” His mouth tightened. “Now he’s brushing against federal money and organized criminal operations. Whether he means to or not, he’s no longer just a neighborhood hero.”
The words landed cold and bright in the middle of your chest.
No longer just a neighborhood hero.
You thought of your note from the night before. The blurry cargo space. The police not commenting.
Jimin leaned back in his chair, one hand passing briefly over his mouth.
“Hastings wants the identity angle pushed harder,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
“The identity angle?”
“Who he is. Where he came from. How he operates. Whether there are people helping him. Whether he’s connected to anything larger.” Jimin’s eyes returned to the screen. “He wants something concrete. Soon.”
“How soon?”
Jimin gave a laugh without humor. “He used the word immediately, which in this building usually means you should have filed it before he finished asking.”
You tried to absorb that without looking too visibly electrified.
Spider-Man’s identity.
The story.
The story.
Jimin clicked into another window and pulled up a draft. “I have an urgent meeting in twenty minutes. NYPD liaison, Metro, legal, probably three people who will say the word liability like it’s foreplay.” He reached for a printed sheet and handed it to you. “In the meantime, I need you on something else.”
You took it automatically.
Diesel Prices Continue to Climb Across the Tri-State Area
Your eyes dropped to the headline.
Diesel.
For one deeply uncharitable second, the entire newsroom seemed to collapse into the single most offensive piece of paper in the world.
Jimin was still talking.
“Basic rewrite for now. Pull the latest numbers, check the state energy reports, compare with last quarter, and flag anything that could affect local transport unions or grocery distribution. Keep it clean. No editorializing.”
You stared at the sheet.
Diesel prices.
Spider-Man had possibly stumbled into organized crime and the editor-in-chief wanted his identity immediately, and you were being handed diesel prices.
You knew this was normal. Of course it was normal. You were an intern. Interns did not walk into the New York Times and get handed masked vigilante investigations before their second coffee. Interns checked figures, rewrote briefs, pulled supporting material, learned to be useful.
Useful was better than impressive.
Hastings’ voice echoed in your head.
Still.
Your fingers tightened around the paper.
Jimin noticed. Of course he noticed.
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Something wrong?”
You looked up. For one second, you considered saying no.
You considered smiling, taking the diesel assignment, going back to the intern desk, doing exactly what you were told and proving you were disciplined, humble, easy to manage. You considered it very seriously.
Then you remembered your own voice in Moe’s Burgers, saying all of New York would know your name.
You remembered the note on Namjoon’s paper bag.
Fuel for uncovering the story of the year.
You remembered Spider-Man in the tunnel, body straining against the van, and the open cargo door in the footage.
You remembered that Jimin had said the day before, in an elevator, that the trick to survive the Times was learning how to be useful.
So you made yourself useful.
“Let me help,” you said.
Jimin blinked once.
“With diesel prices?”
“With Spider-Man.”
The silence between you lasted maybe two seconds. It felt longer. Around you, the newsroom kept moving. Phones. Voices. Keys. The television replaying disaster on mute.
Jimin set his coffee down.
“Miss Bell.”
You ignored the warning in his voice.
“I’m serious.”
“I gathered that.”
“I can help,” you said, stepping closer to his desk, lowering your voice because you were not stupid enough to announce desperation to the entire newsroom. “I already follow the coverage. All of it. Local papers, tabloids, police statements, social media, citizen footage, podcasts, forums. I know how people talk about him. I know where the discourse splits. I know what’s noise and what might not be.”
Jimin looked at you without moving. You forced yourself not to shrink.
“I know I’m an intern,” you went on. “I know I’m supposed to earn my place here doing diesel prices and calendar briefs and whatever else Metro needs. I will do all of that. I’ll do it well. I’ll do it fast. But if the paper wants something concrete on Spider-Man, then someone should be looking at the material from the outside too. Someone who isn’t already locked into the institutional angle.”
His eyes narrowed very slightly.
“The institutional angle.”
“The police want to know how he’s making them look. The city wants to know whether he’s dangerous. The public wants to know whether he’s a hero.” Your heart was pounding now. “But none of those questions are the same as who is he? And none of them get answered by just waiting for NYPD to decide what it wants to say on record.”
Jimin leaned back in his chair. You had his attention now.
Fully.
That was thrilling.
Terrifying.
Addictive.
“And you think you can answer that question?” he asked.
You swallowed.
“No,” you said.
His brow lifted.
“Not yet,” you corrected. “But I think I can find something. A pattern. A route. A gap. A repeated location. A source who saw something. A contradiction between footage and statements. Anything.”
Jimin was silent. You kept going because stopping now would kill you.
“I don’t care about extra hours. I don’t care if it rains or if I have to freeze outside a precinct or interview someone who thinks Spider-Man was sent by aliens. I don’t care if it’s tedious. Let me chase one lead. One.”
The words came out steadier than you felt.
“Give me a week.”
Jimin’s expression shifted. Not amusement this time. He looked at you as if he were measuring not whether you wanted it, but whether wanting it would make you careless.
You stood there under that gaze and tried not to think about the fact that your entire future had suddenly narrowed to the space between his next breath and his next sentence.
Finally, he picked up the diesel sheet from your hand and set it on his desk.
Your heart stopped.
“Do you know what happens when interns ask for serious work too early?” he asked.
You met his eyes. “They either embarrass themselves or prove someone underestimated them.”
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
Instead, he tapped one finger lightly against the edge of the desk.
“One week,” he said.
Your whole body went still. Jimin held your gaze.
“One week to bring me something that is not a conspiracy thread, not vibes, not a thirst compilation, and not a TikTok user claiming his cousin’s orthodontist saw Spider-Man eating halal cart chicken at three in the morning.”
You nodded once, too quickly. “Yes.”
“One real lead,” he continued. “Something verifiable enough that I don’t feel embarrassed putting my name near it. A person, a place, a pattern, a document. Anything that can survive contact with an editor.”
“I can do that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” you said. “But I can try.”
His face softened by the smallest degree. Then the newsroom swallowed it again.
“If you find nothing, you go back to regular assignments without sulking,” he said. “Diesel prices, borough briefs, community board hearings, sanitation disputes, whatever Metro throws at you. And you do them properly.”
“I will.”
“You still do your assigned work.”
“Of course.”
“And you do not contact dangerous people, trespass, interfere with police operations, or get yourself arrested in the name of initiative.”
“I would never.”
Jimin looked deeply unconvinced. Good. He was learning. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“You have until next Tuesday morning,” he said. “If by then you have something worth looking at, I’ll look. If not, this conversation never happened.”
Your lungs remembered how to work all at once. You nodded, trying to keep your expression professional and not like you wanted to scream directly into the ceiling.
“Thank you,” you said. “I won’t waste your time.”
“You already have,” he replied, but there was no bite in it as he stood and grabbed his folder for the meeting. “Make it worth it.”
Then he left.
Just like that.
You stood beside his desk, half stunned, half incandescent, the diesel assignment still sitting abandoned near his keyboard.
The television on the wall replayed the tunnel footage again.
Spider-Man braced himself against the van. The city held its breath.
You watched him for three seconds.
Then you turned, walked to the nearest empty intern station, opened your laptop, and created a new document.
SPIDER-MAN — PRELIMINARY LEADS
Your fingers hovered over the keys.
Then you smiled.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Let’s see who you are.”
⠀⠀
⠀⠀
a/n: and with that part 1. extra, extra! comes to an end. now things are getting real heheheh. let me read your thoughts!! tysm for reading <3
Raised inside a religious cult where obedience is ‘key’, Jungkook’s entire worldview begins to crack after meeting a woman from the outside world. Drawn toward her in ways he doesn’t fully understand, he secretly returns to her bar at night, where curiosity, desire, and guilt begin blurring the line between devotion and temptation.
⧽ word count ⋮ 6k Average reading time ⋮ 30 minutes
┈ [ ✉️ ] Hi angels ! Cult!koo is here !! I had so much fun writing this honestly, the dynamic is very interesting to write. I’m sorry if there is any mistakes, it have read it so many times but there always seems to be some !! But any-whom !! I hope you all enjoy and please leave your thoughts in the comments or asks !! Happy reading angels !! <3
The first thing Jungkook learned as a child was that God watched everything.
Not in the comforting way the Shepherd spoke of during Sunday sermons, with soft smiles and warm hands pressed against bowed heads. Not the kind of watching that promised protection or mercy.
No. God watched the way the elders did. Quietly. Carefully.
As if waiting for something inside of you to slip loose enough to punish.
By the time Jungkook was six, he had already learned how to sit perfectly still during prayer. Hands folded neatly in his lap. Eyes lowered. Back straight against the wooden pews of the chapel while candlelight flickered gold against the white-painted walls.
Stillness was purity. Obedience was holiness.
And curiosity… curiosity was the first step toward becoming unchosen.
It didn’t happen suddenly. At first, it was just the run. A routine trip beyond the compound gates with assigned men, strict instruction, and the same warnings repeated until they no longer felt like warnings at all.
But the town was different. Too loud. Too unstructured. Too alive in a way the compound never allowed itself to be. That was where he saw you.
Not in a meaningful way at first. Not in a moment anyone would have marked as important. Just existing. Speaking freely. Moving without hesitation. Looking at the world like it didn’t require permission to look back at you.
Jungkook noticed you once. Then again. And then something worse happened. He started remembering you when you weren’t there.
At first, he told himself it was curiosity. A byproduct of exposure. Something the Shepherd would’ve explained away easily. But that wasn’t what it was. It was desire. Not loud. Not understood.
Just a steady pull he didn’t know how to name, tightening every time your voice came back to him in fragments.
Down the street. Your bar. Like it was an invitation meant for someone who was allowed to choose. He didn’t talk about it. He didn’t question it. He just waited. Until the next run came.
And when it did, Jungkook followed the group through the town like he was supposed to. But when their work slowed, and the others were distracted with loading and counting and negotiating— he didn’t stay where he should have.
He left. Quietly and quickly. Like stepping away from the group for a moment was harmless. Like it wasn’t a rule breaking shape forming in real time.
The streets felt different at night. Quieter, but not safer. Dim lights stretched across empty roads, and the sound of distant music and voices drifted from places still awake.
He followed what he remembered. Down the street. Past a few closed shops. Until the glow of a sign appeared ahead. A bar. Warm light spilling out into the dark like something alive.
He hesitated only for a second. Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The noise hit him immediately—low music, scattered laughter, glass against wood—but it didn’t feel overwhelming the way the town had during the day. It felt… contained. Controlled.
And then he saw you.
Y/n looked up from behind the counter like she had been expecting something, though not necessarily him. For a second, she just studied him.
Then she tilted her head slightly. “You actually came.”
Jungkook didn’t answer right away. His hand was still on the door. “I said I might,” he replied carefully.
That made something faint flicker across her face—amusement, maybe.“Mm. Come on,” she said after a beat, motioning with her head. “Back here.”
He followed. Down a narrow hallway behind the bar, away from the noise and light, until she pushed open a door and stepped inside first.
The room was smaller. Quieter. A private space tucked away from everything else.
There was a mini bar along one wall, half-stocked. A few bottles, mismatched glasses. And in the center of the room, an old red couch—worn at the edges, slightly faded, like it had been there longer than everything else.
Y/n walked past him and set something down on the counter. “This is better,” she said simply.
Jungkook stood just inside the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. The door clicked softly behind him when it closed. And suddenly the world outside didn’t exist in the same way anymore.
“So,” she said, turning to face him properly now, looking up at him with a steady, unreadable gaze as she stepped closer, placing one hand lightly against his chest. “You want to have sex with me?”
He inhales sharply through his nose as he looks away from you, his eyes filled with fear or desire, maybe both. He shakes his head, looking towards the hardwood floor.
“No… That’s against my religion.” He glances back up at you, trying to decipher your reaction, “It is a sin to sleep with someone before marriage. I must save myself for someone special.”
“Oh come on,” You scoff, moving around the couch to the bar and pouring yourself a glass of wine. The room feels strangely tight with tension neither of you fully understands. “You can’t spend your whole life scared of it, Jungkook. One day you’ll be old and wrinkled and wish you could get a boner.”
“You’re right,” He begins, and you glance back at him with an eyebrow raised in surprise.
He stands there, fingers fidgeting in front of him, nervously thinking for a moment before speaking again. “I should know… that’s why I’m here.” He glances up at you once more, “I want you to teach me, Y/n.”
Intrigued, you take a sip of your wine before lowering yourself onto the far end of the couch. “Is that so?”
He nods quickly, and you gesture toward the empty space beside you. Leaning back against the armrest, you stretch your legs across the cushions, careful to leave his side untouched as he slowly takes a seat.
He gulps before looking down at his lap, and you chuckle to yourself at his shyness, “You want me to teach you about sex, but you don’t want to do the act itself?”
He hesitates, “I… I want to know about it,” His hands sway in the air as he tries to describe his words and put them into motion, “What it feels like and how it works. If you want to, that is….”
You lick your lips, “Well, you put your penis in a vagina—”
“No, that's not what I meant.” He cuts you off quickly, shaking his head as his face flushes a dark red, “I mean like, if I held someone's hand, isn't it the same? I mean… that's contact, right? The bible tells us that it's special, I know that, but… the science of it is confusing.”
“The science of it?” You question, narrowing your eyes, “There is no science to it, really. It’s just… It feels really fucking good. Like so, so good. Which, I guess that’s why humanity does it so much.”
“But why does it feel good?” He asks quickly after, sincerely, as if he was a toddler interested in being taught how to learn the alphabet. “Is it psychological? Biological?”
You blink at him, caught off guard by how genuine the question is. You study him for a moment before speaking, “For a lot of people, intimacy isn’t just physical. It’s emotional too. It makes people feel wanted. Close to someone. Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes it’s meaningful, and sometimes it’s both.”
“So, it makes people feel connected?” He nods to himself, as if realizing something upon your words, “That makes sense, then—seeing as God has instructed us to wait until marriage.”
The room stayed quiet for a moment after his last answer.
Jungkook was still sitting on the edge of the couch, shoulders slightly stiff, hands resting neatly on his knees like he was trying not to take up too much space in a place that wasn’t built for rules.
She glanced at him, “You want to try out the first baby step?”
Jungkook frowned slightly. “What?”
She gave a small exhale through her nose, like the answer was obvious but she didn’t mind repeating it.
“You said you can’t have sex,” she said, shifting a little on the couch, “but you never said anything about kissing.”
The word landed cleanly. Kissing. He knew what it was, of course he did. But hearing it here, like it belonged in this room, made something in his chest tighten.
Jungkook straightened a little. “That’s not allowed.”
Y/n tilted her head toward him. “Did you decide that, or did someone decide it for you?”
“The Shepherd did,” he answered immediately.
That answer usually ended things. Here, it didn’t.
Y/n looked at him for a moment longer, then let her gaze drop back to her drink like she was thinking, not arguing.
“It isn’t going to hurt you to try,” she said casually.
Jungkook blinked. “It will.”
That made her pause. Then she let out a quiet, almost amused breath.
“No, it won’t,” she corrected gently. “It’s not like anything explodes.”
He didn’t respond right away. Because that wasn’t what he meant. He just didn’t have words for what he meant.
Y/n shifted slightly on the couch, turning more toward him and sitting up now, her arm still resting along the backrest behind him—but not touching. Just there.
“You’re acting like it’s a rule you can break reality with,” she said.
“I don’t break rules,” Jungkook replied quickly.
“I’m not asking you to break anything,” she said. “Just… try it.”
A pause. Then softer, like she was actually giving him an out if he needed it: “If you don’t like it, you can stop.”
Jungkook looked at her properly then. Not at the room. Not at the door. Not at anything outside this moment. Just her.
“…And if I do?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Y/n’s expression shifted slightly—something faint, unreadable, but steady. “Then you’ve learned something,” she said.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Jungkook didn’t move. But he also didn’t say no again right away. And that, more than anything, changed the shape of the room between them.
Y/n watched him for a second longer, then set her glass down on the low table in front of the couch. The soft clink of glass against wood felt louder than it should have.
She shifted on the couch, pulling one leg up first, then the other, settling into a cross-legged position facing him directly.
Now there was no angle. No distance that felt accidental. Just her. And him. Jungkook’s shoulders instinctively tightened as she turned fully toward him.
“Okay,” she said simply.
He blinked. “Okay… what?”
“I’m going to show you something,” she replied, like it was the most normal sentence in the world.
That made him stiffen slightly. “Show me what?”
Y/n tilted her head. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” he said immediately.
She gave him a look that clearly didn’t believe him. Then she shifted forward slightly on the couch, resting her hands loosely in her lap.
“Turn a little,” she instructed.
Jungkook hesitated. “…Why?”
“So you’re actually facing me,” she said. “Not like you’re ready to run out the door.”
He didn’t answer right away. Because she wasn’t wrong. After a beat, he slowly adjusted his position, turning more toward her. Not fully, but enough that his body was now aligned with hers instead of angled away.
Y/n nodded once, approving. “Good,” she said.
Jungkook frowned slightly. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you something simple,” she said. “Nothing you’re not supposed to do.”
“That’s subjective,” he muttered before he could stop himself.
That earned a small smile from her.
“See?” she said. “You’re already overthinking it.”
“I’m not overthinking.”
“Mm,” she hummed again, like she wasn’t arguing the point.
Then she leaned back slightly, still watching him.
“You need to stay still.”
That made him pause. “…Stay still,”
“Yes,” she said. “Just don’t move away, okay?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the door. Then back to her. “I don’t think I should—”
“Yes, you can,” she cut in gently. Not forceful. Just certain.
A pause. Then quieter: “You’re safe. You’re just sitting here.”
Jungkook didn’t answer. But he also didn’t stand up.
Y/n studied him for a moment, like confirming something only she could see.
Then she shifted slightly closer on the couch—not touching him yet, just closing the gap by choice instead of accident.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Look at me.”
Y/n stayed where she was, cross-legged on the couch facing him, steady and calm like nothing about this was unusual.
“Look at me,” she said again, softer this time.
Jungkook hesitated. His eyes flicked away for a second—toward the door, toward the hallway behind it—but nothing there helped him. No instruction. No rule. No answer that made this simpler.
So he looked back at her.
Y/n nodded slightly, like that was all she needed.“Good,” she said.
Jungkook swallowed. “What are you actually doing?”
“Something small,” she replied. “You’re just going to follow what I say, okay?”
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped. His brows pulled together. “That’s not how things work.”
“It is here,” she said lightly.
That made him pause. He was here. Not the compound. Not the Shepherd. Not the rules he’d grown up inside. Just here.
Y/n shifted a little closer on the couch, not enough to touch him, but enough that the space between them felt smaller.
“I’m going to come a bit closer,” she said, tone still calm. “And you’re not going to move away.”
Jungkook tensed immediately. “Why?”
“Because nothing is happening,” she said simply. “You’re sitting on a couch. I’m sitting on a couch. That’s it.”
His fingers tightened slightly against his knee.
“That’s not—” he tried again, but the words didn’t finish properly.
Y/n watched him for a second, then tilted her head. “You’re doing that thing again,” she said.
“What thing?”
“Acting like everything is a test you’re about to fail.”
That made him go quiet. Because it didn’t feel like she was wrong.
Y/n exhaled softly, then shifted closer again—this time enough that her knee brushed lightly against his leg when she adjusted her position.
Jungkook stiffened instantly. But he didn’t move away. His body wanted to. His mind told him to. Still, he stayed.
“Good,” she said again, noticing.
He frowned slightly. “This is unnecessary.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But you’re still here.”
That landed differently than he expected. He didn’t respond. Y/n leaned back slightly, studying him like she was measuring his reaction, not judging it.
“You’re allowed to stop me at any point,” she reminded him. “You know that, right?”
Jungkook hesitated. “…I know.”
“Do you want to do this with me?”
The question hung between them like a held breath.
Jungkook's throat worked silently. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers pressing into the fabric of his trousers as if grounding himself to something real. The door was still there. The rules were still there. Everything he'd been taught, everything he'd built his discipline around—it all sat in the room with them, heavy and unmoving.
But so was she.
Y/n didn't look away. She didn't fill the silence with coaxing words or soften her gaze to make it easier for him. She just waited, steady, like she already knew the answer.
"Do you want to do this with me?"
The question wasn't complicated. It was terrifyingly simple.
Jungkook's jaw tightened. His pulse hammered low in his chest, spreading heat through his ribs, down his stomach, settling somewhere he'd been taught to ignore. He swallowed.
"...Yes," he said. The word came out rough, barely above a whisper, like it hurt to admit.
Y/n's lips parted slightly. Not a smile—something quieter, more knowing. She didn't gloat. She just nodded once, then shifted closer, her knee pressing firmly against his thigh now. This time, he didn't stiffen. His body stayed, even as his mind screamed warnings.
"Good," she breathed.
Her hand lifted from her lap. Slowly. Deliberately. She let him see every inch of the movement before her fingers brushed the side of his jaw. His skin was warm, and she felt the slight tremor run through him at the touch.
"Look at me," she said again, softer now.
He did.
Her thumb traced along his cheekbone, featherlight, before sliding down to his lips. She didn't press—just rested the pad of her thumb against the lower curve, feeling the softness there, the slight part of his mouth as his breath hitched.
"I'm going to kiss you now," she said, not asking this time. Just telling him. "You can stop me whenever. But I want to feel you."
Jungkook's eyes fluttered half-closed. The part of him that still clung to righteousness whispered pull away. But his body leaned forward instead, closing the last inch between them.
Her thumb slipped from his lips as her mouth met his.
The kiss was gentle at first—just the press of her lips against his, warm and unhurried. She tasted faintly of whatever she'd been drinking, something sweet, but mostly she just tasted like her. Jungkook's mind went blank. His hands stayed frozen on his thighs, every nerve ending focused on the point of contact.
Y/n didn't rush. She tilted her head, deepening the angle just slightly, and her hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. That small touch sent a shiver down his spine.
He made a sound—low, involuntary, caught in his throat.
She pulled back just enough to breathe against his lips. "You okay?"
He nodded, eyes still closed. "...Yeah."
"Then kiss me back."
It wasn't a demand. It was an invitation. And something in him finally snapped.
His hands left his thighs instinctively. One found her waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her shirt, gripping like he needed something to hold onto. The other slid up her arm, her shoulder, until his palm cupped the side of her neck, thumb brushing her pulse point.
He kissed her harder.
This time there was no hesitation. His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that had been locked away too long, a desperation that surprised even him. Y/n responded immediately, parting her lips, letting his tongue slide against hers in a slick, wet slide that made him groan into her mouth.
She shifted, swinging one leg over his lap, straddling him on the couch. The weight of her settled against his thighs, and his cock—already half-hard from the kiss—pressed against the inside of his trousers, aching.
Jungkook broke the kiss, breathing ragged. "We shouldn't—"
"Don't," she cut him off, her voice low, her hips shifting against his in a slow, deliberate grind. "Don't think about shouldn't right now."
His hands tightened on her waist. Fuck. She was warm through the fabric, her heat seeping into him, and when she rolled her hips again, he felt the pressure build—sharp, desperate, wrong and right all at once.
"Tell me what you want," she murmured, lips brushing his ear. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you. No rules here. Just us."
"I want..." His voice cracked. He tried again. "I want to feel you. All of you."
Y/n pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. Her gaze was dark, pupils blown, lips swollen from his kisses. She reached down and took his hand, guiding it under the hem of her shirt, pressing his palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach.
"Then feel."
His palm pressed flat against her stomach, the heat of her skin searing through him. Her muscles tensed under his touch, and she guided his hand higher, sliding it up until his fingers brushed the underside of her breast.
"Touch me," she said, her voice soft but firm. "No rush. Just feel."
He hesitated for a second, then let his fingers spread, cupping her through the lace of her bra. His thumb grazed her nipple, and she gasped, the sound breaking something inside him. He pressed harder, palming her flesh, and her hand covered his, squeezing gently.
"Like this," she murmured, showing him, pressing his thumb in slow circles. "You're learning fast."
A flush crept up his neck. His other hand stayed on her ass, gripping the curve of her, feeling the give of her flesh through her jeans. She rocked against him again, the friction making him harder, and he felt a bead of moisture leak from his tip, dampening his boxers.
Y/n shifted, unbuttoning her jeans. The zipper rasped loud in the quiet room. She lifted her hips just enough to push them down, along with her panties, baring herself to him. The sight of her cunt—dark hair, wet lips, the scent of her arousal hitting the air—made his mouth go dry.
"Watch," she ordered, and her hand moved down, fingers parting her folds, sliding through her slickness. She circled her clit slowly, her eyes locked on his. "This is what you do to me."
Jungkook's breath came in ragged pulls. He watched, mesmerized, as she slid two fingers inside herself, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her walls clenched around her own touch, and she pulled them out, glistening, and brought them to his mouth.
"Taste me."
He parted his lips without thinking. Her fingers slid inside, salty and musky, and he closed his mouth, sucking them clean. The taste was foreign, intimate, and it sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock.
She pulled her fingers out with a pop. "Good boy."
Then she shifted, tearing her shirt over her head and reaching for his belt. Her fingers worked the buckle, the button, the zipper, and he let her, his body trembling under her hands. She tugged his trousers and boxers down just enough to free his cock—hard, flushed, standing against his stomach.
She wrapped her hand around him, and he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. Her grip was firm, sure, and she stroked him slowly, spreading the slick from his tip down his shaft.
"So pretty," she whispered.
She leaned down, ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, from base to tip. His whole body shuddered. Then she took him in her mouth, and his mind went white.
Her lips sealed around his head, her tongue swirling, tasting him. She moved slowly, taking him deeper inch by inch, until her nose pressed against his groin. The heat, the wetness, the tightness of her throat—it was overwhelming. He tangled a hand in her hair, half-pulling, half-holding.
"F-fuck," he gasped.
She hummed around him, and the vibration sent a wave of pleasure up his spine. She bobbed her head, building a rhythm, one hand stroking the base while her other cupped his balls, rolling them gently.
Pressure built fast. Too fast.
"I'm—I'm gonna—"
She pulled off just in time, stroking him with her hand as a thick, hot rope of cum shot across her chest, then another, then another. He groaned, long and broken, his hips jerking through the orgasm.
Y/n didn't stop until he was spent. She looked down at his cum painting her skin, then met his eyes, a wicked smile curling her lips.
“I want you inside me."
Her hand still worked his softening cock, coaxing it back to hardness. He was sensitive, but the sight of her—hair mussed, chest glistening, legs spread wide over his lap—brought the blood rushing back.
She guided him to her entrance, his tip nudging against her wet folds. She positioned him, looked him in the eye, and lowered herself onto him in one slow, deliberate motion.
Her heat enveloped him, tight and wet, and Jungkook's mouth fell open. She took him fully, pausing when his hips met hers, letting him feel every inch of her.
"You feel that?" she whispered. "That's all for you."
He could only nod, gripping her waist as she began to move.
Y/n held still for a moment, letting him feel the weight of her, the heat of her, the way her walls pulsed around his length. Jungkook's hands hovered at her hips, trembling, barely grazing her skin.
"Breathe," she whispered.
He sucked in a shaky breath, and she smiled softly, placing her palms flat on his chest. She could feel his heart hammering under her fingers, rapid and wild.
"Good." She lifted her hips slightly, then sank back down, a slow, deliberate roll of her pelvis. A moan escaped his throat, raw and unfiltered.
Her pace was languid, teasing. She let him feel every inch of the slide, the drag of her slick heat against his sensitive flesh. His eyes were wide, fixed on where their bodies joined, watching himself disappear inside her over and over.
"You're doing so well," she praised, and his cock twitched inside her at her words.
She increased the rhythm, rocking forward, grinding her clit against his pubic bone. The friction made her gasp, and she clenched around him, earning a broken whimper from his lips.
"Look at me," she ordered gently.
He obeyed, his gaze hazy, pupils blown wide. She held his eyes as she rode him, slow and deep, showing him exactly what pleasure looked like.
"You feel that? That's me. All yours."
He nodded, speechless, his hands finally moving—sliding up her sides, over her ribs, settling on her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples, and she arched into his touch, a soft cry escaping her.
"Just like that," she urged. "Touch me. Don't stop."
She leaned forward, capturing his mouth in a deep kiss as she ground against him, her tongue sliding against his. He kissed her back clumsily at first, then with more confidence, learning the rhythm of her mouth the same way he was learning the rhythm of her hips.
When she broke the kiss, she was panting, her forehead pressed to his. "I'm close," she admitted. "Can you feel me squeezing you?"
He could. Her walls fluttered around him, milking his length, and the sensation was overwhelming. His balls tightened, a familiar pressure building at the base of his spine just as before.
"I think—I'm—"
"Cum inside me," she commanded, her voice dropping low. "Let go, Jungkook. I've got you."
That permission, that surrender, undid him. He cried out, his hips bucking up as hot spurts of cum filled her, his whole body convulsing under her. She rode him through it, her own orgasm cresting as his warmth flooded her, her cunt clenching around him, milking every last drop.
She collapsed against his chest, both of them slick with sweat, breathing ragged. Jungkook's arms wrapped around her, holding her close, his face buried in her hair.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then she lifted her head, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
"How do you feel?"
He blinked, as if the question surprised him, "...I think I understand now."
Perm taglist : @kimmynammy @celliez @alphabetically-deranged @m4aimm @raceme2hell @bo-rimmy @mustanggbabyy @divakoo (comment or ask to be added)
Having worked together for years, you and Jungkook know exactly how to play your roles, going undercover as a married couple. But that’s until the act stops feeling like one.
PAIRING: detective!jk x detective!reader
GENRE: smut with a lot of plot
WORD COUNT: 8k
WARNINGS: some undercover crime solving, sexy&intelligent gone wrong, idrk what’s going on tbh, jk’s secretly a yearner, alcohol, elites being illegal like always, brief mentions of money laundering, gambling&blackmailing, they’re at an underground club, smut wise: exhibitionism (it just…keeps happening), dirty talk, oral (f recieving), hair pulling, he bends her over ofc, some more probably
NOTES: surprise! 2.0’s mv randomly inspired me to write this and it was supposed to be posted by friday but uh mark happened. this turned out to have so much more plot than i planned but it kinda just flowed that way. also lmk if you’d like a part 2!! enjoy <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Rain settles over London as if it’s seeking ownership.
Because in theory, rain does own the city of London, in its own, inscrutable way. It clings onto everything. From the glass windows of the club that are covered in a way that screams guilty, the stone railing that’s a little too romantic for a place like this, to your collarbones that stay exposed through the thick fabric of your coat— everything is decorated with small droplets of rain, creating a measured disorder that’s still stubborn enough not to leave no matter how hard you try to shake it off.
By the time the car pulls to a stop, it paints a black, sleek shadow beneath the streetlights. The street already looks polished; like it’s somewhere you don’t find yourself in unless it’s absolutely intentional, unless you’re assigned to be here, unless you have a purpose.
You watch it through the window for a little more than necessary, because every detail matters. You take notes of the grand spacing between the arrivals, the lack of hesitation at the entrance, the high chins and dark eyes of the men and women that are too powerful to face any consequences; every single one of these people belong here.
The driver opens the door of the backseat before you have time to even reach for the handle, blinking twice before stepping out to force confidence into your body. You move with ease, like you’ve practiced this a hundred times before, because you have. Because every ounce of authority in you is backed with years of practice.
Jungkook follows you a breath later, taking two large steps to claim his place right next to you, offering out an arm for you to hold onto. As he adjusts the black coat on his body, you slip your hand into the crook of his arm, fingers wrapping around his bicep.
The rain immediately catches in your hair, then the fabric on your shoulders, and then the exposed line of your collarbones. Jungkook opens the umbrella in his free hand before your blowout has time to budge out of place, holding it over your head without asking.
“Don’t scan too hard.” Jungkook says slowly, voice low enough to disappear beneath the crowd.
“Don’t teach me my job.” You mutter under your breath, eyes focused on the street instead of him.
Jungkook huffs out something between a breath and a laugh. “I’m not.” He says, adjusting the umbrella slightly, angling it so that it shields you more than himself. “I’m reminding you of it.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t forget what role you’re playing.”
He scoffs, but the corners of his mouth tilt despite himself. His posture shifts subtly, just enough to close the little space left between your bodies, like he’d been waiting for the cue.
“Please.” He huffs out, arm slipping out of yours to find your waist. His hand settles exactly where your waist curves inwards, wrapping around like it’s muscle memory. You straighten your posture at his touch, your shoulder brushing against his chest with each step you take.
Right ahead of you, the gravity around the entrance is so heavy it’s already pulling you in, before you can even acknowledge the warm coloured light painting the corners of the front door.
Jungkook leans into you, mouth grazing over your ear lightly, yet enough to let chills trail down your spine. “Camera over the left column.” He murmurs without looking, eyes flicking above the door so quickly even you almost don’t catch it. “Wide angle.” He continues.
“Mhm.’ You hum in response, a sweet yet calculated smile playing on your lips despite yourself. You place your right hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers where they sit on your waist. You pull him just a little closer to adjust your pace, slowing him down enough to fall in line with the queue of people ahead.
Up close, everything feels even more premeditated. The lighting frames the edges around the doorway instead of spilling naturally, catching in the marble in a golden hue. Two men are standing at the entrance, eyes scanning through until there isn’t an inch that’s not tainted by their gaze. They’re both in sleek black suits, dressed exactly the same as the white button-up underneath their jackets pick up the light in a way that’s too bright for a night like this.
“Good evening.” One of the men says when the two of you approach further. You don’t slow down, reaching the threshold arm in arm.
“Names?” He asks, eyes flicking between you and the list in his hand.
Jungkook doesn’t hesitate before speaking, filling in the silence half a second later. “Charles and Clara Beaumont.”
The man’s eyes linger on you for a second longer this time, scanning through the list as he matches and confirms whatever he has to.
“Of course.” He says after a beat, moving to the side just enough to offer you space to step inside. Jungkook’s hand finds the small of your back, settling in a way that grounds you, sending warmth through your body, even over the fabric of your coat.
You don’t react outwardly, not in a way that lets him know, but you do feel his touch. The inch of contact, every degree of pressure, the way it anchors you just enough to look real— feel real.
“Stay close.” He murmurs, and the door opens.
You think you’ve never entered a place more unwelcoming than whatever this is.
“Let’s not waste time.” Director Kang had said, leaning onto the table that’s placed in the middle of the meeting room as he pressed a few buttons on the control in his hand until the screen flickered to life.
A face appeared; a man with a controlled smile, a sharp navy suit, and the kind of confidence that’s effortless without needing any practice, because it had been perfected years ago.
Hugo Vane.
You already knew the name, Jungkook already knew the name, but knowing from afar and seeing are different things.
“Publicly,” Kang started, the pacing of his words measured yet nowhere near slow. “One of the most successful private investors across Europe. Real estate, insurance, hospitality. He’s in it all, has been called ‘transformational’ way too many times.”
Jungkook let out a quiet breath through his nose, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “Of course.”
“Over the last ten years, he’s built a network of high end venues across Europe– almost half in England– that function as fronts for illegal gambling, money laundering, controlled blackmail; all of it tied to names you would never expect” He breathed.
“What’s crucial is, everything is recorded. Debts, favors, leverage; we can get our hands on everything. This opening in London isn’t a random celebration, it’s a consolidation point. Real transactions will happen in the private rooms, so the main floor is useless. Your objective is simple, get inside one of those rooms, doesn’t matter which for now. We need confirmation of what happens in there. But most importantly, we need access, we need to track every breath they take.” Kang paused, exhaling through his nose.
“This man might have blood on his hands.”
After letting the words settle in the room, Jungkook tilted his head, swinging left and right in his chair. “And we’re just walking into that?” He asked.
Kang inhaled. “You’re not just walking into it.” He said, eyes flicking between the two of you before switching onto the next slide.
Two photos of a couple flashed across the screen, attractive and well dressed in the same old way people with generational wealth are.
“Charles and Clara Beaumont,” Kang explained. “Married for six years, currently in Nice, unlikely to make it.”
Jungkook’s mouth curved into a lazy grin. “So we’re them.”
“You are.”
“Six years?” You added a beat later, head tilting slightly.
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arm resting along the backrest. “Won’t take much time to look convincing.” He said, a small smirk on his face as his gaze flicked over to you.
“Gotta play your part well, Jeon.” You said, tone disinterested as your eyes still focused on the picture on the screen like it would tell you something if you stared hard enough.
A small smirk played out on his lips, cocky in a way that grew you eager to slap it off his face. “Oh, I won't be playing.’
You rolled your eyes, huffing out a short scoff. You didn’t respond to him further as your grip tightened around your pen, squinting your eyes at the man on the screen. “Backgrounds? Anything we shouldn’t look past?” You asked.
Kang nodded slowly. “Everything will be provided by tomorrow morning, study them before you fly out.”
He stepped away from the table, standing right in the middle of the two of you, hands on both your shoulders like he’s warning you. “You will not draw attention, and you will not break cover. Find the confirmation we need and leave before anyone suspects anything. Play safe this time, we’ll see what comes next when you fly back.”
“What if we get access to the recordings?” Jungkook asked.
“Great, but don’t compromise the mission for it. Like I said, play safe for now.” Kang said, Jungkook nodded once in response.
You crossed your arms over your chest, biting the corner of your lips. “What about surveillance?”
“Everywhere. Which means whatever you do,” Kang answered until Jungkook cut him off, leaning forward, settling his elbows on the table. “We have to sell it.”
Kang lookwd at him. “Yes.”
“--Champagne?” The server asks, cutting through the memory with a sharp edge. You blink once, letting the room fold back into place with no more than a subtle shiver. So subtle that even Jungkook almost misses it despite being so close to you, to the point where you can feel each other’s pulses thudding under your skin.
Your body retakes everything all at once; the gold light, murmur of voices that let out no more than a few low chuckles, the weight of Jungkook’s hand still resting around your waist like it never left.
Something almost flutters in your chest.
You reach for the tray, taking a glass without any hesitation. “Thank you.”
Jungkook takes one a second later, body moving slower than yours. Because his attention is already completely elsewhere, eyes scanning through the crowd until they settle, digging silent holes into the nape of a certain someone’s neck.
“Right side.” Jungkook murmurs when the server disappears, eyes still stuck on the said man.
But you don’t turn around, now having years of experience in the job. Your hands reach for your purse, grabbing a hold of lipstick and a mirror. You drop the cap of the lipstick into your purse before opening the mirror with one hand, reapplying your lipstick as your eyes scan around the whole venue through the small mirror.
You take half a step to your left before he comes into your sight. Dark eyes, sharp jawline, navy suit tailored to fit his body without a single crease, exactly like Hugo Vane.
But younger.
“Hugo’s son.” You answer quietly, eyes on the mirror as you pat the lipstick lightly onto your lips. Jungkook’s eyes flick towards you for a beat, towards your lips. It lasts shorter than a second, maybe less than half a second, but it does happen. And you notice.
Jungkook hums, grip tightening on your waist. “Thought so.”
The man moves through the room without stopping, like he doesn’t need to, because it’s being cleared for him before he can have the time to complain. It’s not obvious, there is no dramatic space as he steps through, but there is a quiet shift in people’s demeanour. The way conversations pause just enough, the way bodies angle themselves just slightly, the way the room bends and molds around him and not the way around.
You try not to drown in the space he leaves behind, because it doesn’t settle, it knocks your breath out in a way you don’t know how to explain. You don’t get anxious often– no, you never get anxious. But something about the way he silently grabbed the room and bent it without anyone noticing causes something unsettling to form somewhere in your stomach.
How he moves is enough to tell you he’s not just wandering, he’s leading something. You don’t follow him immediately, letting the time stretch and the distance breathe. But Jungkook does still for a second, hand dropping from your waist until it wraps somewhere between your wrist and hand.
Your eyes briefly flick over to the hall he disappears behind, watching the way the door swings back and forth ever so subtly. Of course, Jungkook notices your stare, eyes following the direction of your gaze.
“That’s our way in.” He says, his hand holding yours properly now.
“That’s not a way in.” You mutter through your teeth. “That’s access we don’t have.”
He shifts his body slightly, adjusting you along with him so that you’re angled the opposite way. “That’s access we will have.”
He pulls you fully now, your face almost crashing into his back as he moves without a warning. Jungkook walks fast as you trail behind, taking steps that are short, yet as swift as the height of your heels allow.
When you’re halfway through the corridor, Jungkook pulls you closer into him. But it’s different to the closeness you’ve been maintaining so far. This time, you feel his cologne filling up your nostrils every time he shifts, the way his chest rises and falls whenever he breathes. This time, he pulls you so close that turning your head means something you don’t want to say out loud.
So you don’t.
“Someone’s watching.” He says into your ear, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.” You reply, back pressed into his. Of course you know, because someone has been watching. Someone has been watching you for so long that the feeling of it transitions into a pattern, the kind you notice even when you try not to. Here, people don’t scan, neither do they hold your gaze; but they do reappear. You swear you see the same people all at the same places at the same times; like they’re circling around certain spots ith purpose rather than simply attending an opening.
“Good.” Jungkook says before turning you around, thumb pressing lightly against your wrist. Maybe it’s a cue, maybe it’s a warning, you have no idea which. Because there’s no time for you to figure it out, because Jungkook leans in when you expect it the least.
He’s so much closer than necessary, closer than professional, and the way your body reacts is just as– maybe even more– unprofessional.
His voice drops by an octave, words escaping his lips before they disappears somewhere on your skin. “Then let’s give them something to look at.”
He pulls your body closer into his by your hands, hooking them around his neck before he lets his hands drop down to your waist. You take notice of how slow they move, because they don’t really drop down, they slide.
It feels intentional, like he’s actually caressing your body with care instead of putting on a show. Your breath catches before you can stop yourself. And even though
you get it together quickly, Jungkook notices.
“Relax.” He says, forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your skin.
“I am relaxed, but you’re overdoing it.” You say, hands settling where he put them.
“No, you’re underdoing it.” Your jaw tightens at the words, and you almost roll your eyes. Almost, because right now, you definitely have way too much attention on you to slip even a little.
So despite your words, your hands move. They scratch the nape of his neck before disappearing in his hair, fingers curling lightly until they’re tangled inside.
“Your left,” You whisper against his mouth. “Same man, still watching.”
“Mhm.” He hums. “Let him.” But his eyes are already closed, body leaning even more into yours as if there is any space left. Your hands drop from his hair to his shoulders, and before you know it, Jungkook’s lips are on yours.
It takes you a second to shake yourself out of the shock, letting yourself melt into the kiss as his soft lips move on yours with ease, like they belong there, like this is normal for you to do. Your eyes flutter shut, hands roaming all around his shoulders. You flinch when he gives your ass a squeeze, sending a tingle through your legs.
One of his hands raises up until it reaches your face, cupping your cheek as his thumb trails softly along your jaw. He forces your mouth open with his thumb, pulling down your bottom lip slowly, and you grant him access without thinking.
A small moan escapes your lips when his tongue slides into your mouth, and Jungkook swears his pants are going to rip right on spot if you keep sounding like that. He feels something fluttering in his chest, something he knows he has been suppressing for a long time now. So he just pulls you closer, and lets his mind drift away from anything and everything for just second, focusing on you only.
Until someone clears their throat.
“Mr. and Mrs–”
Your whole body stills, unable to move even an inch. But that’s fine, because couples like this don’t break apart for interruptions. Jungkook lets his teeth pull onto your bottom lip for one last time before breaking apart, slow enough so that you can gather yourself.
He does pull away, but his hand doesn’t leave your waist. And for a split second, he doesn’t even turn his head.
“--Beaumont.” The staff continues.
Both of you shift your gazes towards him, acting completely calm and unbothered. “Yes?” Jungkook asks politely, brows raised only slightly.
The man gives you a measured smile. “Mr. Vane is a man of discretion.”
Touché
“If you would like somewhere more private,” He continues, gesturing subtly towards a door somewhere along the corridor. “We can accommodate you.”
There it is.
Though, you don’t answer immediately, letting the question rest for a second or two in order to make it feel real. Not eager, not hesitant, but rather like it’s something you’re used to.
Jungkook glances down at you, offering a look that’s not really asking, because he already knows the answer. Just something that’s checking, something that lets him know everything is fine. You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough so that Jungkook notices, yet the man doesn’t.
He turns his head towards the man. “Of course.”
The man steps aside, letting the corridor fall open and twist into something darker. Jungkook’s hand shifts at your waist, guiding you through the hall. And this time, you just let yourself melt into the comfort of his presence. Because resistance doesn’t really mean anything anymore. Because you know that somewhere along your performance, something slipped. The control, the acting– whatever you call it. What’s important is that neither of you really acknowledged it.
The door closes behind you softly, a sound that’s too little for a door this heavy. It doesn’t really echo, doesn’t physically linger either. But still, for a second, you can’t find it in yourself to move. You don’t have to look at Jungkook to know he hasn’t either, you can feel it in the way the air shifts around him. His legs don’t carry him anywhere when the door clicks shut, eyes roaming around the room as the rest of his body stays still.
The room is quieter than you expect it to be. It’s not empty, not silent; there’s music humming faintly from somewhere behind, walls filtering out the bass until it nearly doesn’t even reach your ears. But somehow, you still feel it thudding under your ribs, hard and heavy until it stings somewhere you can’t quite reach.
But everything feels more uncomfortable than you imagined, because even in a room as private as this one, there is intention behind every little detail. The deep brown of the leather couch, the two untouched glasses on the table already filled with whiskey too bitter for your taste, the light that’s even dimmer, even warmer compared to the outside– everything is arranged like they expect you to sit, to drink, to stay.
To forget.
When you take a step forward, heels sinking into the carpet, Jungkook’s hand doesn’t leave your waist.
If anything, it settles deeper.
Jungkook shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his chest pressing closer into your back as he leans in slightly, just enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “Two cameras.” He whispers. “One above the mirror, one across the wall.”
You don’t look, because you never do, because you never have to when it’s Jungkook who warns you. Instead, your hand moves to your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear as your gaze drifts lazily across the room, a little relieved that you’re finally where you’re supposed to be, doing what you’re supposed to do.
Your fingers graze the edges of the mirror on the wall, mentally taking a note on how something is off about it, in a way you can’t exactly point a finger on. The frame feels too smooth on your skin, too flat for something that’s embroidered romantically.
Your reflection stares back at you the same way it always does. Hair perfect, posture straight, lipstick faintly smudged because of the kiss you just shared; it’s completely untouched.
But something is still off. The angle is wrong, your frame is slightly delayed, the glass is too clean that it’s suspicious. And finally, as your fingers keep grazing around the edges in hopes of finding something worth pocketing, something red winks at you.
“They’re recording.” You say, voice breathy, almost distracted.
His hand leaves your waist for the first time since you walked in, stepping aside to take everything in properly. His absence hits you immediately, skin turning cold beneath the fabric on your body without the warmth of his touch. You try to ignore the feeling, you really do, but it lingers somewhere between the light chill of the room, and your pulse that’s now a little loud. Too loud that you feel it thud in your ears.
But suddenly, something louder than the hard pulsing of rhythms fly in from behind. It doesn’t come from the hallway– no, it’s deeper than that. The voices are muffled, the words are whispered discreetly and are chosen with care; private enough to pull a tight knot in your stomach.
You still without realizing, eyes widening only slightly as your hands rub themselves onto the sides of your coat. Jungkook notices it immediately, eyes shifting onto you before he lets his hand find yours. His fingers slip between yours, gliding with ease as if this is the most natural thing for you to do. His hold grounds you. You have no idea how or why, but it does, and your grip tightens around his beneath awareness.
Jungkook had never been easy to read.
You’ve shared way too many long flights, way too many late night debriefs. Yes, he was a little too flirty sometimes. And yes, you were aware of his attraction towards you. But you never thought it was anything near serious. At the end of the day, you were just coworkers who, in reality, couldn’t even properly get along.
Despite his cocky and flirty persona, Jungkook isn't a careless man. He never lets something slip before weighing it over and over again, never lets something mean too much.
You always thought it meant nothing to him, that he was just acting a certain way to get on your nerves, that this was just the kind of person he is.
Oh boy were you wrong.
“Wall behind the couch.” You say, gesturing towards where the voices are coming from. Jungkook turns slightly, angling his body just enough to follow the line of your sight without making it obvious.
There’s a panel there, a seamless way that leans into another room, almost invisible even to you despite how carefully you’re looking for it. Somewhere between a breath and a flick of your eyes, Jungkook moves. His body works around yours swiftly, turning you before you can process it, pressing your back into the wall you had just been gesturing at.
Your breath catches, more from the sudden closure than anything else, your hands instinctively finding his chest as he closes the distance between you. The room, the air, even voices; everything feels smaller like this. Like it’s just the two of you and no one else who are existing in this space.
“What are you doing?” You ask under your breath, but it doesn’t land the way it usually does. Because he’s already closer than what’s professional, closer than what’s safe.
Jungkook lifts his index finger, placing it on top for your lips. “Shh.” He shushes you, brows raised slightly.
A voice filters in, dark and hoarse. “...this wasn’t part of what we shook hands on.”
Something shifts on the other side of the wall, distorted in a way that doesn’t allow you to hear everything properly. “We can make a few adjustments.” Another man answers, his tone noticeably calmer.
“Hugo’s son.” Jungkook whispers, his eyes staring right into yours.
You grab his hand, pushing it off your face with a huff. “What even is his name?” You ask, face scrunched in confusion at the sudden realization.
Jungkook shrugs, letting the voices of the two men fill in the room. “That’s not how your father cooperates.”
“My father isn’t here tonight.”
Your breath stills, wide eyes lifting up to catch Jungkook’s, filled with unease.
How the fuck is Hugo not here?
That throws everything off. Because Hugo Vane not being here doesn’t feel like an absence, it makes you feel his presence even more, settling under your bones with an ache you don’t like. Because if Hugo isn’t here, because if he didn’t even bother getting out of his way to come here, this isn’t just an opening that covers a few illegal exchanges. It’s something else entirely, something that has been in motion for a lot longer than you knew of.
And whatever you walked into tonight is bigger than the room you’re standing in.
The other man starts. “If anything goes wrong–”
“It won’t.” Hugo’s son cuts him off, voice steady like it’s forcing everything into exactly where he wants.. There’s a pause, a beat filled with silence before he continues. “Everything is already in place.”
The words sound like a trap.
When your eyes flick back to Jungkook, you realize he’s already looking at you, eyes a little too empty to your liking. He looks like he’s thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. So you lift your hand, shoving his chest lightly to recollect his attention.
“Jungkook, focus.” You murmur through your teeth.
But he doesn’t react immediately, not properly at least, because his hand is still holding yours, his arm is still around your waist. And instead of loosening his hold or giving you space to breathe, his grip tightens, fingers curling around you like he’s trying to ground the two of you at the same time.
Then, his hand moves. Not away, of course not. It shifts from your waist, sliding down to your hips. Though the movement is slow, like he’s giving himself time to stop, to pull back into whatever control he has been holding onto all night.
And you can’t find it in you to move.
“They’re watching.” He says quietly, thumb grazing circles on your hip.
There’s no fucking way he’s doing that as performance.
“I know.” You respond, eyes stuck on his like they’ll bleed into blindness if you tear them away. Your voice is softer now, breathy in a way that makes Jungkook lose his mind, not that he’d ever tell you.
But right now, you too know that something shifted, that this doesn’t feel like just a show anymore.
Jungkook exhales through his nose, slow and rough, closing his eyes along with the breath he lets out. “I’ve been trying not to do this.” He starts, taking a step closer as if it’s possible. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”
For a second, you consider pretending to not understand what he means, almost tilting your head with oblivious eyes. But halfway, you decide against it, sharply inhaling the breath he just exhaled.
But the space between you is too little– no, it doesn’t even exist anymore. The room feels smaller, the air feels thicker, and the muffled voices of the two men disappear completely behind the wall when he lets his body lean a little more into yours.
At your lack of response, Jungkook lifts the hem of your coat, giving your ass a squeeze above the thin fabric of your dress. You moan involuntarily, head falling back until it hits the hard wall behind you, a little harsher than you would’ve guessed.
“Tell me to stop now.” He says, voice low in a way that’s barely above a whisper. “Because I won’t.”
You crash your lips into his.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the walls, or maybe the fact that you’re being watched and still choosing this anyway.
Or maybe, it’s just him.
You don’t know, you can’t even think straight right now. Because the second your lips meet his, everything else collapses into a haze, way too easily. You lose your last remaining hold on everything you’ve been trying to build since even before you stepped out of the car tonight. The mission, Hugo, his son, anything and everything that’s currently going on behind the wall, even the cameras you’re fully aware of– they all blur into something distant.
You’ll deal with those later.
A swift feeling of surprise takes over Jungkook when it’s you who breaks the tension first, but he melts into the kiss without giving you time to recalibrate your actions. Your hands settle on his shoulders, fiddling with the thick fabric of his coat before slipping it down his shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor. Once it’s off, your hands move quickly on his dress shirt, unbuttoning it eagerly.
Jungkook lets out a groan at your touch, because he feels what’s underneath it immediately. The way you stop hesitating and start pulling him instead, the way your hands grip his shirt like you mean it, like you’re not just letting this happen.
You’re choosing this.
That’s what knocks the air out of his lungs more than anything else tonight. Because just hours ago, he was ready for resistance, he was ready for control, he has been doing it for years. Acting like you’re nothing more than occasional partners who don’t even get along for
the most part. He was ready for you to push him away if he went too far with the role, if he played it a little too well. He was ready to stop if you wanted to.
But he wasn’t ready for this.
He wasn’t ready for you, for your lips to meet, rid of any ounce of hesitation, like you’ve been wanting this too.
He squeezes your ass again, with both hands this time, needing to feel every inch of your body. His eyes flutter uncontrollably when you let out another dreamy moan, something that sounds like an angelic melody to his ears. He pulls you closer by the hips, then thrusts his own to meet you halfway, biting his lip harshly at the contact.
“Please, Jungkook.” You cry out, thrusting your hips into his once again, by yourself this time, desperate for a touch, an ounce of friction– anything.
“Please what, baby?” Jungkook responds with a question, his hot breath hitting the exposed skin of your neck, trailing all the way down to your collarbones. “Use your words, I know you can.”
Your hands continue moving on his shoulder, sliding off his shirt once you’re done with the buttons. You find yourself needing to take a moment at the sight of his bare chest, because it’s better than any you’ve seen before. Soft, toned– maybe even a little too toned– so bare and so pretty, all for you to touch.
Your hands roam around his chest, tracing lines along his abs. Jungkook has to bite his cheek to suppress any unplanned sounds that he realizes are way more likely to slip than he thought now that he actually feels your touch on his body.
“Not gonna fucking beg for this.” You squeeze his shoulders, nails digging deeply into his bare skin, letting your back lean even more into the wall.
Fuck.
Jungkook has thought about this.
In quieter moments, in between meetings and conversations when you were standing a little too close, in places where he shouldn’t have; he’s thought about it all. The way your voice would drop by and octave when you were focused, the way your skirt would ride up your thigh when you leaned in just a little lower, the way your hand would brush his like it meant nothing.
It never meant nothing to him.
He’d always pushed it down. Because this was work, because you were his partner, because he knew you better than to ruin something that functioned this well.
But now, your hands are all over his body, moving and pulling him in instead of stopping. Your lips are so fucking soft against his, making his chest tighter and head emptier until there isn’t a single coherent thought left inside.
“Fucking tease.” Jungkook says before lifting your dress up, letting it pool around your waist. Your lips curl up in victory when he pulls your panties to the side, flicking the lips of your pussy with two fingers, feeling your slick coat his fingers.
He plays with your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb as his two other fingers slide in and out of your wet, aching hole. Your eyes immediately fall shut at the contact, inhaling sharply when he curls his fingers at an angle he knows will make you see stars.
Then he falls to his knees.
Your eyes flutter open the moment you hear the way his knees hit the hard floor, lips parting as you’re taken aback by whatever he’s doing. You look down to him, brows furrowed in
confusion in a way that asks. But Jungkook doesn’t respond, he only gives you a smirk after looking up, then flicks his gaze back down again.
His fingers wrap around the lace fabric of your black panties, pulling them down in a way that’s painfully slow considering the waterfall between your thighs right now. When the thin piece of fabric pools down on the floor, you lift your foot, kicking it to the side with your heels.
“Jungkook,” You gasp loudly when he lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder. He starts by trailing kisses up your thighs, one hand wrapped around the soft flesh in order to steady your body. Your hands fly onto his hair before you can think, fisting and pulling at it as he gets closer and closer to your core.
“Oh my god,” You moan, looking down at him as his tongue laps against your swollen pussy. His fingers flick your lips open, easing it up for him to work his tongue. Jungkook groans as you tug onto his hair harder, licking your pussy as if he’s savoring the taste of every flavour on his tongue.
Your thighs clam around his head, closing with a shake you have no idea how to control. Your nails dig into your own palms by how hard you’re holding onto him, stinging in a way that’s almost painful.
“Shit, ‘m so close.” You whimper as heat pools low in your stomach, twisting and curling so hard that you feel your legs giving out.
“Sweetest pussy ever.” Jungkook pulls away for a split second before connecting his mouth back onto your throbbing pussy, his tongue flattening right at the part where it pulses the heaviest.
“Jungkook, fuck.” You cum hard with a scream of his name, your head falling back onto the wall so fast it almost hurts. Jungkook licks you through your orgasm, his fingers that were once separating your lips now rubbing circles on your clit until you’re fully out of your high.
Your breath doesn’t settle when he stands again, coming back up to his feet so fast, as if being away from you for even a second feels unbearable. You hold onto his arms to regain
your balance, and no more than a second passes before Jungkook’s lips find yours again.
“Gonna bend you over and take you right fucking here.” Jungkook says, grunting as he pulls back. He turns you around, then pushes you over the backrest of the leather couch until your ass is perfectly aligned and in sight. Jungkook palms the soft flesh of your skin, gripping and squeezing as he tries unzipping his pants with his free hand.
His dick springs out once his boxer is down his thighs, slapping against his abs immediately. He gives his already hardened length a few strokes before lining it up your entrance, flicking your folds with his tip, all red and angry, eager to fuck you into oblivion until your eyes roll back so hard it hurts to not see his face through the darkness.
You whimper loudly when Jungkook enters you with a hard slam, back arching into the air instinctively. His hand settles on your waist, gripping firmly as the other doesn’t leave your waist. Your pussy feels so tight and warm around his cock, and Jungkook thinks he’s going to burst out.
“Can’t believe you’ve been hiding yourself from me for years.” Jungkook says, words coming out shaky due to how hard he’s pounding into you. “Played so hard to get when you’re really just a slut.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You spit back through grithed teeth, trying to suppress your moans by burying your head into the couch. Jungkook lets out a cocky chuckle that twists your nerves even more, but the annoyance is quickly swollen up by how good he’s pounding into you.
He reaches for your dress, pulling down the fabric on your chest until the swell of your boobs spill out through your bra. Jungkook pulls down your bra next, your tits coming full on display
with a bounce. He moans when his palms settle on your soft boobs, fingers flicking and pinching your nipples until your pussy aches even harder with the sensation.
“Right there, oh my god, right fucking there.” You choke out with the little energy you have left, feeling your orgasm closer than ever. Jungkook fists your hair when you least expect it, yanking you up so that your back arches further and his bare chest grazes over your body.
You moan out shaky curses, not even aware of what you’re saying anymore as he keeps pounding into you from behind. Tears prickle up at the corners of your eyes, Jungkook’s grip getting tighter and tighter in your hair as he nears his high.
“Shit,” Jungkook whimpers, dick twitching inside your walls. “Where do you want me?” He asks, voice so low and breathy that it sends you over the edge.
“Fuck, want it inside. Don’t you dare pull out.” You say, feeling your orgasm build as his thrusts transition into something messy and sloppy.
“Oh yeah?” He breathes, pushing your body back onto the couch, his grip on your waist tightening.
Jungkook cums hard with a loud groan, emptying all of himself into you. You push yourself back on his dick a few times before your orgasm also rips through, crying out at both how hard you’re cumming, and how good he’s filling you up.
There’s a beat where he doesn’t pull out, cock softening inside you as his forehead presses between your shoulderblades, his unsteady breath feeling hot on your skin. Your breath also doesn’t settle instantly, chest rising unevenly as the weight of him suddenly feels too heavy on your skin. Everything falls back into place one by one, your vision drifting back as you come down from your high. The warmth of the dim lights, the closed door that’s hiding way too much behind, the quiet hum of voices that are muffled together behind the walls– it all returns all at once, like you’re being forced back into reality after being somewhere else entirely.
Jungkook’s hand is still on your waist, grip still firm as if he hasn’t realized he has to let you go– or maybe he just doesn’t want to let you go.
When Jungkook slides out of you, you push yourself up slightly, your body still slower than your head. “Jungkook,” You start, voice rough.
You feel his body still above you, a shift that’s so subtle yet still enough for you to feel. The realization hits him the same moment it hits you, his hand loosening on your waist.
“Cameras.” You finish, voice soft and quiet despite the weight of your words.
That’s all it takes for Jungkook to blink back into reality, pulling back fast as if distance has the power to fix everything just like that. But surprise surprise, it won’t.
That’s when a sound cuts through the walls, something so faint that for a second, you think that even you might have missed it. But you don’t, because you never do. You flinch regardless, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against him.
Jungkook feels it instantly, head snapping towards the door before he flicks his gaze back to you, leaning down just a little. “What?” He murmurs in your ear, voice low in a way that’s barely above a whisper.
You don’t answer, you can’t bring yourself to answer, because nothing that’s going through your head sounds coherent as words. Your head turns slightly when another muffled voice comes through somewhere behind the right wall, tilting enough to catch the direction without making it obvious. Jungkook follows without looking, shifting and leaning closer by just half an inch, instinctively hovering his body above yours.
His chest rises and falls harder than his usual breathing, eyes flicking around the room, reevaluating everything you’ve terribly miscalculated. “Fuck.” He mutters under his breath.
“You’re overreacting.” Someone says, voice calm and controlled, so much that it makes your stomach twist.
“I’m not overreacting, they went into one of the rooms.” Another voice replies, but it’s sharper this time. Dressed in a worry that doesn’t even try to rival how composed the previous man was.
Jungkook’s hand tightens around the backrest of the couch, leaning his body weight onto his hands above you. Your breath gets caught in your throat, stomach dropping in a way that’s almost unprofessional.
“Which room?” The calmer man asks.
There’s a pause after that, maybe a flick over the keyboard, maybe a shift of screening, you don’t know which. But the soft clicking that’s somehow heard even from where you are is enough for you to freeze beneath the warmth of Jungkook’s body.
“Doesn’t matter, we’re flagging everything.”
Fuck.
Jungkook’s grip stills on you completely, his wide eyes staring wordlessly into the wall as yours are stuck on his chest. Unable to move, unable to speak.
“Do we know who they are?”
“Not yet.”
With that, you exhale slowly, letting out the breath that has been stuck in you ever since the first subtle shift behind the walls. You know this doesn’t give you much time, hell, it would probably be criminal to call whatever this is some time. But right now, you’ll take anything you can. Because everything feels so fucking unavoidable.
“Run it through the system.” The second voice requests. “Faces, behavior, track everything.”
“They won’t make it out without us knowing,” The first voice finishes. You hear the faint scraping of the chairs, footsteps that are closer and closer as time passes by, movement that’s too animatic to be real, it all hits your ear in a hue. Suddenly, the door clicks, and they’re gone just like that.
For a second, it feels like they’re still right behind the wall, their presence burning holes through your body without even catching sight of your eyes. Like they’re still listening, still watching, waiting.
But then, somewhere between the third and fourth breath you exhale, the sound starts fading and fading until they’re finally out of your reach.
But you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, because it’s still not quiet enough. The constellation of Jungkook’s uneven breaths mixed with yours rip through the air until it feels unbearable to exist in the same space anymore.
Because now, your fingers curl tighter against Jungkook’s shirt for a different reason entirely. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes filled with something that indicates he understood everything at exactly the same time as you. And it’s nowhere near controlled.
“They flagged the room.” You whisper, wide eyes looking up at him in a way that causes Jungkook to curse at himself for thinking with his dick in a situation like this.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
Your mind races, trying to recollect everything until they stick together again. “And the system-”
He cuts you off. “It’s already running.”
Your voice drops as you start blinking so fast it hurts. “Shit, Jungkook, what do we do? They fucking saw us.”
You hate how he doesn’t deny it, how he doesn’t even try to soften it. Because it’s there, everything already happened in a way that’s way too ugly to be repairable, way too real to be covered with a lie.
Jungkook calls your name, slow and calculated. “They’re looking for us.”
The way those words land is so much worse than whatever you had registered previously, leading your chest to tighten until it leaves no space for your breath to exist in your lungs. Everything you just did, everything you just heard– You’re not ahead anymore, you’re inside it, you’re caught right in the middle of everything you were told to stay away from.
You make a mental note of torturing yourself for the way your chest flutters when Jungkook’s hand finds yours, grip firm like he’s scared to let you go, like he’s scared something might happen to you.
“We need to move.” He says, eyes scanning around the room for anything that’s even the smallest thread. But when it comes to actually moving, neither of you really act on it.
Because you both know the mission isn’t the only thing at risk anymore.
In order to secure your dream job at the New York Times, you need the biggest scoop of the century. Unmasking Spider-Man should do it. Falling for him definitely won’t.
or
In which you’re willing to do whatever it takes to uncover the identity of New York’s newest superhero. There's only one problem: you might already know him—and you don’t even like him that much.
genre: series. spiderman!au. lowkey college!au. romcom. urban fantasy. action. adventures. newsroom drama/thriller/investigation undertones. slowburn. rivals(??) to friends to lovers. f. c. (s?). a.
contents: reader has an established last name —bear with me ladies: Bell (the ones who get it, get it) and she's highkey workalcoholic and scary af. tatted, pierced, nerd and biker jeongguk !!! (the four horsemen of the apocalypse). namjin are a couple (canonically). taehyung as the guy in the chair (also canonically). hoseok da bus driver (he's a police chief). haegeum!yoongi (!!!!!) as police inspector. mentor/coworker journalist!jimin trying to rizz reader up. i think that's all —all chapters have their own contents/warnings!!
chapters:
⠀ teaser
⠀⠀part one. extra! extra! — april/may 2026
01. the guy in spandex
02. and they were, in fact, weirdos! — 01.05.2026
03. deadline high — 15.05.2026
⠀⠀
⠀⠀part two. the very misterious life of Jeon Jeongguk — TBA
04. caught in 4k
05. the Jeon files
06. one last swing
07. radio silence
⠀⠀
⠀⠀part three. how to unmask a hero — TBA
08. trust me, don't
09. click
10. the scoop of the century
jungkook is actually insane for posting that hooligan biker video. i saw him repost reels of other bikers doing the trend but i didn't expect HIM to do it as well and now im insane. and i badly need biker!jk fics
summary: in the bustling scene of new york city in the early 2000s, a guarded girl who’s spent her life learning not to trust anyone, crosses paths with a rising underground rapper who’s used to getting everything he wants—until her.
themes: smut, sooo so much tension, flirting, namjoon is slightly cocky/a player, but he's down bad, city life, backstory, fluff, adult themes, established relationship, reader is independent, 2000s timeline, slightly possessive joon, he's tatted..., slice of life
warnings: explicit smut, drug use (weed, cigs)
MINORS DNI 18+ (dom!joon, oral f & m, fingering, praise/dirty talk, unprotected sex, cream pie)
word count: 16k
♬⋆.˚ motive - ariana grande & doja cat
october 2006
brooklyn, new york
the bass hit before you even saw the place.
it traveled through the block—low, steady, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes as you turned the corner. the line outside wasn’t long, just a cluster of people pressed against the brick wall, smoke curling into the cold night air, laughter spilling out in bursts. someone had taped a wrinkled flyer to the door, half peeling off.
you paused across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket. another night, another crowd. nothing new. still… you didn’t leave.
a girl walked past you, heels clicking fast against the pavement, speaking loudly into her flip phone. two guys argued about something disruptive and meaningless, shoving each other like it might turn into something more. it was the same energy you’d grown up around—restless, unpredictable, alive in a way that never really let you relax.
but it was home. hardly anything surprised you anymore after spending your whole life in the city. you crossed the street before the pedestrian sign even turned on. all you wanted was a drink and some music after a long day.
once you approached the door, the flyer read, "RAP MONSTER @ 11" and in tiny, almost unnoticeable letters, "KIM NAMJOON" the bouncer barely looked at your id. a quick glance, a nod, then he pulled it open just enough for you to slip inside.
heat hit you first. then the smell—cheap liquor, sweat, something sweet in the air you couldn’t place. the space was smaller than you expected, low ceiling, dim lights casting everything in a hazy red glow. people packed in tight, shoulder to shoulder, bodies swaying to a beat that felt more than heard.
after getting your drink, you moved through the crowd without hesitation, like you’d done a hundred times before. no apologies, no lingering eye contact. just slipping past, carving your own space until you found a spot near the back wall.
from there, you could see everything.
the dj stood hunched over his setup, head bobbing, fingers moving quick and practiced. a couple guys hovered near the stage, hyping each other up, waiting for their turn. someone laughed too loud. someone else spilled a drink and didn’t bother cleaning it.
then, the music shifted.
it wasn’t sudden—but it changed. the kind of change you felt in your chest before you realized why. the beat slowed, heavier now, deliberate. conversations dulled, attention tilting toward the stage without anyone saying a word.
he stepped out like he already owned the room. no big introduction. no announcement. just his presence that seemed to make the chaotic room still. people in the crowd reacted immediately—nods, murmurs, cheers. they knew him.
you didn’t. but you watched.
now there were fine men across new york, but him? he was too handsome to be true, standing on the stage at six-feet tall, muscles swell on his arms and shoulders, ink swirling around them. his eyes were low and sharp, plump lips all but accentuating his features. he wore nothing but a black wife beater and dangling chains that glimmered in the stage light, baggy, dark denim jeans sagging over his spotless sneakers.
he grabbed the mic like it belonged there, like it had always belonged to him. confidence rolled off him easy, not forced, not loud—just there. he said something to the dj, low and quick, then turned back to the crowd, scanning it out of habit more than curiosity.
until his dragon like eyes got caught on you. it wasn’t dramatic. not at first. they just lingered for a second too long.
most people reacted when he looked at them—smiled, waved, tried to be seen. you didn’t. didn’t shift, didn’t straighten up, didn’t pretend you weren’t already looking.
you just… held his gaze. calm. steady. unimpressed.
something flickered across his expression—quick enough that anyone else might’ve missed it. then it was gone, replaced with that same easy confidence as he lifted the mic.
then, the beat dropped.
his voice cut through the room clean and sharp, riding the rhythm like it was second nature. no hesitation, no wasted movement. the crowd fed into it almost instantly—heads nodding, bodies moving, energy building with every bar.
you stayed still. listening. not to the noise, not to the crowd—but to him.
there was something under it. beneath the bravado, beneath the lines meant to hit hard and fast—something quieter, more precise.
your eyes didn’t leave him. and somewhere between one verse and the next, his piercing gaze found yours again.
this time, he didn’t look away first.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the night had gotten colder. or maybe it just felt that way after the heat inside.
the door slammed behind you, bass still leaking out in muffled thumps as you stepped back onto the sidewalk. the crowd had doubled since earlier despite it being hours past midnight—people lingering, arguing, laughing too loud, music and honks bleeding from passing cars. a siren wailed somewhere in the distance, fading in and out like it belonged to the rhythm of the city.
you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and started walking. didn’t look back. didn’t hesitate. just slipped into the current of the street, becoming a part of it.
across the block, tucked just out of the spill of streetlight, namjoon leaned against the brick wall with a cigarette between his fingers. the ember flared when he inhaled, briefly lighting up the sharp line of his jaw before fading back into shadow.
he wasn’t supposed to be out here long. couple people had tried to stop him on the way out—daps, quick conversations, “that set was crazy”—but he’d brushed past most of it. he needed air. needed quiet. or at least, the closest he could get to it.
truth was, he wasn’t thinking about the performance anymore. he exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night.
then he saw you. the same girl he made burning eye contact with inside.
you moved like you had somewhere to be, even if you didn’t. headed forward, pace steady, weaving through the chaos without letting it touch you. someone random called out to you—you didn’t respond. a guy stepped into your path, half-smiling like he was about to say something clever.
you didn’t even slow down, brushing past the guy. just shifted slightly, slipped past him like he wasn’t there.
his mouth twitched, almost a smile. yeah… you were different.
namjoon flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his shoes without taking his eyes off you. for a second, he let himself stay where he was. let you get a little farther. like he was testing something—whether he’d actually let you walk away like everyone else.
he didn’t.
pushing off the wall, he stepped back into the light, cutting through the crowd with ease. people recognized him, tried to catch his attention again, but he wasn’t stopping this time. his focus was already ahead.
you were halfway down the block now, the glow of the subway entrance just starting to come into view. the street thinned out a little there—less noise, less bodies, just the hum of the city settling into something quieter.
he caught up just as you reached the top of the stairs.
“yo.” it wasn’t loud. didn’t need to be.
and for some reason, you stopped. not immediately—but enough to show you heard him. slowly, you turned.
up close, you looked the same as you had inside. calm. composed. like nothing really got under your skin. your eyes moved over him once, quick and assessing, before settling somewhere between indifferent and curious.
“you always leave before the last set?” he asked, voice easy, like you'd already been talking.
a beat passed. “only when i’ve heard enough,” you replied
no attitude. no flirtation. just blatantly honest. it almost made him laugh. he took another step closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to close the distance. “and you heard enough?” he asked.
you gaze held his for a second longer this time. “yeah,” you said. then, after a pause—just slight enough to matter, “i did.”
it wasn’t praise. but it wasn’t exactly dismissal either. something in between. something that lingered in the air.
he nodded once, like he understood more than you actually said. “good,” he murmured.
silence settled between them—not awkward, not rushed. just there. people passed behind him, heading down into the station, the sound of footsteps echoing against the stairs. a train rumbled somewhere below, distant but coming.
you shifted your weight slightly, glancing past him for half a second—toward the entrance, toward wherever you were headed next.
he caught it. of course he did. “lemme walk you down,” he said, already turning slightly toward the stairs like he expected you to follow.
but you didn’t move. “why?” you asked. a simple question. it wasn't suspicious—just… direct.
he looked back at you, something faintly amused flickering in his expression. “‘cause you look like the type to disappear if i don’t,” he said.
and that almost earned him a reaction. almost.
your lips pressed together, just briefly, like you were deciding whether that was clever or just another line you heard before.
“…and?” you prompted.
he held your gaze, steady this time. no performance. no crowd. just him. “and i’m not tryna let that happen.”
another pause. longer now. the train below screeched against the tracks as it pulled into the station, the sound rising up through the stairwell between you.
for a second, it felt like the city was waiting too. then, you turned. not away—just toward the stairs.
“don’t slow me down,” you said, starting your descent.
and this time— he smiled for real, perfect teeth with two identical dimples coming clear into display before following you down the steps.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the air changed as soon as you stepped underground. cooler. damp. the noise from the street above dulled into a distant hum, replaced by the hollow echo of footsteps and the metallic screech of a train settling on the tracks below.
you didn’t slow down. and neither did namjoon—but now, he was close enough to notice things he hadn’t before.
the way you moved wasn’t for attention. no extra sway, no hesitation, no checking to see who was watching. it was natural. efficient. like you learned a long time ago that the city didn’t wait for anyone.
still… people looked at you. of course they did. and now that he was walking behind you—really looking—he got it.
it wasn’t just that you were pretty. it was quieter than that. the kind of beauty you couldn't see all at once. it sat in the details—the set of your shoulders, the way your hair fell just enough to frame your face, the calm in your expression like nothing around you could shake it.
you were untouchable.
he exhaled softly through his nose, almost amused with himself. yeah… this was new.
he caught up behind you as you reached the turnstiles. you pulled out a metrocard, swiping it in one smooth motion without breaking stride despite his presence filling the cold air around you with warmth and the smell of cigarettes and cologne.
“lemme guess,” he said, leaning casually against the metal bar as he waited his turn. “you grew up 'round here.”
you glanced at him, just briefly. “what gave it away?”
“everything,” he said simply, pushing through after you.
that got the slightest reaction—a flicker in your eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
you walked side by side now, the platform stretching out in front of you. a few people waited scattered along the yellow line, some pacing, some staring down the tunnel like they could make the next train to come faster.
for a moment, neither of you spoke. he didn’t rush to fill it. he was watching you again—more carefully this time. trying to figure you out.
you weren't giving him anything easy. no nervous energy, no curiosity you couldn’t control. even now, walking next to a guy you'd never met before, a known local rapper, you looked… steady.
like you trusted yourself more than the situation. he respected that. more than he expected to.
“you always this quiet?” he asked after a beat.
“i talk when there’s something to say,” you replied.
he huffed a quiet laugh. “so i haven't said nothing worth respondin' to yet?”
you looked at him then—really looked this time. “not yet."
that should’ve checked him. but if anything, it pulled him in more. namjoon nodded slowly, like he accepted the challenge.
“alright,” he murmured. “that’s fair.”
another silence—but this one felt different. less distant. like something was building under it.
a train rushed past on the opposite track, wind whipping through the station, loud enough to drown out everything for a few seconds. your hair shifted slightly with it, brushing against your cheek.
without thinking, his eyes followed the movement. then you. he looked away first this time. not because he wanted to—because he caught himself.
damn. it wasn’t just attraction anymore. that was the problem. it was the way you carried yourself. the way you didn’t bend to anything around you. the way you looked at him like you already knew exactly who he was—and wasn’t impressed by it.
and somehow… still stayed. that didn’t happen to him. ever.
“what’s your name?” he asked, voice quieter now.
you hesitated—not long, but enough to mean something. "y/n"
he repeated it once under his breath, like he was committing it to memory. “yeah,” he said softly. “that fits you.”
you didn’t ask for his. of course you didn’t. he almost smiled. another train announcement crackled overhead, distorted and barely understandable. people shifted closer to the platform’s edge.
your train. he could feel it in the way you subtly repositioned, attention flicking down the tunnel.
time was running out.
he straightened slightly, running a hand over the back of his neck before looking at you again. “i’ma need your number,” he said.
not can i have it. it wasn't a question.
you raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “need?” you repeated.
namjoon met your gaze, steady. “yeah,” he said. “’cause i’m not running into you like this again.”
you held his eyes for a long second. weighing him. measuring the difference between confidence and arrogance. between a possibly reused line—and the truth.
the train lights appeared in the distance, growing brighter.
“i don’t give my number out like that,” you said finally.
“i figured,” he replied. no pushback. no pressure.
that surprised you. just slightly. the train roared closer now, brakes screeching as it pulled into the station. wind rushed between you again, louder this time, forcing a half step back.
doors slid open, people started moving. you glanced at the train—then back at him, decision made. despite carrying little to no interest in seeing a man— he was cute. and he was a rapper. okay, so maybe he was insanely hot. but you wouldn’t admit that.
“lemme see your phone,” you said.
he didn’t hesitate. pulled it out, flipped it open, handed it to you, licking his lips ever so slightly in satisfaction. you typed quickly, efficient as everything else you did. saved it, then handed it back.
no smile. no extra words. just; “don’t make me regret it.” and then you turned, stepping onto the train without looking back.
the doors slid shut. and just like that—you were gone.
namjoon stood there for a second, staring at his phone like it might disappear if he blinked. then he looked up at the train as it pulled away, something unfamiliar settling in his chest.
not excitement. and not ego like he usually felt. something quieter. something he couldn't quite pin down. he glanced down at the screen again—your name staring back at him.
and for the first time that night— he wasn’t thinking about the next move. he was thinking about you.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
namjoon didn’t wait long. didn’t overthink it. didn’t ask anyone what they thought. didn’t play it cool.
by the time he got back to his place—kicking his sneakers off, tossing his jacket somewhere he wouldn’t remember in the morning—he already had his phone in his hand.
he stared at your name for maybe half a second before he hit call. it rang once. twice. he leaned back against the wall, one hand dragging over his face, already smirking to himself like he knew something you didn’t.
three times—
“hello?” your voice was calmer than he expected. it wasn't tired or curious. it was steady, like you already knew it was him.
“damn,” he said, a quiet smirk in his voice. “you answer fast.”
a pause. “maybe i just don't have anything better to do right now,” you replied. dry. casual.
he let out a soft laugh. “yeah? i don’t believe that.”
“you don’t have to.”
he pushed himself off the wall, pacing slowly now, energy still running through him from earlier. “nah,” he said, “you don’t seem like the type to sit around bored.”
“and you got all that from one conversation?” you asked.
“one look,” he corrected.
that almost landed. almost.
“careful,” you said. "you sound like you do this a lot.”
“i do,” he admitted easily. no hesitation or shame in his tone. then, softer— “but not like this.”
that shifted something in the phone static between you. just slightly. there was a pause on the other end—not awkward, just… measured. like you were deciding whether to believe him.
he didn’t rush to fill it this time.
“...so you call every girl right after you meet her?” you asked finally.
there it was. he smiled. “only the ones i know i'd regret not calling.”
he could hear your breathing faintly through the phone. could almost picture you—leaning back somewhere, expression unreadable on your pretty face, eyes focused on nothing while you processed him.
he lowered his voice just a little. “you always this hard to read?”
“only when someone’s trying too hard to figure me out.”
he laughed under his breath. “too hard?”
“yeah.” a beat. “you’re a little obvious.”
now that hit his ego—but in a way he liked. “alright,” he said, nodding to himself. “so what you want me to do instead?”
“nothing,” you said simply. “be normal.”
he scoffed lightly. “i was being normal.”
“no you weren’t.”
“yeah i was.”
“no,” you said, a hint—just a hint—of amusement slipping through, “you were performing.”
that stopped him. not entirely, but it was enough. he leaned back against the counter now, quieter. more real. “…you caught that, huh.”
“i catch a lot,” you said.
he believed you. that's what made this different. he ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly before speaking again.
“alright,” he said. “then i’ll stop messin' with you.”
a small pause. "good,” you replied.
“so let me take you out.”
straight to it. no buildup this time. no games. on the other end, you shifted slightly—he could hear it in the faint rustle of fabric, the way your breathing changed just a little.
“you move fast,” you said, a slight scoff coated in your reply.
“you move like you're gonna disappear,” he countered.
that landed. because he was kind of right. you didn’t respond right away. because in your whole life, no one had ever been able to read an inch of you.
he could feel you thinking again. measuring him the same way you had outside the station.
“where?” you asked finally.
his smile came back, slower this time. "see, that sound like a yes.”
“it sounds like a question,” you corrected.
he laughed softly. “alright… fair.” he glanced out the window, the city still alive outside—lights on, cars passing, people somewhere out there living whole stories he didn’t know. then, back to the moment.
“somewhere you ain’t expecting,” he said. “not too loud. wanna hear you talk.”
“assuming i will,” you replied.
“you will,” he said easily with confidence—but it was softer now. less show, more certainty.
there was another pause. longer this time. “…maybe,” you said.
and there it was. it wasn't a yes. but it wasn't a no. exactly where you wanted to leave him.
he shook his head, smiling to himself. “you do that on purpose,” he said.
“do what?”
“make it unclear.”
“maybe i just don’t like giving people what they want right away.”
he pushed off the counter again, pacing slowly. “yeah,” he murmured. “i’m starting to see that." then, his voice even lower—“i like it.”
those words lingered. he could feel it through the silence that followed.
“text me,” you said finally. "we’ll see.”
and before he could say anything else—the line went dead. he pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it for a second before letting out a quiet laugh. “we’ll see,” he repeated under his breath.
but he already knew. he was seeing you again. one way or another.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the city looked different the next night. or maybe you did.
same streets. same noise. same blur of headlights and voices and music spilling out of somewhere it shouldn’t be. a group argued on the corner like it might turn into something more. laughter cut through it. a car sped past too fast, bass rattling the windows of everything it passed.
nothing new. but still— you seemed to have noticed more than you usually did. or maybe you were just more aware of it.
your phone sat quiet in your pocket, but you checked it more than once anyway. no new messages. no missed calls.
but you didn’t think about it. didn't let yourself. you adjusted the strap on your bag and kept walking, the familiar glow of the subway entrance coming into view ahead. the same one as last night.
routine. safe in its own way, despite your surroundings.
a car rolled slowly down the block beside you.
you didn’t look at it at first. cars always slowed down. people always looked. it didn’t mean anything. but this one stayed, matching your pace. then—a soft honk. it wasn't impatient like most new york honks.
you turned your head slightly. and the window was already down. the car was loud, low, and silver, the rest of the windows as black as the night sky. and there he was.
one inked arm resting along the wheel, the other hanging loose out the window, looking at you like he’d been expecting to find you right there.
like this was planned. a slow smile pulled at his mouth. “lemme guess,” he called out, voice carrying easy over the noise of the street. “you ‘bout to disappear on me again?”
you stopped walking. your eyes moved over him once—quick, familiar now—before settling into that same calm expression he was already starting to recognize.
“you follow all your dates?” you asked.
“date?” he echoed with a smirk pulling at his plump lips, like he liked the sound of that a little too much. “you skipped a few steps.”
“you’re the one in a car,” you shrugged. “feels like a setup.”
he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “nah,” he said. “if it was a setup, i wouldn’t have made it this obvious.”
that almost got you. almost. you shifted your weight slightly, glancing past him for a second—toward the subway entrance, toward the stairs you already knew by memory.
then back at him. "you been waiting?” you asked.
“maybe,” he said.
you gaze held his for a second longer than you needed to. “why?” you asked.
he tilted his head, studying you right back now. “‘cause a girl like you shouldn’t be taking the train this late,” he said. “not 'round here.”
there was something in his tone that hadn’t been there the night before. it was still smooth, tone full of confidence. but it was almost quieter, like he was performing less.
you caught it. but it didn't soften you. you almost rolled your eyes. “i've been doing fine my whole life."
"i’m sure you have,” he said. “don’t mean i gotta let you keep doing it.”
a small beat passed; one that could’ve gone the wrong way. easily. but the way he said it—no edge, no demand, no room left for you to decide what it meant.
you stepped a little closer to the car, just enough to close the distance, but not close enough to commit to his wish.
“you always try to fix things that aren’t broken?” you asked, eyes narrowing.
he looked at you for a second before shaking his head slightly. “nah,” he said. “just the things i don’t like.”
those words almost caught you. but you refused to show it. a car passed behind him, headlights sweeping across your face for a split second, catching the softness you didn’t realize slipped through.
but it was gone just as fast. “you don’t even know me,” you said.
“i know enough,” he replied.
“from what?”
he leaned his arm further out the window, watch gleaming from the street light above, eyes still on yours. “the way you walk like nobody can tell you nothin’,” he said. “the way you look at people like you already figured ‘em out.”
a small pause. “…and the way you not on that train yet.”
your breath hitched—barely. but he still caught it. god, of course he did.
silence stretched between you, filled with the noise of the street, the distant rumble of another train pulling in below.
you looked at the subway entrance again. then, back at him, weighing the gravity of the tension between you like you always did.
“persuasive much?” you asked.
he smiled— dimples appearing slowly this time, flashy teeth on display. “only when i mean it.”
another pause filled the cold night air between you before namjoon leaned over to the passenger side and pushed the door slightly open from the inside.
he didn’t push you to get in. instead, he just kept watching you, studying every inch of your face in search of an expression that was different from your typical, unconcerned one that intrigued him so much. he was waiting, putting the choice in your hands.
“you do realize i can still take the subway,” you said.
“yeah,” he replied easily. his tone had consisted of anything but pressure.
“hm,” you teased. “well i might not let you out once you’re in.”
he met your gaze steadily. “then i guess i gotta make sure you don’t change your mind.”
those words almost had you. you shook your head, like you were already questioning the decision you were about to make.
then you stepped forward, acrylic nails wrapping around the door handle and slid into the passenger seat of the rapper’s car.
the door shut with a quiet thud, but still, namjoon didn’t move right away. he didn’t start the car. just sat there for a second too long, glancing over at you— like he had to confirm you were actually there. like you could suddenly disappear again.
the smell of your perfume and shampoo filled his head, and it almost made him dizzy.
“…you nervous?” he asked teasingly, voice low.
you leaned back into his leather seat, calm as ever without even a slight change in your demeanor. “not even a little,” you said.
a smile tugged at his mouth as he finally turned the key into the ignition. “good,” he murmured.
because he was starting to realize— he might be the one that was.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the drive into the city felt different from everything that happened before. less noise— or maybe it was just a different kind.
the chaos didn’t falter— it never did. it just… sharpened. the towering buildings of manhattan stretched over the windows of the car. the city lights were brighter. streets were narrower. people moving like they had somewhere important to be, no matter how late it was.
you observed it all through the window, elbow resting slightly against the door, fingers brushing your cheek. the colorful glow of storefronts and passing headlights caught your features in pieces. you hardly came to manhattan— everything you needed was in brooklyn; but you couldn’t deny the beauty of it.
he noticed it. it was hard for him not to.
he was driving with one veiny hand on the steering wheel, while the other rested lazily near the center console, glancing over at you more than he should’ve. his eyes took in every last one of your features, like he was trying to understand a feeling he couldn’t quite make out yet.
“always this quiet in a car?” he asked.
you didn’t look at him. “only when i’m thinking.”
“should that worry me?”
“depends on what i’m thinking about.”
he smirked before diverting his eyes from you and back onto the road. “a’right… i’ll leave that alone then.”
but he didn’t stop wondering.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
he didn’t take you to some big-name spot that was flashy or required reservations weeks in advance. it didn’t have someone at the door approving outfits before permitting entrance.
instead, he pulled his car up outside a restaurant that was tucked away, hidden between brownstones and apartments on the lower west side, warm light spilling onto the dark sidewalk.
it was the kind of place you would only know about if someone took you there.
before you could even react, he got out first, walking around the car without any rush, opening your door before you could do it yourself.
you raised an eyebrow slightly as you got out, the heels of your boots clacking against the pavement as you stood, his height towering over you. “you do this for all your girls?”
he shut the door behind you, leaning in a little closer— not close enough to crowd you, but just enough to make the distance feel smaller.
“no,” he said quietly. “you still think i got a lot of those?”
you held his gaze sharply. “don’t you?”
a beat passed while he took a few lingering seconds to look at you. then he shook his head.
“not tonight.”
the words lingered in the air as a hint of shock almost flashed across your face. he swore that he saw it in your eyes. you didn’t respond, but you didn’t look away from him either.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
inside, the air was warm, low music playing in the background— something slow and older. it was the kind of place where people exchanged conversations that never left the restaurant.
you sat across from each other, only a small table causing distance between you two.
and for the first time since you met him—
there had been nowhere else to look.
no crowd or distant arguments. no distractions.
just him. and you.
a server came and went. water was poured, menus opened and closed. namjoon only took a quick glance as his before concentrating his focus on you.
“you already know what you want?” you asked, your menu still on display in front of you.
he leaned back, one arm resting along the back of his chair while his eyes never left yours. “yeah,” he shrugged.
your expression didn’t change. “confident,” you murmured.
“i’m sure,” he corrected. although it felt like he might’ve been talking about something else.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
dinner came, but neither of you paid attention at first. the conversation started slow— simple things.
“i grew up in the bronx,” you said after he had asked you. it wasn’t normal for you to open up to quickly.
“the bronx huh?” a smirk you were growing familiar with tugged at his lips. “that’s why you’re untouchable.”
you fought a laugh by scoffing instead, but he sensed it. he wasn’t wrong. “and how about you?”
“not too far from you, actually,” he replied. “harlem.”
you nodded like that made sense and took another bite of your food. you couldn’t deny, you were intrigued. surprisingly, you had never been out with a guy from harlem. most of them were from the bronx or brooklyn. but you wouldn’t tell him that.
“been into music since i was born,” he said, “i wasn’t interested in anything else.”
“when did you start making music?” you asked, trying hard to hide your tone of rising interest.
“when i was eleven,” he confessed. “my parents hated it.”
you almost laughed. “but it’s new york.”
“exactly what i told ‘em,” he smiled this time like you got him exactly. his gaze never averted from you.
you two continued to get to know each other more, what you liked and what you didn’t like. but the more you spoke, the more namjoon listened. really listened. and the more he did—the something shifted.
because you weren’t just guarded. you were sharp. observant in a way that made him feel like you saw through everything he said—and chose what to believe.
he wasn’t used to that. and he liked it more than he should’ve.
at some point, you said something—quiet, almost offhand—and he just… looked at you. longer than normal.
you noticed it immediately. “what?” you asked.
he shook his head slightly, almost like he was pulling himself back. “nothin’,” he said.
you didn’t buy it. “then why are you staring at me like that?”
he leaned forward slightly now, elbows resting near the edge of the table. “no one’s ever looked at me the way you do,” he said.
there was no smile when he said it. there wasn’t any teasing in his tone. just truth.
your expression didn’t change, but something in your eyes did. “how do i look at you?” you asked.
he held your look intensely, sharp eyes boring into yours. “like you already decided what i am,” he said. “and you’re waiting to see if i prove you wrong.”
a brief silence stretched. you didn’t deny it. didn’t confirm it either. all you did was study him right back.
“…and what do you think you are?” you asked.
that question sat between them. namjoon could’ve answered it a hundred different ways. the way people expected and the way he usually did.
but instead—he shrugged slightly. “i don’t know,” he admitted.
that was new for both of you.
your eyes softened, just barely. “you’re honest when you want to be,” you said.
“i’m honest right now,” he smiled, just a little. “but don’t get used to it.”
that brought something out of you. it wasn’t a full smile, but it was surely close.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
by the time you left the restaurant, the city had quieted—just slightly. enough to notice.
namjoon walked you back to the car, slower this time. like he was never in a rush. he wasn’t putting on some kind of performance to impress you. he was just giving you his presence.
and somewhere between the restaurant door and the passenger seat—he realized something he hadn’t let himself think yet.
this wasn’t just another girl. and it wasn’t just attraction. fuck, it was something so much more than that for him.
it was the way you made him pause. made him think. it’s like your existence in front of him alone made him want to be… different, without even asking. without any commitment.
he opened the door for you again.
you stopped before getting in, turning to face him. “you’re not what i expected,” you said.
he tilted his head slightly. “that a good thing?”
you considered it. “…i don’t know know yet.” honest and blatant. like always.
“yeah,” he nodded slowly. “me neither.”
byt as you got in—and as he walked back around the car, he knew one thing for sure.
he was already trying to figure out how to see you again.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the city felt quieter on the way back. not silent—because it could never be that—just softer. like everything had settled into itself. streetlights stretched long across the pavement, storefronts half-closed, the rush of earlier replaced with something slower, more intimate.
inside the car, it was even quieter. it wasn't empty, it was just the kind of quiet that sat between two people in the late hours of the night.
namjoon drove with one hand on the wheel again, the other resting near the console, fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm of the music he was playing at a volume lower than usual, due to your presence. every now and then, his eyes drifted toward you—quick glances at first.
then longer. you noticed, of course.
“you keep looking at me like that,” you said, still facing forward, voice calm.
“like what?” he asked.
you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch him in the act. “like you forgot how to drive.”
that pulled a low laugh out of him, baritone almost vibrating the space between you. “i didn’t forget,” he said. “i just got distracted.”
“by what?”
he didn’t answer right away. didn’t rush it. he just let the moment sit while the car rolled through a red light turning green, the glow shifting across your face again.
then— “by you,” he said simply.
you looked away first this time, gaze quickly averting to the window. but not before he caught it—the smallest change in your expression. not a smile, not quite. something softer.
“you say that to everyone?” you asked.
“nah,” he said. “everyone don’t look like you.”
and those words lingered the moment they left his mouth. long enough to feel real. to feel like he truly meant it.
you crossed one leg over the other slightly, settling deeper into the seat, still looking out at the passing streets. “pretty isn’t rare,” you said.
“yeah,” he agreed. a beat of silence passed. “but you are.”
you didn’t answer right away. didn’t deflect it or challenge it like you normally would. just let the sentence sit between you, heavier than the others.
your fingers brushed lightly against your thigh, almost absentminded, like you needed something to ground you for a second. namjoon noticed it too. he was noticing everything when it came to you.
“you always this smooth?” you asked after a moment, quieter now.
he smiled to himself, eyes still on the road. “only when it’s true.”
“…you’re too consistent,” you said.
“i’m serious,” he corrected.
that made you glance back at him again. this time, you really looked at him, eyes taking in every inch of his being. he didn’t look away or soften it with a joke.
just held you there for a second too long, and the tension in his car shifted. it wasn't playful anymore. it felt deeper than that.
you broke it first. "you don’t even know what i like,” you said.
he raised an eyebrow slightly. “i know a few things.”
“like what?”
he slowed slightly at a stop sign, turning the wheel with one palm, casual but controlled. “you don’t like loud places,” he said. “you don’t like people in your space unless you let ‘em there.”
a glance at you. “you don’t trust easy.”
your expression didn’t change—but your attention sharpened. “and?” you asked.
he smirked faintly. “and you like when someone proves you wrong.”
you shook your head slightly, but there was something there—something almost amused. “you think you got me figured out."
“think i’m starting to,” he replied.
“careful,” you murmured. “you might be wrong.”
he glanced at you again, slower this time. “i hope so.”
that caught you. “why?” you asked.
“‘cause then i get to learn more.”
silence again. but it was warmer now. closer. the car slowed as he turned onto your block. there was less light, your street offering some sort of quietness and familiarity.
“right here,” you said, nodding slightly ahead.
he pulled up smoothly, easing the car to a stop along the curb. and for a second—neither of you moved. the engine idled softly below you. a distant dog barked somewhere down the street. a window above you flickered with tv light. it was all normal. except it didn’t exactly feel normal.
he looked over at you. really looked this time with the car finally at a stop. it wasn't a quick glance or a passing moment.
he just looked at you. taking you in up close and still. right in front of him. “...you’re even prettier up close,” he said quietly.
normally, you would scoff at a line like that, but there was no smirk. no teasing in his tone. nothing but the truth. you held his gaze without hiding it. "yeah?" you said softly.
"yeah."
a small moment of silence passed. "good."
that surprised him. he let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. "see,” he murmured, leaning back just a little, “you do that on purpose.”
“do what?” you asked.
“act like you don’t hear it… then let it hit anyway.”
you tilted your head slightly, studying him again. “maybe i just like hearing it twice.”
that made him smiled for real, slow and genuine. “yeah,” he said. “i can do that.”
another pause. longer this time. the kind that made leaving the night feel like a choice instead of a habit.
your hand moved to the door handle—but you didn’t open it yet. “you gonna call me again?” you asked.
it wasn't needy or hopeful like most girls he took out. it never was with you. you were just simply asking, like it wouldn't bother you if he didn't.
he didn’t hesitate. “yeah,” he said. “i am.”
you nodded slightly, like you already expected that answer. then finally opened the door, stepping out into the night air.
but before you closed it, you leaned back in just a little, resting your hand against the door frame.
"don’t mess it up,” you said. soft. it was almost teasing. and it was almost serious.
then you shut the door and walked away, your hips swaying effortlessly with every step. he watched until you disappeared inside.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the hallway smelled like someone’s cooking. something warm and familiar. it clung to the air as you made your way up the stairs, keys already in your hand, mind somewhere else entirely after a long day of work.
you hadn’t slept much. not because you couldn’t. because you kept replaying things you didn’t mean to.
the way he looked at you. the way he spoke when he wasn’t trying.
the way he said your name like he’d already decided it mattered to him.
you reached your door before coming to a complete pause. something was there. at first, you thought it was just something left behind—maybe a package, maybe one of your neighbors’ things misplaced.
but when you looked closer—
flowers. a bouquet, wrapped simply. no over-the-top colors, no loud arrangement. like whoever picked them actually thought about it. they already came in a clear glass vase, an intricate design carved into it.
you didn’t move right away, you just stared at them. hoping for the feeling to pass.
it didn’t. slowly, you bent down, picking them up. turning them slightly in your hands like they might explain themselves.
no note. of course not. he didn’t need one.
you let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh—but softer, more confused than amused. “...you’re doing a lot,” you murmured under your breath.
you unlocked your door, stepping inside, setting your bag off to the side before walking further in with the flowers still in your hand.
your place was quiet like it always was. besides the now faint sounds of the city humming lowly beyond the glass windows, it was still.
you stood there for a second, just holding them. like you didn’t know what to do next. this wasn’t normal. not for you. not like this.
you set them on the counter carefully, adjusting them slightly without realizing you were doing it. your fingers brushed the petals, light, almost cautious.
then you stepped back, looking at them again. and suddenly felt it. that unfamiliar, uncomfortable—something.
you reached for your phone almost immediately. then you stopped. lowered it again. what were you even supposed to say?
long, stretching seconds of silence passed before you picked it back up, scrolling to his name and stared at it.
he’d been the one calling. the one showing up. the one setting the pace. not you. it was never you.
your thumb hovered over the call button. “…it’s just a call,” you said to yourself quietly. then pressed it before you could think too much about it.
it rang. once. twice. you started pacing without realizing, free hand brushing against your arm like you needed something to do with it.
three—
“yeah?” his voice. low. s little rougher than before—like you caught him off guard. that alone threw you off.
“…you sound surprised,” you said, trying to keep your tone even.
there was a pause, followed by a quiet, knowing exhale. “i am,” he admitted. “you don’t usually call first.”
you leaned against the counter, eyes flicking toward the flowers again. “i don’t usually have a reason to.”
a beat passed, muffled static filling the line. “…so what’s the reason?” he asked. there it was. he was always so direct.
you hesitated, just for a second too long enough to annoy yourself. “you sent something,” you said finally.
on the other end, you could practically hear his smile. “yeah,” he said. “you got ‘em.”
not a question. it never was with him. you rolled your eyes slightly, even though he couldn’t see it. “you couldn’t even leave a note?” you asked.
“i figured you’d know it was me.”
“that’s not the point.”
“then what is?”
you pushed off the counter, pacing again. “i just—” you stopped yourself, shaking your head slightly. “it’s a lot.”
a brief wave of silence took over the line. he wasn't offended or shocked. he was just listening. “…too much?” he asked, quieter now.
that made you stop walking, eyes landing on the flowers that now sat on your kitchen counter. they didn’t feel like too much. at all. that was the problem.
“…no,” you said after a second. “just… unexpected.”
“you don’t like unexpected?”
you exhaled softly, arms crossing loosely. “i like knowing what i’m dealing with.”
he let out a low chuckle. “yeah… i’m starting to get that.”
your lips pressed together slightly, fighting something that almost felt like a smile. “you don’t gotta do all that,” you said, softer now. “the car, the dinner, now this…”
you trailed off, not finishing the thought. didn’t say i’m not used to it. or not it’s getting to me. you couldn't tell him that.
he filled the silence—but not in the way you expected. “i wanted to,” he said. simple. no performance.
that stayed with you. as much as you couldn't bear to admit it. you didn’t respond right away. your fingers brushed lightly against the petals again.
“…they’re nice,” you admitted. quiet. it was almost reluctant. but it was real.
“yeah?” he said. he didn't joke about your reaction or make it bigger than it was.
“yeah.” a small pause. then—“don’t get used to me saying that.”
that pulled a soft laugh out of him. “alright,” he said. “i’ll take what i can get.”
silence settled again—but this time it wasn’t awkward. it was just full of something new.
you leaned back against the counter, phone pressed lightly to your ear. “…so what, this your way of keeping me from disappearing?”
“somethin' like that.”
“you think flowers are gonna do it?”
he didn’t hesitate. “no.”
that caught you off guard once again. "...no?"
“nah,” he said. a beat. then, his voice lower—“but it’s a start.”
you felt that. and you hated how much you did.
you shook your head slightly, looking down at the floor. “…you’re doing a good job so far,” you said before you could stop yourself.
silence passed again. “i know,” he replied. confident like always. but softer than before.
you let out a quiet breath, something shifting in your chest you didn’t quite want to name yet. “…don’t get too cocky,” you muttered.
“too late.”
that earned him a real reaction—a small, quiet laugh you didn’t mean to let out. the first real laugh you ever gave him. it was small, but this time—he heard it. clearly.
and didn’t say anything about it. which somehow made it worse. —or better. you weren't sure yet.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
it was the next day when your phone had buzzed, an hour after your shift ended.
namjoon: you free tonight?
you stared at it longer than you meant to.
you: depends
a minute passed.
namjoon: on what?
you: what you got planned
his answer came quick this time.
namjoon: trust me
you rolled your eyes slightly… but you were already getting ready.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
namjoon didn’t take you somewhere crowded. didn't take you to eat or anywhere you'd expect. instead, he drove—further than before. past the noise, past the tighter streets, until the city opened up just enough to breathe.
he pulled over near a quiet overlook, the skyline stretching out in front of you. lights scattered across the distance, glowing against the dark like something untouchable.
for once—the city wasn’t loud. it was more than chaos and people scrambling to get their lives together. it just… existed.
you stepped out of the car first this time, walking a few steps ahead before stopping near the edge, arms loosely crossing as you took it in. “…you picked this?” you asked.
he came up beside you, slower. “yeah.”
you glanced at him briefly. “…it’s nice.”
that was as close to a compliment as he’d gotten out of you in a while.
he smiled to himself. “told you to trust me.”
you didn't argue against that this time.
you leaned against the low railing, side by side now. close—but not touching.
he pulled out a blunt, wrapping the end tighter between his fingers before extending it out on his big palm, offering it you.
you took it without hesitation. that said more than anything. your fingers brushed as he lit it for you. the flame flickered between you two for a second—brief, warm—before disappearing again.
you took a few drags, smoke drifting up into the night air, dissolving into nothing before passing it to him, the end coated with lip gloss. namjoon took it up to his mouth, puffing into it. your lips making indirect contact.
for a while—you both didn’t speak. didn’t need to. the quiet between you wasn’t empty anymore. it was… full.
“you always this thoughtful?” you asked after a while, voice softer now.
he glanced at you. “you always notice?”
“only when it’s real.”
he nodded slightly, looking back out at the skyline. “it is,” he said. a pause. then—“you gotta question everything i do?"
you let out a quiet breath, watching the smoke leave your lips. “i do,” you said simply, taking another hit. “that’s how i don’t get played.”
that made him look at you again. his brown eyes studying every fraction of your unreadable expression. “and you think i’m playing you?”
you met his gaze. “could be.”
it was honest, like always. he respected that. “…i’m not,” he said.
there wasn't smile. it wasn't enhanced with charm. just complete truth. you studied him for a second, like you were trying to catch something in his expression. but there was nothing to catch.
that unsettled you more than anything else.
“you don’t seem like the type to slow down for anyone,” you said quietly.
“i’m not,” he admitted.
silence swirled into the air between the both of you before you answered. "then why me?”
that question sat heavier than the others. he didn’t answer right away. instead, he stepped a little closer—not enough to touch, just enough that you could feel the shift.
“‘cause you’re not like anyone i’ve met,” he confessed.
your breath slowed—just slightly. “you barely know me."
“i know how you move,” he said. “how you think.” a pause. “know you don’t let people get this close.”
his eyes dropped, just briefly—to your lips. then back up. “and you’re letting me.”
that pulled some knot inside your stomach. because he was right. you didn’t step back. didn't look away or stop him.
but you didn’t give in either.
“you’re a little too confident,” you murmured.
“not confident,” he said softly. “certain.”
that word lingered between you two, the space feeling incredibly smaller now, the city in front of you fading into nothing.
the blunt burned low between your fingers, almost forgotten. “so what happens if you’re wrong?” you asked quietly.
he leaned in just slightly. not touching. at least, not yet. “then you’ll tell me."
“and if i don’t?”
his voice dropped. “then i’ll figure it out.”
your breath caught—barely. but it was enough for the both of you to notice.
and suddenly, there it was. that moment. the kind that stretched a minute too long. where neither of you moved—but neither of you pulled away.
his hand lifted slightly, almost like he was going to touch your face—then stopped. waiting. giving you the chance to shut it down.
but you didn’t. your eyes flicked to his lips. then back up.
that was all it took. he leaned in—slow. careful. like one wrong move would break everything between you. like he was giving you every second to change your mind.
you didn’t move or step back. but you didn't close the distance either. just stayed there—breathing the same air now. your nose filled with weed, cologne, and warm air against the cold autumn night.
close enough to feel it. close enough to know exactly what would happen if either of you moved an inch more.
but then you turned your head slightly. not fully away, but just enough. “…you move too fast," your voice quieter than before.
but you didn’t step back. you had every chance to create space, but you couldn't seem to break it.
namjoon stayed there for a second longer. close. then exhaled softly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “yeah,” he murmured. “but you ain’t stopping me.”
that almost made you smile, a curve tugging at the end of your lips. you finally leaned back just a little, creating the smallest bit of distance again—but the tension didn’t leave.
it stayed. sat between you like a third person. unfinished. neither of you mentioned it.
but as you stood there, side by side again—both of you knew.
next time? you wouldn’t stop.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
the text came two nights later.
namjoon: i got a set tomorrow in flatbush. you should come.
it was simple. it was direct. you stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. you already knew what you were going to say.
you: i'm busy
sent. you locked your phone right after, flipping it shut like that settled it. like that meant you weren't going.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
but the next night—you were standing outside the venue anyway.
a bit bigger than the last one. louder, somehow. music spilled out into the street, people crowded near the entrance, energy thick and restless.
you adjusted your jacket, glancing up at the door. “…just for a little,” you murmured to yourself.
not for him. you told yourself that twice. three times. then you went in.
inside was packed. hotter than before, bodies moving tight together, lights low and flickering. the dj was already going, hyping the room, voices rising and falling with the beat.
you slipped through the crowd like you always did—quiet, unnoticed unless someone was really looking.
he was already on stage, mid-set. his presence commanding the room like it belonged to him, deep voice moving fast in the mic and through the speakers.
you stayed toward the back this time. you didn’t move closer. you didn't want to make it obvious. you just watched.
he was in it. sweat dripping down his body, highlighting his skin and muscles, his short hair damp. he wore a leather jacket, glimmering chain hanging around his neck. his jeans were ripped, a belt looped around it lazily as the hem of his supreme boxers were on display. he was locked in, focused, feeding off the crowd, every line sharper than the last. people were reacting, shouting, moving with him. but suddenly, his attention shifted.
just slightly. like it was instinct. his eyes moved across the room— and landed on you. everything else blurred for a second.
not the music or his performance. just everything around, focusing on his gaze on you entirely.
standing there like you hadn’t told him you weren't coming. like you hadn’t meant to be there.
but you were. and you were watching him again, almost the same way as the first night you ever saw him. calm and focused, seeing more than everybody else in the room.
his mouth curved—real this time. not for the crowd. for you. it threw him off for half a second.
then he leaned into it, his energy shifted—subtle, but there. more alive. more intentional. like he had something to prove now.
not to the room.
to you.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
by the time namjoon's set ended, the energy was high—people crowding near the stage, calling his name, trying to get his attention.
he barely entertained it. his eyes were already searching.
finding you again.
and this time—he didn’t wait.
outside, the night air hit different. cooler. louder in a distant way. you had just stepped away from the door, ready to slip back into the street like you always did—
“thought you were busy.”
his voice came from behind you. it was close. closer than before. you turned—and he was already there. no space this time, leaving barely any distance.
his presence felt… heavier now. more certain. but still, you didn’t look surprised.
“you believe everything i say?” you asked.
he stepped closer. it wasn't enough to trap you—enough that you'd move if you wanted space, but close to the point of his familiar scent of weed and cologne almost taking your concentration fully away.
you didn’t move.
“nah,” he said. “just wanted to see if you’d show up anyway.”
your eyes flicked up to his. “…and?”
a beat.
“knew you would.”
that should’ve annoyed you. but it didn’t. there was something different about him tonight. his hand brushed lightly against your arm—not accidental. but testing.
you felt it immediately. but you couldn't bring yourself to pull away. that was all he needed.
“you came for me,” he said, quieter now.
you shook your head slightly. “i came for the music.”
he smiled, dimples full on display before he briefly licked his lips. “yeah?”
his fingers slid just slightly lower along your arm—slow, deliberate. “and you just happened to stand there, lookin’ at me like that all pretty and nonchalant again?”
your breath hitched—barely. but you held his gaze. “you notice too much.”
“only 'bout you.”
the noise around you faded again. same as before. but this time—you were even closer. closer than you ever been.
his hand didn’t leave your arm. it didn’t tighten. it just stayed there. you couldn't deny the shock of warmth that it send up your body.
“you lied to me, hm?” he murmured.
“i showed up anyway,” you shrugged. “guess we're even.”
he shook his head slightly, stepping just a little closer. “nah,” he said. “i’m still up.”
your brows lifted slightly. “how?”
“‘cause you’re here,” he said. “and you ain’t leavin'.”
you opened your mouth—then stopped. because you didn’t have an answer for that. the words were enough to almost flush your cheeks with a light pink.
his hand moved. slow and careful, dragging down your arm to just barely at your waist. he didn't pull or tighten his grip. he was just... there. waiting.
and you could feel it. every second of it. and yet you didn't stop him.
your fingers curled slightly at your sides, like you were holding onto something invisible. “you always this bold?” you asked, voice softer now.
“only when i’m right,” he said.
“and you think you are?”
“i know i am.”
suddenly, that moment was settling in between you two again, but it felt different this time. he was closer, noses almost touching and your bodies were suddenly feeling warmer.
it was something harder to walk away from. his thumb shifted slightly against your side, making your breath visibly stutter.
and this time—you didn’t turn away. you stayed, looking at him. really looking now, analyzing him from his head to the bottom of his shoes. like you weren't trying to hide it anymore.
“…you’re a problem,” you murmured.
he smiled, just barely. “yeah,” he said. “but you're still here.”
a thick beat passed, filling the small, impossible space between you. then—“stop me,” he almost whispered.
it was quiet and low, it wasn't a challenge. it was merely an invitation. and you didn't stop him. instead, you peered up at him, your eyes that were once unreadable boring into his.
that was all it took. he leaned in—slower than before. but not hesitant. instead, it was full of certainty. he closed the distance between you, foreheads immediately coming into contact.
and this time—when your lips met—you didn’t pull away.
it wasn’t rushed or messy. it was everything you both had been holding back. all of the tension. all the words you didn’t say. it sent sparks throughout your body, the movement igniting something in your chest.
as your lips moved together in unison, your hand lifted—gripping lightly at his jacket like you needed something to ground yourself. like you needed more.
you felt him smile against your lips, his hand pressed just slightly firmer at your waist, pulling you closer—but still giving you the space to leave.
but you didn’t. not this time. your breathing became staggered as you kept up with his lips, moving against yours like he was trying to memorize them. like he was savoring them.
when you finally pulled back after what seemed like forever—it wasn’t far. foreheads almost touching, noses barely brushing one another's. breath uneven.
the city came rushing back in around you—but it didn’t matter. he looked at you like he was trying to process it. like it shifted everything.
“…damn,” he murmured under his breath.
you let out a quiet breath, eyes still on his. “…don’t say anything,” you said softly.
he huffed a small laugh. “wasn’t planning to.”
a pause. then, his voice quieter but full of devotion—“but you not disappearing on me again.”
you held his gaze. and for once—you didn’t argue. "…we’ll see,” you said.
but your tone was different than before. it wasn't stubborn or distant like normal. it was almost unfinished.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
after namjoon took photos with a few people and dapped up some guys, he insisted on driving you home once again. and you accepted. you both didn’t say much when you got in his car.
not at first.
the kiss still lingered—on your lips, and in the space between you two, in the way neither of you quite looked at each other right away.
the engine started. music low with the bass vibrating against the speakers. he pulled off without rushing.
as he drove through the somewhat emptier streets, you leaned your head lightly against the window, watching the city pass again—but it didn’t feel the same as before.
everything felt… closer. quieter. like something had shifted and neither of you had said it out loud yet.
“you're real quiet now,” he said after a minute, glancing at you.
you didn’t look at him. “just thinking.”
he smirked faintly. “you do that a lot around me.”
“you give me a lot to think about.”
it was straightforward, like you always were. that earned you another glance from him. a real, long one.
“…that a good thing?” he asked.
you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes this time. “i haven’t decided yet.”
he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “yeah… you like doing that."
“doing what?”
“keeping me right there,” he gestured loosely with one hand, “not too close, not too far.”
how was he always so spot on? you didn’t deny it. and you didn't confirm it either. just watched him for a second longer before looking away again. the car slowed at a light. red and incredibly still. for a moment, neither of you spoke.
“you don't gotta do that with me,” he said, breaking the silence.
your brows pulled together slightly. “do what?”
“act like you don’t feel it.”
that landed. you swallowed, not responding right away. didn’t brush it off like you usually would. “…feel what?” you asked, quieter now.
he glanced at you again. longer this time. “like this ain’t just… whatever,” he said.
it wasn't smooth or rehearsed. it was completely, utterly honest.
the light turned green and he continued to drive again, turning the wheel with his palm. but in a car that was clearly modified to drive fast, he drove slower now. like he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.
you shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing against your arm. “you say that like you don’t do this a lot,” you said.
“i don’t,” he replied. it was simple, not a single moment of hesitation.
that made you look at him again. “you expect me to believe that?”
he shrugged slightly, eyes on the road. “don’t matter what you believe,” he said. “i know what it is.”
“…and what is it?” you asked.
there was a pause. it was barely long, but in that brief moment of silence, you could see truth behind his low eyes.
namjoon exhaled softly, one hand tightening just slightly on the wheel. “i been around a lotta people,” he said. “girls, crowds, all that.” another beat of stillness passed. “it never sticks.”
that wasn’t what you expected. but you didn’t interrupt or questioned it. you just continued to listen, curious as to what he had to say.
“my dad used to tell me,” he continued, voice lower now, “if you gon’ do something, you better be the best at it.”
he let out a quiet breath. “so i went all in. music, everything. that’s all i know how to do.”
the city lights flickered across his face as he drove—sharp one second, gone the next. “no backup plan,” he added. “no fallback.”
you watched him now. really watched him. because this wasn’t the guy from the stage. or the one outside the venue. this was… something else. “sounds like a lot of pressure,” you said quietly.
"yeah," he gave a small, almost humorless smile. “it is.” a small pause. “but it’s the only thing that ever felt like mine.”
and that—you felt. it hit you deep without even meaning to.
“you don’t seem like the type to need anything,” you said after a moment.
he glanced at you. “everybody needs somethin',” he replied. “i just don’t say it out loud.”
soon enough, the car turned onto your block, your apartment building coming closer into view. familiar. close to the end of the night. and suddenly—you didn’t want it to be. the realization hit you out of nowhere. sharp. it was almost uncomfortable how real it felt.
“you ever get tired?” you asked quietly.
namjoon slowed the car, pulling up along the curb—but he didn’t turn it off yet. “tired of what?”
“…holding in everything like that,” you said.
he leaned back slightly in his seat, looking at you now instead of the road. “for what?” he asked.
“so nobody sees it,” you said. a pause before your voice came out softer this time. "or uses it.”
that made something shift in his expression. something real. he studied you for a second. “…you talking 'bout me or you?”
you let out a small breath. “…both.”
that was the first real piece you ever gave him.
and you both knew it.
silence settled in the car. it was heavy—but not uncomfortable. just the two of you processing the raw honesty you had just exchanged with each other.
he nodded slowly, like he understood more than you said. “yeah,” he murmured. “i get that.”
you nodded before quiet filled the car again, nothing but the very low hum of r&b spilling out through the speakers.
“you don’t gotta do that with me either.”
he echoed what he said earlier. except this time—it hit you differently. so you looked at him. really looked, absorbing his presence and every word he had just said.
your guarded and distant expression had finally fallen. and suddenly, something clicked. not loud or dramatic. just quiet and certain.
but still, it almost hit you like a truck, your stomach forming into a knot you had never felt before. you cared. about what he said. about how he felt. about whether he kept talking or shut down.
and that—that was new for you.
“…you make it hard,” you confessed softly.
he tilted his head slightly. “how?”
“to keep things simple,” you admitted.
and there it was. it wasn't a full confession. but for someone like you, it close enough.
he leaned in just slightly—not touching, just enough to close the space again. “good,” he said quietly.
you exhaled softly, shaking your head just a little. “you’re not supposed to say that.”
“i don’t do what i’m supposed to.”
that almost made you smile, fighting the curve that desperately tugged at your lips. neither of you moved to leave, the moment stretching between you. again. but softer now. there seemed to be less tension. like there something real underneath it.
“…you still thinkin' about leaving?” he asked.
you looked at him. then glanced toward your building. then back to him, eyes peering up at his large figure and meeting his extreme gaze.
you paused. and it was long enough to matter. “…i don’t know."
but this time—
it didn’t sound like uncertainty. it sounded more like possibility.
he didn’t ask again. “…come with me,” was all he said.
his was voice low. but it was certain. and it wasn't a question.
you hesitated—but not the way you used to. not like you were trying to convince yourself to leave. more like you already knew you weren't going to. “…for a little,” you said.
like you just needed to say it out loud. but he didn’t respond. just looked at you a second too long, like all he could see was you. his eyes checked your face for any sign of uncertainty.
but there was none.
so then, he pulled off, engine rumbling loudly in the quiet of the night as your building became further in the distance.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞˖
the drive felt shorter this time. quieter. not because there wasn't anything to say—but because everything already had been.
your thoughts weren’t scattered anymore. they were focused.
on him. on the way his hand rested on the wheel, relaxed but controlled. on the way he glanced at you like he already knew you were still thinking about what he said. like he knew you were still thinking about the kiss.
on the way you didn’t look away anymore when he caught you.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞˖
namjoon's place was dim when you walked in. low light. music already playing softly somewhere in the background—something smooth, steady, like it belonged there. his place was impressively clean besides music sheets and lyrics scattered across a few tables. his furniture and cabinets were colored in darker shades. he had an array of colorful, unique rugs across his hardwood floor as music posters and vinyls clung to the walls.
it was entirely him.
the door clicked shut behind you both.
and suddenly—it was just you and him. there wasn't any street noise or distractions. no easy way to slip out of the moment.
you stepped in a little further, taking it in without really seeing it. your focus wasn’t on the room anymore. it was on him.
you felt it before he even moved. that shift. it was same energy from earlier, except it was hitting stronger now.
he didn’t rush or cross the space all at once. just walked toward you, slow, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world.
like you weren't going anywhere.
soon, his scent wrapped around your head as his large figure began to block your entire view. “you been quiet,” he murmured, peering down at you, taking in your presence in his very own place.
“i’m thinking.”
“that what you do when you’re nervous?”
you let out a soft breath, close to a laugh. “i told you. i don’t get nervous.”
he stepped closer. close enough now that there was barely space between you. “yeah?” he asked quietly. “i don’t believe that.”
you exhaled softly, arms folding loosely—not defensive, just grounding. “i’m thinking,” you repeated.
“about leaving?” his voice dropped slightly on that. something underneath it that you took note of immediately.
you looked at him, holding his extreme gaze. “…no."
that was new. and you both felt it. he stepped closer. close enough now that you could feel the warmth of him without touching.
“you sure?” he asked quietly.
you nodded once. “i didn’t come here to leave.”
that changed everything. in the air around you and in the way namjoon looked at you in that moment. his jaw tightened slightly, like he was holding something back.
then his hand moved, finding your arm, sliding slowly upward, deliberate, familiar now—but this time there was no hesitation in it.
this time, he wasn't testing. his thumb brushed lightly along your skin, and your breath immediately shifted.
namjoon noticed. he always did.
“you feel that?” he murmured.
you swallowed, but didn’t step back. “…yeah.”
“good.”
his hand didn’t stop this time. moved from your arm to your waist—firmer now. it wasn't rough, but it was enough to ground you into his floors, holding you there like you belonged in that space.
with him.
you let out a quiet breath, your fingers instinctively catching at the front of his shirt again. you weren't pushing. you were pulling him. absentmindedly closer.
“you don’t act like this anywhere else, huh?” he said, voice low, close to your ear now, his breath lightly hitting the back of your neck.
your eyes lifted to his as you tried to ignore the chills he sent down your spine. “like what?”
“like you're not gonna walk away.”
that hit you, reaching into the back of your mind and making your head feel like it was mush. because it was true. and you couldn’t deny it anymore.
“…maybe i don’t want to,” you said softly.
there it was. your sentence was clear; no deflection this time. something in namjoon shifted. his body language and his gaze.
his hand at your waist tightened just slightly, pulling you that inch left closer until there wasn’t any space left to question.
“you keep saying things like that,” he murmured.
your breath hitched—barely. “…and?”
“and you don’t realize what it does.”
you looked at him, steady. “then tell me.”
his hand slid from your waist, up along your side, slower now—controlled, deliberate— like he had to memorize every curve of your figure until it rested just beneath your jaw. it took everything in you to not shiver under his touch.
he tilted your face slightly up, toward his. not forcing. just guiding. so he could see every inch of your beauty, every centimeter of your expression so he could read it clearly.
“you not going nowhere,” he said quietly.
not a question. not even a warning. just… truth, the way he saw it. the way he needed it.
your pulse quickened—but you didn’t pull away. didn't break the heightened eye contact. “…you sound real sure,” you murmured.
“i am.”
before you knew it, the space between you disappeared again.
except this time—there was nothing holding it back. the hesitation in both of you crumbled completely the moment the space closed.
he kissed you—slower than before, but deeper, like he wasn’t figuring it out anymore, just taking it in. like everything he had been holding back finally snapped all at once.
and you met him there. fully.
your hands moved without thinking—sliding up, holding onto him, pulling him closer like you didn’t want the distance to come back, lips dragging across his with desire.
he responded immediately, one hand firm at your waist, the other still at your jaw, keeping him right where he wanted you.
with him.
the kiss didn't break the tension. it only built it. every second you stayed close, lips together, every breath shared, every small movement that didn’t pull away—it just got heavier. it warmed the air around you, making it entirely unavoidable.
when you both finally paused—it wasn’t to separate. just enough to breathe, foreheads touching once more. his hand still resting against you like he wasn’t letting go yet.
“…you feel that?” he asked again, quieter now.
you nodded slightly. “…yeah.” this time, you didn’t hide it. didn’t pretend. “i do.”
the words barely left your lips before something in him snapped into place. not control—something deeper than that. certainty. like he’d been waiting for you to say it.
his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you in fully this time—no space left between you, boobs pressed against his clothed abs with no room for second guessing.
“there you go…” he murmured, voice low, almost like praise.
your breath caught, red warmth spreading across your face—
and then he kissed you again.
this time it was certain—like he knew for sure now that you weren't going anywhere, like he didn’t have to hold back anymore at all.
his hand stayed firm at your waist, anchoring you to him, while the other slid up along your jaw again, tilting your face just enough to deepen it.
you responded instantly. your hands moved up, pulling him closer like you needed more of him, like the space that used to exist between you didn’t belong there anymore. he practically sighed into the kiss—or was it a growl—as your lips moved synchronously, rougher this time.
“yeah…” he breathed against your lips, barely pulling back. “thought so.”
the way he said it, like he’d already claimed the moment, like he’d already known—sent something sharp through your chest.
your fingers tightened slightly, nails lightly grazing into the skin on his incredibly broad shoulders. “…you talk too much,” you whispered, breath uneven.
he smirked—just slightly—then kissed you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he was proving something. he captured your lips between his like they had no other place to be.
“to you?” he murmured between it, voice rougher and lower now. “yeah… i do.”
his hand shifted—sliding just slightly along your side, pulling you closer again, like he couldn’t quite get you close enough. he tugged your bottom lip with his teeth, biting down on it gently. you gasped against him before he licked his lip swiftly across the area, like he was saying sorry. but by the way he smirked at your reaction, you both knew he wasn't.
“you don’t even realize,” he said softly against your lips, “how you look at me.”
your breath hitched again. “like what?” you whispered.
he leaned in, brushing his lips just barely against yours again before answering—“like you're already mine.”
and that—god, that did something to you. and this time, you didn’t fight it or pull away.
if anything, you leaned into him more. you felt heat pooling between your legs from his words as your knees practically buckled under his touch. no one had ever been able to make you feel this way.
“maybe i am,” you said quietly.
and that was it. that was all it took.
his reaction was immediate—his grip tightening just slightly, pulling you fully against him again as he kissed you harder this time, not rushed, but deeper, more intense, like he felt that just as much as you did. and now, he definitely growled against you, like those words triggered his deepest desire. you were now against the wall, entirely closed off by him and nothing but him.
“don’t play with me like that,” he grunted, voice low, almost warning—but not pulling away.
your hands slid up further, brushing along his neck, holding him there. “i’m not,” you said. and you weren't.
and for a second—he didn’t move. not immediately. like it hit him slower than everything else had.
his eyes stayed on yours, searching—like he was making sure you meant it, like he didn’t trust something this real to come easy.
“…say that again,” he murmured, voice rougher now. he wasn’t teasing or playing. something heavier.
you didn’t hesitate this time. “i’m not,” you repeated, softer—but just as certain.
that did it. someething in his expression shifted—completely. not just confidence anymore. not just control.
it was deeper than that. like something in him gave in to it.
his hand tightened at your waist—not rough, but firm enough to keep you exactly where you were.
“yeah?” he exhaled, almost under his breath, like he’d been holding that in. “don’t say things like that if you don’t mean ‘em.”
his voice wasn’t playful anymore. it carried weight. it carried possession—but earned.
“i do mean it,” you said. you didn’t look away, holding his burning gaze.
his jaw tightened slightly, eyes dropping to your lips for just a second before coming back up.
“you got no idea what that does to me,” he admitted quietly. then, lower—his breath hot against your ear, “…you don’t get to take that back.”
your breath caught. but you didn’t pull away. “…i’m not trying to."
you swear you heard him suck in a sharp breath as his hand slid from your waist up along your side, pulling you in closer—closer than before, like he needed to feel that you were actually there.
“yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “‘cause if you are…” he shook his head slightly, eyes locked on yours. “i’m not letting you go.”
the way he said it— it wasn’t just another line. wasn’t charm. it was purely the truth.
and you felt it. all of it. instead of pulling back like you normally would—you stepped into him. choosing it. “…then don’t."
if there even was any, that broke whatever restraint he had left. his hand came up to your jaw again—firmer this time, tilting your face toward his before his lips grazed lightly against yours, hot breath spilling all over you.
"you don’t get it,” he murmured against your lips." “you walking in here, looking at me like that, sayin’ all this—” his thumb brushed along your cheek, slower now. “—that’s mine.”
your breath hitched. "then keep it."
then, your lips crashed against each others', his lips moving against yours like he owned you. one hand explored your body lazily, caressing your sides, until he reached the lowest part of your hip, long fingers carefully tracing the top of your ass while the other found the back of your head, as if he needed you impossibly closer than you already were.
soon enough, he tugged your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down on it before sucking it into his own mouth like he owned it. you gasped to which he immediately responded to, smirking as he shoved his tongue eagerly in between your lips and into your mouth.
you tried to fight back with your own, but failed miserably as he swiftly swirled his tongue around yours, putting it back in his place as he greedily explored your mouth.
at this point, you were whimpering under his every move, your small sounds immediately sending him into pure bliss as he devoured you with his lips. his big, slender hands moved further down your hips, feeling up and down your ass unashamedly like he had done it a million times before.
suddenly his palms slid to the bottom your ass, hoisting you up to straddle him. you responded quickly, not even breaking the kiss as your thighs wrapped around his waist. he began to walk towards what you assumed was his bedroom, holding you up with one husky arm as the other deliberately traveled up and down your thigh.
you all but moaned into his mouth, kissing him with unbelievable desire now, aching heat expanding through your body. that clearly did something to him as he failed to open his door in time, accidentally nudging you both into the door.
it broke the kiss and for the first time, namjoon's face was etched with nothing but worry. his grip softened on you as he began to apologize but you immediately broke out in a laugh—a real, genuine one.
he didn't break eye contact with you, despite his embarrassment. he took in your unguarded, effortlessly beautiful laugh. he let out a huff of air, a big smile growing and pulling at his deep dimples due to your reaction. and was that blush on his cheeks?
you stopped laughing when he leaned his face closer to yours, gripping you tighter— the small distance almost making you forget about what just happened.
"clumsy much?" you teased in a whisper, eyes peering up at him.
"too pretty for me to be actin' smooth here," he answered.
you fought back another smile but he soon captured you into another kiss, opening the door correctly this time. he placed you down on his bed breaking the kiss—a string of saliva quickly disappearing as he placed sloppy kisses along your jaw.
you tilted your head back, letting out a gasp. he was working his way by your ear, biting the lobe briefly before attacking your neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks of red that would soon turn purple, like it was his first meal of the day. like it was his most favorite one.
"you like that, don't you," he murmured against you, his lips now finding your collarbone. "like me marking you up, hm?"
you were absolutely dissolving under his touch. everything about him had you completely dizzy, making you unable to respond coherently.
"use your words baby," he said.
"yes—" you gasped. "fuck—mark me up, joon."
he smirked in satisfaction as he licked over the top of your cleavage, taking in the skin between his teeth, pulling it in between his lips. he was fully leaning over you at this point, hard cock shoved against your clothed core.
you tugged at his shirt eagerly, fingers pulling the hemline up in which quickly revealed his strong, sturdy abs. after seeing your reaction, he didn't waste a second, practically ripping his shirt off and tossing it somewhere to be forgotten.
and god, he was so fucking built. his muscles practically gleamed in the glow of the night, chest swell against his broad shoulders. thick lines of ink trailed all over his figure. before you could even think, you reached out, dragging a finger down his chest.
he captured your lips into a hungry kiss, grunting into your mouth as he now rutted his hard, clothed cock against you. "don’t even realize how you got me right now," he growled lowly in your ear.
his fingers traced the hem of your top, pulling back to look at you for permission. you nodded your head and that was all he needed before he gently glided your top off before roaming his hands around your figure. "so perfect baby."
you practically keened at the nickname you would cringe at if it was coming from any other guy. you felt like you were turning into mush. "joon...."
"hm?" he asked. "you want this baby?"
"yes," you answered breathlessly, fingers absentmindedly finding their way over his bulging member and to his belt. "want you, joon"
"fuck," he groaned. the nickname filled his body with ache. "say it again." his long fingers quickly found yours, assisting you in taking off his belt.
"want you," you repeated, now tugging at the hemline of his jeans.
"yeah?" he asked. "been wanting you since i first saw you, baby" he unbuttoned his pants and they quickly fell to the floor, revealing the abnormally large outline of his cock. "been fucking dreaming 'bout you."
your vision almost became blurry as you tried to take in the mere sight of huge bulge. you reached out for it, your hands that now seemed incredibly small palming his hardness.
he groaned before pushing you back into his bed, your head softly coming into contact with pillows as he crawled on top of you, gaze pouring with deep desire. he didn't hesitate to pull at your pants, taking them down with one hand.
his eyes raked over your naked figure slowly, like he was etching every centimeter of it into his mind. you suddenly felt shy under his gaze, hands moving instinctively to almost shield yourself.
but his strong arms quickly stopped you, intertwining his fingers between yours. "don't hide from me now," his voice was low, pressing a kiss on your hand. "too perfect for that."
his hands trailed down your sides, finding their way in between your thighs. his fingers looped around your panties while the other hand slowly rubbed against your clothed clit.
you whined out desperately and he took it as a sign to move further, hooking your wet panties to the side and swiping one finger across the wetness of your slick, teasing your entrance. you nearly shook underneath him as he inserted a finger, the loud gush of your arousal along with moans filling the room. "such a pretty pussy," he grunted.
he began to rub his thumb against your clit in a circular motion before adding another finger, working its way inside of you, stretching you out. "so good for me baby."
he began to narrow his face in front of your pussy, his warm breath hitting your core, sending chills through your body. you twitched under him as he got lower, his nose hitting your clit.
he began to lick your pussy gently, in slow draws, like he was savoring every last drop of your slick. "taste so fuckin' good," he murmured against you. your hands immediately found him, gripping onto his hair and pulling him closer.
he all but smirked against you before fully going in, attaching his lips fully around your folds, sucking them in and pushing his tongue through your entrance all the while his two fingers remained pushing in and out of you.
you were completely falling apart under him, moaning his name while your nails dug into his free arm that was gripping firmly at your thighs, his fingers turning white at the fingertips like he never wanted to let go.
it wasn't long before you felt heat coil in your stomach, back arching off the mattress. namjoon felt it, he felt the way your pussy tightened around his fingers, the way you melting away under him. "cum for me baby," he growled against your folds, sucking vigorously at your nub.
you could barely process it before you felt your legs shaking violently as namjoon continued to lap at you with his fat tongue, dragging it up and down your folds as his fingers continued to thrust into you.
once your released pooled around him, he pulled back, licking your juices off his fingers without hesitation. "such a good girl for me, hm? nobody getting this but me."
you moaned in response, overwhelmed by the blissful high he took you to. he pulled you into another swift kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as your hands trailed over his large bulging cock that was trapped beneath his boxers again. your nails hooked around the hem, pulling them down almost greedily.
his cock sprung out in front of you immediately; overly generous inches and width curving up slightly hitting his stomach, pre-cum glistening at his angry tip. you didn't even realize you were staring until namjoon smirked, his large hand finding around his equally huge cock to stroke himself, while his gaze never left you.
you reached out, your small hand wrapping around the base of his dick. he let go, grunting loudly as he let you fully take control. you began to stroke him, watching him tilt his head back in pleasure.
it wasn't long before you began to lap at the sides of his cock, swirling your tongue around its base and the tip. his big palm immediately caressed the back of your head like he needed you for stability. "fuck baby," he hissed.
you took his huge length inside your mouth, wrapping your lips around the base and sucking him in. he moaned loudly, his fingers tangling in your hair as he bobbed you back and forth along his cock, the tip hitting the back of your throat. "fuck—so fucking good for me."
at this point, you were seeing stars, tears blurring your vision as you almost struggled to take him all in. his moans got louder but he soon pulled your head back, hissing in pleasure. "gonna fill you up, baby," he grumbled as he got back on top of you.
you practically shivered at his words before he captured you between his lips, but it was softer this time—almost hesitant. "i meant what i said..." he started. "i'm not letting you go."
your gaze poured into each others, heart practically stopping at his words. "then don't." it came out barely a whisper.
he kissed your lips, trailing down your jaw and neck before he dragged his tip along your entrance, slowly pushing in inside of you. you moaned loudly as he thrusted deeper inside of you with his hands gripping your thighs, widely stretching your walls out to fit all of him.
"feel so fuckin' good baby," he breathed down your neck.
he pulled your legs up, resting them on top of his shoulders as he pounded into you relentlessly; closing all the space between you as one hand was steady by your head while the other focused on your clit. wet noises filled the room as your eyes rolled to the back of your head in absolute pleasure, heat building up in your stomach as you kissed each other with hunger.
"fuck," he grunted as he rutted into you. "you mine, you know that right?"
"yes—!" you gasped, "fuck—yes, i'm yours, joon!"
he growled against your ear, his pace quickening at an impossible speed. "say it again, baby. say my name."
"joon—!" you moaned. "i'm yours."
soon enough, your legs were shaking around namjoon's shoulders before he quickly came too, his hot seed spilling into your walls as you clenched tightly around him. you both moaned out, collectively coming down from your highs—his cock still buried deeply inside of you as his cum leaked out of you.
he pulled out before he could collapse on you, laying down beside you breathlessly. "you okay, baby?" he asked, his eyes already meeting yours when you turned your head.
his arm was already around you. it wasn't loose, it was firm. like he wasn't planning on letting you go anytime soon.
you nodded as he placed his palm on the back of your head, bringing your forehead to his lips. a smile you couldn't fight tugged at your lips.
his lips moved down your face, to your cheeks before engulfing you into a deep kiss. "you not leaving tonight," he murmured against your lips, his hand moving slowly along your arm.
you didn't hesitate like you usually would. didn't overthink it or pull back into yourself. instead, your fingers curled against him, holding onto him just a little tighter. "...i know." you said.
and that was the moment. you meant it. and not just for the night, but for him. he smiled widely, pecking your lips before pulling you in closer to him, holding you there like it was his life's purpose until the morning.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞˖
a few months later, the city still moves the same—but they don't. not exactly.
somewhere between late nights and quiet mornings, between crowded venues and empty streets, you two found a rhythm that belongs to the both of you. you aren't guarded the way you used to be—not with him. you laugh easier now, softer at first, then freely, like you forgot you ever had to hold it back. and he notices every time, pulling at his heart like it’s still new.
namjoon keeps showing up the same way he did in the beginning—but even more now. flowers at your door like it’s routine now, little things he knows you like, the kind of attention that never leaves your side. not because he has to—because he wants to.
and you're there too. front row at his sets, or somewhere in the crowd where he can still find you. he always does. no matter how big the venue gets, no matter how many people are screaming his name—his eyes land on you like they always have.
and every time they do, it still feels like that first night.
he’s louder now, bigger stages, bigger crowds, his name traveling further than those small, dim-lit rooms they started in. but somehow, with you, he’s quieter. realer. the version of himself no one else gets.
and you stay. not because you're unsure or waiting for it to end. but because you know now—you don't have to run from something because it finally feels right.
˖ ܁♬⋆.˚𝄞
hope you guys love this as much as i do! came up w it because im missing my hometown BADDD and namjoon is just so incredibly sexy ugh universe pls help me!! way longer than i expected SORRYYY, but the tension is tewww good. love u xx
okay but can we talk about the struggle that is obsessing over a character that doesn’t have fanfics??? because i’m over here scrubbing the internet for any crumbs…
a young man returns to a small town he hasn't seen in years, and a house he hasn't lived in since before the last president was born, only to find that a stray cat has given birth to kittens in his closet.
pairing: vampire!jeongguk x nerdy f veterinarian!reader (with a special interest in the science and biology aspect of the supernatural lol)
genre: sorta scifi-ish, fluff, minor angst, some smut later on
"Yes," Nayeon argues, thrusting the bag of chips further at you. "Try them."
"I saw you all up in Captain's lice-infested fur without gloves and not even wash your hands before you dipped them in there. I'm good."
She rolls her brown eyes, leaning back in her chair. "He does not have lice."
"Yeah, anymore."
"Exactly," she says, popping another chip in her mouth. "So, remind me what the problem is?"
It's your turn to roll your eyes. Throwing a quick glance at the wall-mounted clock, you jump to your feet, seeing that you're already one minute late.
"Shoot, I gotta go."
"Come hang with me later if you get a moment," she encourages, wiping her hand on her scrubs. "I'll be in O.R. two."
You pick up the chart from the table, backing toward the door while skimming the first lines to make sure it's the correct one. "Noted."
The door to the break room shuts behind you, and you head out toward the waiting area, nose-deep in the chart that you've already read twice before. A limping cat is who you're about to examine.
"Lilith?" you call, lifting your head to scan the clients all waiting their turn. Which is one person, sitting in one of the green, padded chairs with a small blanket-covered pet carrier in the chair beside him. He's dressed in a thick black hoodie and jeans; such a modern-guy outfit for what he claims to be.
He stands up, almost apologetic straight off the bat. But you can't help it, you gulp and take an instinctive step back, lowering the chart.
Still, your eyes land on the carrier. If the cat is limping, it still needs help. But you don't feel comfortable being alone with him anymore. Even through the thick fabric of the hoodie, he's beyond muscular, and the fabric dips and stretches over those muscles, accentuating his build even more. Superhuman or not, you wouldn't stand a chance.
It was both traumatic and heartless, what he did. Traumatic because he physically prevented you from leaving, even covering your mouth to stop you from screaming. Heartless because you trusted him enough to tell him about your fascination and the story behind your paper, and yet he found it funny to scare you by pretending to be a vampire. He knew very well how people made fun of you for it, yet he did it too, even taking it probably three or so steps further. It made you see him in a completely different light than the golden hue of his chandelier.
"Another vet will be with you in a minute," you mumble.
"Wait," he says as you turn to leave, and for some reason... you pause. Those big, dark eyes of his are so hard to ignore when they seem regretful.
"There's no need. I made up a reason to come and see you because I wanted to talk. Apologize."
You turn back, raising your eyebrows. "You took a nursing cat from her kittens just to talk?"
"No, she's at home," he says, shaking the carrier almost comically to prove its emptiness.
Looking around the otherwise bare room, you fiddle with the chart in your hands.
Any regular man would plead his case, try to persuade you to hear him out. You can't say whether that's inherently good or bad, just that Jeongguk doesn't. He stands there, earnest-looking eyes awaiting your decision.
You think. The clinic is a whole other setting than the bar, and you're not alone, even if it might seem like it at the moment. Nayeon, Momo, and Yoongi are all somewhere in the building, and you know for a fact that Namjoon should be in exam room three right about now. One scream and someone will come running.
"Okay," you nod, nerves on high alert as you gesture for him to follow you. "Come with me."
He returns your nod and walks toward you, carrier in hand. You lead the way in silence, passing room after room until you reach one at the end of the hallway. It's a standard examination room: white walls, grey linoleum floor, and an adjustable exam table in the center.
Jeongguk walks through the open door, and you hold your breath as he passes you. He places the carrier on the table, and you take your spot just inside the door, leaning back against the small counter beneath the cupboards lining one of the walls. The door is left wide open, a clear warning not to try anything. No one is close enough to hear a spoken conversation—or to see inside—but you won't have any problem notifying your coworkers if you need help.
You look at him. It's been... almost two weeks since you saw him at the bar, you think. Maybe a week and a half. He looks just the same, maybe softer, and you'll admit that you like the way he dresses and carries himself, even if he kinda freaks you out. It's so effortless, so natural and laid-back. Who are you kidding—you love everything about him, at least visually.
"I wanted to apologize," he says, scratching his neck. "Out of all the things I am... I'm mostly just an idiot."
His smile is a sad one. "I think that you're pretty cool. And since I know that people have been undeservedly harsh toward you, I wanted to show you. Let you know that you were right, you know? And since you said you wanted to meet one."
You let him talk, listening to his low voice even though any sane person would kick him out.
"But I was drunk—and not supposed to tell you anyway, especially in such a rushed manner—and I didn't quite realize what I was doing until I'd already done it. I'm sorry. But you were never in any danger."
The thoughts whirl in your head, and you move your nails over the countertop in a thoughtless, repetitive pattern, tracing a subconscious square. What are you supposed to be focusing on?
You clear your throat, inspecting the cat anatomy poster on the wall. "You're saying that vampires can get drunk?" you mumble. "On alcohol?"
Jeongguk chuckles.
"Yeah," he says, and his smile is no longer sad but something between hopeful and careful. "I had what would be around four liters of hard liquor within the span of an hour. It wears off quickly."
Biting your lip, you try not to look at him directly. You're definitely not sure you believe him. Yeah, you saw the fangs and definitely noticed how he seemed to hold you in place with supernatural strength, even for a buff dude, but... a vampire? A vampire? You might be crazy, but you're not insane. And do you believe that he didn't realize that he was scaring the bejesus out of you?
However...
A vampire getting drunk would mean a metabolism capable of processing all sorts of things like carbs and...fermented yeast. It also implies that a vampiric brain could be affected by alcohol. Maybe not by much, if what he claimed to have drunk hadn't landed him in the hospital.
His metabolism would also have to be... crazy fast. Would that apply to all things consumed? Just how much blood would a vampire truly require? And would a vampire not ever risk water—or fluid, really—poisoning? Four liters of anything in the span of an hour is a lot. Say that vampires have extreme metabolisms and do regularly consume liquid—blood—in such quantities... the iron alone would—
"Anyway," he starts, his voice a tad more serious. "I just wanted to stop by and tell you how sorry I am. As some sort of... apology gift, if you ever have any questions for me, I'll do my best to answer them. Although I understand if you're not up for that."
Nodding slowly, you watch as he takes the carrier from the table and, with one last apologetic smile, leaves the room. You don't say anything because you don't have the words for the things you're thinking. Padding quietly halfway down the hall and listening closely, you hear him pay for the visit at the reception desk, politely telling Momo that it was a false alarm when she comments on the brevity of the visit.
It's all you think about the rest of the day, no less as you scrub your hands thoroughly, all the way up to your elbows.
"So, since he's already over 50 kilos, he's not..."
"The best candidate?" you finish Nayeon's sentence, looking through the glass at the dog laid up on the operating table. Most of him is hidden beneath sterile blue drapes, only a rectangle cut out to expose his shaved and cleaned hip.
"Yeah. A lot of weight on those joints... But he's young, and if I'm gonna try this approach, it might as well be him."
"Is it bilateral?"
"Yeah, unfortunately. Left hip is moderately dysplastic, right is severe."
You take extra care, scrubbing around and under your nails. "Are you doing both hips? If this one works out, that is?"
"We'll see. One surgery and one day at a time," Nayeon says, and for the first time this afternoon, she lets her cheerfully optimistic façade slip a little. "Hopefully, this works and takes the pressure off quite a bit. Maybe it'll be enough to just do the worst one."
"Yeah. Done?"
She nods, stepping away from the faucet and—with her hands in the air—walks through the open door into the O.R., where a veterinary technician waits. You follow, keeping your own hands lifted and sterile until the tech can help you get dressed in the surgical gown and gloves.
Like always, Nayeon demonstrates incredible skill as she operates, and you make sure to tell her so while watching closely, always wanting to learn from others' approaches. But now and then, your gaze catches on her bloody gloves, and your thoughts drift.
You're not gonna go and see him. Of course you're not. You know that vampires don't exist. But even so, going would be the dumbest thing you could do because he's either a lunatic who pretends to be (or maybe even believes himself to be) a vampire, or he is one. A creature who, presumably, lives on the blood of your kind. You couldn't possibly do anything dumber.
It's eight p.m., and the rain is beating down hard as you pull your jacket tighter around yourself, waiting nervously. A second later, the door finally opens, and you can tell that he didn't expect to see you.
After all, you waited two whole days.
The first thing that inevitably (and idiotically) crosses your mind is how cozy he looks. And handsome, but that's a given.
A black strand of hair hangs attractively across his forehead, the rest of his dark tresses voluminous in that way only handsome, fit young men seem to manage without trying. He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, its loose fit doing surprisingly little to hide his physique.
"There's a number of people who know where I am," you inform quietly, looking up at him.
He nods and, without a word, opens the door wider to let you in. You wait for him to retreat a little, not wanting to be chest to chest in the relatively small hall.
"Also," you add as you step inside, watching him stop to turn back toward you. "If you're just... pranking me for shits and giggles, well... then you're an ass, and it's not funny. I also don't know if I believe you."
"I'm not. Pranking you, that is," he assures.
You stay where you are, unmoving just inside the door with one hand still on the handle and the other clutching the strap of your small cross-body bag. You haven't closed the door completely yet, the sound of rain hitting the concrete steps outside still clear. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"I showed you my teeth?"
You lick your lips. "Could be prosthetics. I imagine someone obsessed enough with vampires to get prosthetic teeth would find someone like me tempting to fuck with."
"I can show you again?" he offers. At least he doesn't seem too offended. "I'll answer your questions and show you anything you want."
One part of you jumps with excitement; another narrows its eyes in suspicion. "Say you're actually... you know... Why would you tell me about it, though? I thought you said you weren't supposed to?"
"Like I said. I thought it'd be fun to show you. At this point, I also kinda want to make up for what I did."
You still don't quite get it. Sure, you understand what he's saying, but if vampires truly exist, they've (somewhat) managed to stay hidden. Would he risk telling a human just because it would be fun?
"And," he says, smiling a smile that definitely has a sort of... edge to it. Almost cheeky, although you're not sure if it's intentional or if you're simply seeing him in a different light. "No offense, but I don't think anyone would believe you if you told them."
Meeting his eyes, your heart skips a beat. That's both true and definitely enough to snap you back to reality. You're alone with this man, who claims to be a dangerous creature, and whatever happens—as long as you at least live to tell the tale—no one would believe you.
You close your eyes for a brief second, taking a deep breath, and then you're shutting the door slowly behind you.
"We can sit in the living room," Jeongguk suggests, turning to lead the way.
But there's one more thing.
"Just... if you're telling the truth," you start, watching him stop and look back at you again. "Don't hurt me."
Almost expecting him to laugh—maybe even for your old classmates to jump out from their hiding spots and double over in laughter—you're surprised to see him still looking genuine.
"I won't touch you. I promise."
You search his face, trying to find any clue that might reveal other plans, but find nothing. It's a risk, following him, but you still let out your breath and bend down to remove your shoes.
Quietly, he leads you into the house. "I don't have any... I don't know, snacks or drinks besides water. Well, except for blood, but I'm guessing that's not very tempting? I wasn't expecting any human guests."
"You didn't think I'd show?" you ask, raising a careful eyebrow at him from behind. It's not that you take his lack of snacks personally—you really don't—but you find it surprising that he thought you'd be able to stay away.
"No? I mean, I hoped, but I get why you wouldn't."
"Curiosity killed the cat. I'm just hoping satisfaction really brought it back," you chuckle, still very much nervous. "Can I see? The... blood?"
It feels weird to ask, but if anything, that's good evidence, isn't it? Who else would keep blood on hand? Well... Maybe a vampire-obsessed freak, actually.
"Uh, yeah," he says, like the question surprises him. "The kitchen is this way."
Even though the fireplace and main source of heat is in the other direction, you're feeling the homey warmth through the jacket you have yet to remove. For obvious reasons, you don't want to get too comfortable. Jeongguk hasn't commented on it either. Surely, he must realize it too.
The kitchen is almost exactly what you'd expect from a house like this. It's old, matching the elegant decor of the rest of the house. However, there is a somewhat out-of-place, modern-looking microwave on the counter, and a shiny, tall fridge, very quietly humming against the wall.
Did he get a microwave to warm the cats' formula? Why else would a vampire need a microwave? And a fridge? Does he eat too? Blood, if stored, should be frozen, so if anything, he should have a freezer. Maybe it could be in the basement or something.
"How do you get... blood?" you ask slowly, focusing on the more pressing questions. "Blood that's not... directly from a person, I mean."
Without biting is what you mean.
He reaches toward a cupboard, grinning as he throws you a glance over his shoulder. Despite clearly understanding that you're still cautious, he must find it funny how weird it is for you to speak about it.
"There are multiple ways to get blood. Fresh, liquid, human blood is the hardest to come by. It's also the hardest to keep as it goes bad pretty quickly. I mostly use this."
You look at the white, round plastic container he hands you, noticing that the cupboard contains around five more. The container—big enough to hold just under a liter—is lighter than you expected. Carefully, you peel the lid open, mindful not to spill the red liquid you assumed would be inside. But there's a deep red powder instead, a minuscule red cloud rising as you pull the lid off.
"That's animal blood. Easier to come by, easier to store."
"Powdered?"
If you expected anything, it certainly wasn't for the blood to be powdered. But you guess it makes sense.
"Yeah. Add water, mix it, and it tastes basically just like blood."
"Like... animal blood? Not like human blood?"
"Like animal blood. This is deer blood."
You close the lid again, focused to make sure it truly seals. "But you... you can taste the difference?"
"Yes."
"What's better?" you ask, trying to sound casual, your eyes still fixed on the container.
"Human. But it's such a hassle. Either you have to spend a lot more money—and the risk of humans discovering it—when this, by comparison, is cheap and produced by a company that markets it as a supplement for dogs. Or you have to find someone willing to let you... bite."
You gulp, hoping he doesn't notice, and hand the container back. "So you can just get these without any suspicion at all? That's smart. What do you use these for?" you point to the microwave and fridge, which were definitely installed recently. At least in the last few years. "I guess the thing about vampires not eating is true?"
"Yeah. I mix a few liters of blood at a time and keep it in the fridge. I prefer to drink it warm, so I heat it in the microwave."
"Warm?" you repeat, skeptical. Blood doesn't seem very tempting to you at all. Warm like a blood soup? Even less.
"Yeah. Around 37 degrees Celsius."
"Oh."
Body temperature.
"Yeah," he smiles.
Stepping closer to the fridge, you place a hand on the vertical handle. "Do you mind if I look?"
While you don't want to intrude, you're both curious and...
"Go ahead."
Opening it, your eyes immediately fall on two large glass jugs. The motionless liquid inside is a deep red and certainly looks like blood. Otherwise, the fridge is barren. There's nothing. Not a lonely egg or even some forgotten sauce that should've been thrown out a decade ago.
"Making sure I don't have human food?"
Closing the fridge, you meet his amused eyes, feeling caught and slightly embarrassed. "You realize how absurd this is for me, right?"
He chuckles. "I didn't say I blame you. So, do you believe me yet?"
"How would I even know that's real blood?"
Jeongguk moves to the counter, pulling out a kitchen drawer and producing a small spoon.
"Try it."
Eyeing the silver spoon he holds out, you hesitate before slowly taking it.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," you mumble, reopening the fridge to take one of the jugs out.
It's heavy and cold in your hand as you place it on the kitchen counter. Jeongguk leans against the same counter beside you, watching with interest as you lower the spoon into the jug.
Since you don't need more than half a molecule to judge the classic taste and therefore the contents—and you're not about to consume a spoonful just because—you barely dip the tip, raising your hand to reveal a tiny part of the silver coated in red. It's a drop's worth, at most.
Catching a glimpse of Jeongguk's face, you see him grinning at your reluctance to ingest what (supposedly) sustains him. It's an insanely attractive sight, and so you do your best to ignore those nerves and instead focus on the task at hand.
It looks like blood, it smells like it too when you bring the spoon to your nose, and when you put it in your mouth, it definitely also tastes like it. Iron. You try not to think about the fact that it's deer blood, but then again, consuming the tiniest amount of human blood would probably make you hurl.
"Believe me?"
"Technically, you could've assumed I'd be coming and just put all your human food in the basement and planted this in here for show. Like, yeah, that would be weird and overkill, but it would make more sense than you actually being a mythical creature."
He rolls his eyes, clearly still amused. You wonder how much he truly understands what you're feeling because you're still wary. Whatever he is, he's not normal. And he hid that from you the first few times you saw him.
Your eyes lock onto the jug as you place the spoon down on the counter. "Drink it."
"Huh?"
"I don't know any human who could stomach actually drinking blood. A mouthful, at most. And probably only if paid a generous amount to do it."
He considers for a second before reaching into another cupboard and pulling out a tall glass. "I already had what I needed today, but... just for you, I guess."
Jeongguk grabs the jug's handle in front of you, lifting it to pour blood into the glass in a way that shows off the muscles in his forearms. You watch them flex under his skin and the thick veins as he fills the glass and then heads over to the microwave, setting it to precisely 20 seconds. Tried and tested, you guess.
The glass spins inside the microwave, but you're stuck, looking at Jeongguk without shame as he leans back against the counter again. Could he really be a vampire? A vampire?
He returns the attention, tilting his head slightly, maybe softly urging you to share your thoughts. You don't, because what would you say? That he looks human in the most basic way, but that there's also something... indescribable about him. His dark eyes watching you makes you feel a myriad of ways. Intrigued but nervous—for multiple reasons—to name a few.
The microwave dings, forcing him to tear his eyes away from you. Swiftly, he opens the door and lifts the glass out, casually grabbing the spoon—that you literally just had in your mouth—from the counter to stir.
Unsure if he intends for that to mean anything, you still watch him set it back down in its own little puddle of blood before lifting the glass to his mouth. You bite your lip. There's no reaction; not as he first tastes it, and not when he starts to gulp it down.
With every swallow, his Adam's apple bobs, and while you can't deny that this whole thing has you cautious, you're also so confusingly—and stupidly—drawn to him. Mesmerized, even.
"Okay, that's fine, you don't need to finish it," you say when he's downed four mouthfuls without the slightest sign of distaste.
But he continues, tilting the glass higher and swallowing until there's nothing left. You look on, heart beating fast at the show.
When the glass is truly empty, its inside coated in a faint red tint, he puts it down, licking his lips. Focused on setting the glass safely on the counter, he doesn't seem to notice how you notice something.
The fangs.
They're subtle, but definitely there, and they most certainly weren't there before.
Could he have some sort of prosthetics? That retract into the gums? You don't think so, but you honestly don't know. What you do know is that you've been with him from the moment you arrived, and he hasn't had any time or opportunity to put them in without you seeing. Maybe it's just... more plausible that he's an actual vampire?
"Anything else?" he asks, smiling a smile that shows a dimple but no teeth. Except the small white points that peek out between his lips.
You shake your head slowly, somewhat speechless. Are you scared? Is that why your heart is beating 300 beats per minute?
"Okay. Then... do you have any questions you'd like me to answer, or have you had enough?"
There's almost some sort of apology in the way he says that, like he knows that it might very well be more than enough for even someone like you to take in. You think you're scared, or maybe more nervous, but you push those thoughts away, nodding.
Jeongguk laughs quietly.
"Okay," he says, bringing another tall glass from the cupboard and filling it with water from the tap. "This water is like... crystal clear and very safe for humans to drink. From a private well and filtered thoroughly. Follow me."
You do as he says, trailing closely behind as he leaves the kitchen, retracing your steps back into the hallway and then steering into the living room.
It looks the same as the last time you visited to examine the kittens. The fire crackles, and the cat family lies comfortably in the cat bed in the corner. The queen lifts her head to look at you, but when you don't approach, she settles again. There's a small squeak from one of the kittens as they nurse.
"They're doing well?" you ask curiously, gesturing to the cats.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. I think so. I don't bottle-feed anymore. They're all growing and the littlest is almost caught up."
You smile, truly relieved. "That's great."
"Yeah. Here, sit down."
Realizing that you'll be staying at least a little while, you admit defeat and lower your jacket from your shoulders, draping it over the padded armchair before sitting down. Jeongguk sets the glass of water down on the table in front of you before taking a seat on the far end of the couch. Turning his body to face you, he leans back comfortably.
You bite your lip, rummaging through your small bag and fishing out a notebook and a pen.
"Do you mind if I..." you ask, holding them up.
He shakes his head. "No, go ahead."
But when you open the notebook, you find yourself staring at the first page. It's blank. All of the anatomical aspects and biological questions you had are blurred together, and you can't find a single loose thread to start with.
"I thought you'd drown me in questions," Jeongguk jokes.
You glance up at him but quickly lower your eyes again. Seeing him leaned back like that—manspreading with his thick thighs and his also-very-thick, veiny arms resting on the back and the armrest—is not doing your focus any favors. You think you can trace a single vein from just around the base of his index finger, all the way up to and over his bicep. And that's just what you see before the t-shirt hides it. At least the fangs seem to be... gone?
"Believe me, I have questions," you mumble. "I just don't know... where to start."
"Well, what do you do when you examine your patients?"
"My patients are animals," you say, tilting your head. "But okay... First... I guess I don't want to pry—I mean, I do, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable, so I'll try to keep it... respectful. I guess I'll just start with the basics?"
"Sounds like a plan."
"Okay, uh..." you look at him, trying to estimate his stats. "You're male, around 180 centimeters tall and... 75 kilos?"
"89 kilos."
Nodding, you note down the numbers. It's not too much of a shocker that he's heavier than you assumed, seeing as muscle, per unit of volume, weighs more than fat. He's clearly very strong, but 89 kilos—196 lbs—of what looks like pure muscle?
"How old are you?"
"322."
"I'm sorry, what?" You blink a few times, lifting your gaze to see him grinning.
"Yeah. I was born 322 years ago, although physiologically..." He pauses, thinking. "I'd probably be around... 28 or so."
"You're not saying you're actually immortal, are you?"
It's with wide eyes you inspect him, trying to somehow see if his skin has some kind of impenetrable barrier or if he's surrounded by a magical... shining purple aura or something. A vampire's rumored immortality was always something you disregarded and chalked up to pop culture. There are organisms with incredibly long lifespans—like the Greenland shark, which could theoretically live to 500 years—but those are exceptions. Rarities, really.
"No. You can still kill a vampire, though it takes a lot more than killing a human. But we rarely die of old age."
"How come?" you ask, jotting down a sloppy summary of what he's telling you.
"Okay, I can tell you what I know, but you have to understand that I'm not an expert."
"But you're a vampire? Supposedly."
"How many humans know more than the very, very basics of their own anatomy? I'd argue a majority don't even know how many holes a human woman has. Vampire anatomy isn't... documented to the extent that human anatomy is either."
You blink, surprised by his bluntness. "True. So what can you tell me?"
"We don't really age. You know how you guessed we don't run on glucose like humans?"
"Yeah?" you nod, figuratively on the edge of your seat.
"You're right. We mainly run on the iron and proteins found in blood. It helps us heal a lot faster, and our cells just... don't die. Or—well—the cell regeneration never slows or falters."
"Interesting. Iron isn't toxic to you at that level? At all?"
"No, it's what sustains us."
You put your pen to the notebook in your lap, scribbling quickly. "Then an increased level of iron, if not toxic, means more oxygen faster delivered to tissue. Like muscle. That's probably also why you'd be stronger. I would kill to analyze some of your blood. You have blood, right? And a beating heart? You're not some kind of— "
Your phone rings, loud and clear.
"Shit, I gotta take this," you say when you pull out your phone to read Namjoon's name on the caller ID.
"Hello?"
"Hey, can I ask a favor? Are you sober and free?"
"Uh, yeah," you reply, already knowing roughly what it is that he needs help with. "What's up?"
"I'm treating a colicking horse at the Kim's, and now the Shin farm just called. One of their cows is dystocic. Looks like the calf's been stuck for a while, so they need help."
"Okay, I'll go. Can you tell them I'm on my way? I'll be there in..." you flick your wrist to glance at your watch. "Twenty minutes. I think I have the essentials in the car already, but tell them to have a few buckets of warm water and some towels ready."
"Will do. Thank you."
You hang up, immediately shoving your notebook and pen back into your bag. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Run, actually."
"Cow in need?"
"Yeah."
"Hope it goes well."
"Me too."
"Was this enough to satisfy your curiosity?" he grins, almost as if teasing you.
"Are you kidding? Of course not, but I really have to go," you say, giving him a pained expression while putting your jacket back on.
"Then come back?"
You disregard the way your heart skips another beat. "Tonight? I don't know how long this will take."
"Some other day, then? I don't know how long I'll be in town for, but a few weeks at least."
"I'd love to, I really would, believe me. But I'm so busy. We've had a flu outbreak at the clinic, so I'm covering night shifts for the coming days."
He tilts his head again, watching you put the bag across your body. "You don't need to sleep?"
"I catch some hours here and there. We don't have many inpatients at the moment, so it's rather slow. They just need someone to be in the building and check on them regularly."
"Want me to come visit?"
You glance at him while adjusting the bag, making sure everything's secure.
"Why are you so... willing to do this?"
He chuckles, leaning forward in his seat. "Your eyes literally glittered when you talked about these... animals with mythical creature features. And now they glitter when you look at me. Forgive a guy for enjoying attention."
Blood travels to your cheeks. Why do you have to be such a nerd? But you guess it makes sense; we all like to feel appreciated, maybe even a little marveled over.
"I'm leaving now," you announce, turning away from a happy-looking Jeongguk. "I'll be alone at the clinic from eight p.m. the coming days, so just come if and when you have the time. I'll try to actually prepare my questions."
"Alright, want me to see you to the door?"
"Nope, I'm fine," you say, hearing him laugh.
<previous | next>
author's note: hope you liked it!! i'd be very happy if you told me if you did (and maybe reblogged it)! <3
title credit: night crawlers - kids in glass houses
pairing: drugrunner!jungkook x sugarbaby!reader, college au
synopsis:
jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too.
but he doesn’t expect to run into you.
in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning.
there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it.
so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?
warnings: jungkook and o/c are polar opposites, but y’know what they say, opposites attract and all that jazz, jk is a college student but also a drug runner, mentions of gang dynamics and hierarchy, oc is a sugar baby, mentions of consensual but uncomfortable sexual encounters as a result of this (proceed with caution), drugs, violence, blood, motorbikes, hurt/comfort, all the good stuff, smut – fingering, tittie sucking (wow pretend to be shocked!), unprotected sex, jk has the hugest cawk in the whole entire world, jk is a lil aggressive but in a sexy way, he accidentally says something mean during sex (not sexy mean, actually mean (he makes up for it tho!)), jk on top, oc on top, mentions of his pubes (yummy), tummy pressing, kissy kissy kissy koo, creampie, post-coitus nap, they’re literally in love idk what to tell you, ambiguous ending!!
wordcount: 26K
note from holly: originally published to wattpad in 2021 and also briefly uploaded to tumblr, too. It’s just hit 100k reads over on wattpad so I thought I’d put it here too!! There are two additional chapters on wattpad, connecting the story another fic of mine and also showing us jk + oc four years on from the events of NC!! If you’re interested, you can find it here (x).
i write in british english!! both in spelling and dialect!!
minors dni // cross posted to wattpad
IT'S BEEN SAID that with great notoriety, comes great responsibility to uphold the expectations of those who presume the worst about you.
Okay, so that's a lie. No one's ever said that - but Jeon Jungkook has never been one for sticking to traditions, and so he likes to live his life as if that's his motto.
That, and 'rather be dead than cool.'
Which is ironic, because it's only the heteropatriarchal bores - the ones from upper-class families, who want a white picket fence and 2.4 kids - that actually think he's lame.
And he doesn't particularly give a shit about their opinions.
Black nails, black cargo pants, black hair that waves loosely over his sharp features. An air of command as he walks, a swagger in his step that lingers in stranger's heads like the silage of his aftershave.
Yeah, Jungkook is cool, and he fucking knows it.
A rucksack is perpetually slung over his shoulder, the top concaved slightly to indicate there's very little in there, not much more than a tatty notepad and a few loose pens - or so you assume.
You've never actually spoken to him. Why would you?
Daddy's little princess, glossy lips, manicured nails. The kind of girl who gives him a second look, but only to sneer. He doesn't think of you often, but when he does, it's never nice.
Jungkook doesn't have time for you, and you don't have time for him. Your paths rarely cross.
At least they barely crossed. Past tense.
Now that you're taking a few of the same classes as him, he sees you a lot more than he likes. Hair always up in that stupid fucking ponytail that he can't see past, perpetually on your phone. Attention seeking little bitch.
He'd ranted a little to Jimin about it, told him that you really must have been a dumb bitch to swap from an economics major to a film studies major with only a single semester left.
Jimin hadn't said much in return. Unlike Jungkook and his insatiable hate-boner for you, Jimin really doesn't give a shit about you. Barely knows your name, let alone the fact that you studied economics before switching over. Was kind of curious as to how Jungkook knew that. Not enough to bother with asking, though.
Jungkook thinks it's normal to scope out the competition. A little Facebook look-up, Naver search, Instagram scroll. Surely it's rational to do that? Check out their LinkedIn, cross-reference their Twitter history to see what they've said about the course.
It absolutely isn't normal, but then again, nor is Jungkook.
He's exactly as he appears to be; the rogue look isn't a front.
But beneath the exterior, there are a few more traditions he's subverting.
He's the first in his family to attend college, and he needs to ace this class to keep his scholarship.
It's all just projection, the way he despises you.
You've got everything he wants. A well-to-do family, money, prosperity, financial security. He's never known that. And while he shits on you for having parents that have provided for you, all he wants in life is to be able to do the same for his own children one day.
"I've matched you all with students of a similar grade level, so no one is at an unfair advantage," your professor calls out, tearing Jungkook from his thoughts. "Not a single one of you will experience the city in the same way. From shortcuts to your favourite coffee spots, your lives here will have been different to those of your peers."
Jungkook smirks, leaning back on his chair. He knows this city better than most; its dark corners, where the monsters lurk... how to hide and where to run.
Again, the rogue look isn't a front.
But he also knows how to work a camera better than anyone in that room, how to time his shots, how to frame them, too. Top of the class, though modestly quiet about it (he's got a reputation to uphold, after all), he's curious to see who would be considered an even match for him.
"That being said, your experiences are also shared with those around you. For this assignment, with your partner, I want you to create a unique piece of film that captures what the city means to you. Think outside the box. Create something that excites, that invokes. You've got eight weeks. The partner list is on the noticeboard at the back of the hall. Dismissed."
Footsteps echo around the lecture hall as everyone trundles out of the room. You wait back, having already seen the list before you entered the class.
Instead, you pull out a pen - one of the ones that Jungkook hates, with a ridiculous fluffy pink pom-pom on top - and jot down your number. You aren't aware of his insatiable hatred, and either way, you don't really care.
He ignores you as you approach his desk, eyes only drifting upwards when you slide the torn-out piece of paper towards him.
"Mhmm?"
He's rude, you notice. Brows raised, expression flat, he's fed up with you before you've even said a word. Kinda hot, admittedly, but rude.
"We're partners," you say with an ambivalent shrug. Jungkook's jaw seems to tense, head tilting as he breathes out a short smirk.
Partners?
"You haven't even gone out to check the board."
"So what?" You scoff a little. He doesn't like your tone. The feeling is mutual. "I just made it up?"
It's his turn to shrug, now. "Dunno. You tell me."
His hair waves around his features, and you wonder how long it takes him to make it look so natural. The girls around campus swoon over his hair, like he's some kind of God. Other boys try to emulate it, but they can never quite pull it off like he does.
Another thing that all the girls giggle about are his doe-like eyes, but they're hard, now. Narrow, almost. Less of a doe, more like a dragon. Maybe if you get his nostrils flaring, he'll breathe fire, too.
Yeah, he's hot, you want to laugh to yourself, but not that hot.
"I checked before I came in. Didn't take a genius to work out what it was for."
He takes a moment before he nods. "Right. Well, you should probably know that I work better alone. Just let me handle the assignment, a'right? You can put your name on it, whatever, I don't care. Just let me handle it."
A control freak, you note. Nice.
You didn't transfer majors in your last semester, and face all the hardships that came with such a decision, just to sit back and let someone else do the hard work for you.
"With all due respect, it's a joint assignment. I'm not putting my name on work I didn't actually do."
A stickler for the rules, he assesses. Fucking fastastic.
"Look," he sighs, adjusting his body so that he's practically leaning halfway over his desk. As much as it sounds like he doesn't want to be a part of this conversation, his body language is oddly engaged. "I need to ace this class. You've been here, what? All of three minutes? Film what you wanna film, send it over to me for editing."
"I'm very much capable of editing-"
"And if you could do me a favour and keep the nail salon footage to a minimum, that would be much appreciated. Everyone's seen that shit. It's not interesting. Gangnam underground shopping centre B-roll, too."
It's a thinly veiled insult. Assumptions he's making about you based on the clothes you wear and the company you keep. He doesn't explicitly say it, but you know what he means: you're not interesting.
Jungkook doesn't mean to be an asshole. Not really. He's just got a lot riding on this course, and doesn't want to risk it all for the sake of keeping the peace with someone he doesn't particularly like in the first place.
"Like our Professor said, we all experience the city differently," you plaster a smile on your face, the plastic kind that Jungkook hates. "You might just be surprised at what I can offer."
Private tennis clubs and shopping sprees worth more than a second-hand car? Yeah, no. He'll pass, thanks.
"Whatever," he reclines back, giving your number the once over before tearing a strip of empty paper from the bottom of the note. His hand moves quickly, scrawling his own number onto it. He doesn't hand it to you, but instead tosses it down onto the desk as he stands. "As I said, I work best alone. Don't bombard me with messages about the project. I'll have it under control."
He vacates his desk with an air of arrogance that you don't think he's yet earnt. Sure, he's hot, and from what you've seen of his work, he's pretty talented, too. But no one likes working with assholes, and the whole point of being at college was to make yourself a desirable candidate for jobs.
Or at least that's what your parents had always said.
When they were still talking to you, that was.
Before they decided that you're a disgrace to the family name, all for the simple desire of not wanting to spend your life slaving over finances and spreadsheets.
Like inheritance and a slightly crooked nose (straightened out for your high school graduation gift), econ majors ran in your family - and just like you'd cut off your parents' dream of watching you become an economist, they'd cut you off. Full stop.
So as far as you were concerned, Jungkook could take his arrogant whining about your financial situation, and the hobbies you might have enjoyed as a result of your upbringing, and shove it up his ass.
You really wish he would. Shove it up his ass, that is. Might relieve him of the pent up tension he seems to have going on.
Swiping up his number, you tuck it into your back pocket, ruing the day you'll actually have to text it.
It comes as a surprise to both of you when, a week later, Jungkook is the first to type a message into your fledgeling chat window.
I'm filming tonight. Could use a Grip, if you're free. Dongdaemun Design Plaza, 7pm.
You wonder how much pride he must have had to swallow in order to send you that.
On occasion, during the past week, you've caught him looking at you in that slightly menacing way he always likes to do.
Part of you thinks he's unaware that he's doing it, just zoning out in your direction, but then you see him shake sense into himself - quite literally, a bunny with an itch behind its ear kind of shake - before he averts his gaze.
He does a similar shake of his head when your response pings through to his phone.
Can't do Tuesdays or Thursdays. Sorry. Maybe another time.
He doesn't reply.
REJECTION HAS NEVER been something Jungkook has taken well. It's why he works so hard, fearful of being told that he isn't good enough.
He'd only sent that text because he genuinely did need a Grip.
Well, no.
That's not quite right.
He needed a muse; a subject of his shots, a pair of eyes to catch the confetti of night market lights in. Someone's hand to film as they exchanged money with a hotteok stand server, another human to get lost and found all within the same shot.
But that felt awkward to ask, especially after his insistence that he could do it all alone, so he'd settled for pretending he'd needed a grip. Just someone to hold his gear while he took tricky shots. That's all.
Given your rejection, he was pleased with his choice.
"Familiar," Yoongi nods over lunch the next day, following Jungkook's gaze. "Yeah, I've definitely seen her around. Dunno where, though."
"Campus, maybe?" Jimin rolls his eyes, confused at the fixation Jungkook seems to have on you.
Yoongi shakes his head. "Nah... She looks like-" he glances over to Jungkook conscious of Jimin's listening ears.
"Like?"
"Just like a girl I see occasionally," Yoongi pauses again, making sure Jungkook's focus on him. "At work."
Jimin laughs. "So yeah, on campus. You work in the campus cafe, Yoongs."
It was the only legitimate place that would hire him. Dumb choices as a kid - and a questionable nickname that's now etched into his knuckles - prevents most places from seeing him as a viable candidate.
Yoongi laughs along with Jimin, but Jungkook knows Yoongi isn't talking about the once a week shift that he picked up as a form of extra credit.
Jungkook knows, because on paper, he doesn't have a job either.
On paper, he manages to survive on his scholarship bursary, The Holangi Honour, awarded to gifted students from underprivileged backgrounds.
On paper, Jungkook is the Korean dream of hard work and perseverance.
His reality isn't so pristine, but it never has been. He comes from a long line of high school dropouts with dubious morals and criminally reckless career choices. It was naive to have thought attending university would help him escape it.
Scholarship funds dried up pretty quickly, rent and t-money cards eating away at it, until Jungkook had no choice but to revisit old haunts.
Yoongi had told Jungkook that he didn't need to worry, that he could help him out if he needed money, but Jungkook was no leech, much to his older friend's despair. He didn't want the kid getting into the same trouble that he was in.
One meeting with Yoongi's old school friend, Hoseok and Jungkook was in the rat race again, delivering people's come ups for when the sun went down.
He'd always been good at running. Track, field, red lights, out of luck. Drugs, now, too.
Jungkook had managed a good year and a half on the straight and narrow. For that, he was proud. And sad.
But he's also determined.
Top grades mean top jobs in the future, which means never having to traipse around Daerim at ass o'clock in the morning.
He hates this part of town, but it's where business is currently booming.
Hobi texts him a drop-off list each morning, ensuring his nights are almost exclusively spent in Daerim.
This is how Jungkook sees the city: grotty back allies, groups of men huddled around a pack of cards and dice on the floor, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, phlegm spat onto the foor. He sees the women of the night in the early hours of the morning, and the sadness in the smiles they give to the men who approach them on street corners.
There's only one club of any worthwhile note in the area, and between jobs, Jungkook likes to sit up on the fire exit that rests above the back entrance.
It's where Hobi works, assisting some other reprobate that Jungkook doesn't care to learn the name of. Nasty piece of work, or so he's heard. The son of some powerful motherfucker that Jungkook knows to stay away from. He isn't interested in joining any stupid fucking gang. He just wants to get his money, get through university, and forget about this place.
That's the big dream at least.
His current wish, which feels much more immediate, is to outrun the fucker who has been on his tail for the past half a mile. Jungkook's pretty fast on his feet, and he gives a mean left-hook, but the guy chasing him has a pocket knife and that doesn't really feel like a fair fight.
It's his fault, and he knows it.
As per usual, Hobi had texted Jungkook his drop off list. Six of them, all in Daerim. He had no business being down by Jungang Market, especially not on a Thursday evening.
He couldn't even explain why he was; he was just curious about what life could be like if he ended up flunking out of college. He wanted to see where the monsters liked to lurk, or if they hid in the shadows like boogeymen.
But reprobate recognises reprobate, and drug runner recognises drug runner.
So now Jungkook really is running, out of territory that he shouldn't have infringed upon.
He's not out of breath yet, but he is conscious that his heartbeat feels like it's in his throat. A few streets over, his motorbike is parked behind an industrial-sized trash can, and he prays that no thieving cunt has tried to make a get away with it. They wouldn't have managed it - it's his prized possession and he never leaves it unprotected.
When he spots it a few minutes later, he laughs, relieved. "You beauty," he praises the engine, pulling his key from the pocket of his leather jacket.
The fucker chasing him is nowhere to be seen, probably nursing a stitch or panting down a different back alley. Jungkook doesn't want to risk it, eyes darting all over the place as he unbuckles the chain on his bike wheel with muscle memory alone. The metal clangs through the iron bars that protect the banjihas down the alley from break-ins. He always feels a little bit of guilt for chaining his bike up to the only source of natural light for the half-basement dwellings, but it's quarter past two in the morning. Not exactly sunshine hours.
And yet his eye is drawn to the light pouring down from a street lamp at the entrance of the narrow lane.
Usually, you ignore the noises you hear on your walk home - but, as strange as it sounded for Jungkook's voice to issue a compliment, you're almost positive that it is his voice.
Dark hair, dark eyes, he doesn't recognise you at first. You're wearing black, and your hair is down, but your lips still have that stupid fucking pink lipstick on, the one he'd seen you blot away onto a tissue in the middle of a lecture a few days prior.
His eyes linger, the lights flickering in his glossy dark irises as if there are fireworks inside that pretty little skull of his. For a moment, he thinks you must have been filming for the assignment.
The lack of a camera proves otherwise.
"Get on the bike," he yells over to you, tugging on the sleeve of his leather jacket, pulling it down. Cognitive thoughts aren't something Jungkook's really working with, the adrenaline speaking for him.
That, and the fact that he's acutely aware of what men like the motherfucker who was chasing him down did to girls like you. Might not like you, but he doesn't want that on his conscience.
Plus, he needs your signature on the coursework documents, too. You're no use to him if you end up chopped into little squares and scattered in the river.
"Damnit, just get on the fucking bike!" He continues, noticing that you haven't moved a muscle. His jacket is off now, held out for you to take. He's impatient, eyes darting down the alleyway, as if he's scared of the rain that's pouring down around you. "Look, I ain't asking again. Just get on the bike, or I'll fuckin' leave you here. Some nasty fuckers about tonight."
And while you may not trust Jungkook, you don't trust the alleyways of downtown Seoul even more. You've seen the horrors. You know the dangers. Your mother didn’t raise a fool.
She also didn't raise you to bow to the commands of assholes like him either.
You ignore his jacket, hiking up your skirt, revealing far more of your thigh than most get to see. He doesn't make a comment, but you know he sees a flash of your underwear as you do so.
For once, sex seems to be the last thing on his mind.
Rain pools in the gutter by the drainpipes, trickling down, collecting in the ducts. A puddle sits on top, a tell-tale sign that the street is going to flood soon, but Jungkook also doesn't give a shit about that. Not right now - but he does make a mental note to check that the drains are unblocked by his place when he gets home.
He's a fellow basement dweller, dependent on the cheap rent. A banjiha boy with big dreams of getting out.
You hoist your leg over, ignoring the droplets of water on the leather seat, as your hand wraps around his waist. The front of his white shirt is damp from the rain, elevating the scent of his laundry detergent. You don't hate it. Quite like it, actually.
"Wet conditions," he rasps, voice still hurrying out of his mouth. "So take the jacket. If I slide, the tarmac will rip your skin off." He turns, wrapping the jacket around your shoulders. "I'm not your father. Dress yourself."
"I'd be a bit concerned if my father was trying to dress me at the ripe old age of 21," you bite back, as if the fabric of his jacket doesn't feel like it's melting into your skin on account of how bloody warm he is. You push your arms through the material, shaking it ever so slightly as Jungkook begins to rev the engine.
"Thanks would have sufficed," he bites back a scoff, not wanting to waste time arguing. "Try not to fall off, a'right?" He gruffs.
Some would have considered his concern endearing. You know it's just because he doesn't want to spend his evening scraping your flesh off the sidewalk. Not because he gives a single flying fuck about you.
"Hold on."
He doesn't wait for longer than a second, just enough time for you to wrap your arms around his waist, before he pulls down on the accelerator. His exhaust chortles, spitting out petrol as he goes, water from the ground splashing up against your bare leg. You can feel goosebumps forming, and yet your arms are completely warm.
Of course they are. Jungkook's chest is a fucking furnace, heart pumping blood through him faster than the speed of light. Forward, forward, forward, he pushes his bike on, away from the downtown area he found you in, and away from the demons who were hunting him.
The vibration of the bike is a welcome disguise. Beneath the motor's veil, you're shaking. Partly terrified, partly the victim of an adrenaline surge.
Hardly a surprise. You've never been on a bike like his before.
There weren't many men on motorbikes around your neighbourhood as a child, only Old Jinyeon, who had a Harley that he only rode on the weekends, or when his wife was away at that spa retreat that everyone knew was really code for 'rehab'. Prescription medication was her poison, mostly. There were whispers that alcohol was a bit of a problem, too.
It was a shame, really. She was a nice lady - she'd just married into a lifestyle that didn't suit hers.
Old Jinyeon's father had also been called Old Jinyeon, and his father before that, regardless of their age. The name wasn't the only thing inherited, but a fortune too. Old by name, old by money.
He'd met his wife at a gentleman's bar; gambled all of his chips away just so that he could keep talking to her as she worked.
But the good is rarely easy, and the easy never good. Women like her weren't supposed to be with men like him.
And girls like you aren't supposed to be on the back of boys like Jungkook's motorcycle.
But here you are, hurtling through the city at a speed you're pretty sure isn't legal, clinging onto him for dear life. Your eyes are shut, streaming with tears from the wind, mascara blotting onto his back.
"Left turn," he calls over his shoulder to brace you. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, stomach losing all stability as he rounds the corner. You've never suffered from travel sickness before, but now seems like the prime time to develop it.
The lights of the city all bleed into one kaleidoscope of colour. Your sense of direction has been rendered useless, only opening your eyes once every few seconds to make sure that this is real. And every single time, you're surprised to find that it is.
You expect it to be like a dream where you fall, only to wake up at the last second - but you've never had one of those dreams. You've only seen them in movies. You're not even sure they actually exist in real life. Perhaps this would be the closest you'd get to one. A main character moment - though this felt more like a crime-thriller than the rom-com you would have liked.
The feeling of damp wind in your hair like this is new, and exciting, but all you can think about is the fact that you're pretty sure one of your fake lashes just flew off. You pull your hand back to stroke at your lashes, just to check, but it's caught by Jungkook grabbing for it.
"I told you to hold on," he shouts, though he doesn't need to. The vibrations of his vibrato can be felt through his back. "So hold the fuck on, a'right?! I don't say shit like that for fun."
Jesus, you think. Who pissed in his cornflakes?
But he's right. You do need to hold on. He proves it by not warning you the next time he turns, the bike leaning so close to the tarmac that you're convinced you can feel rubber burn. He eases as soon as he hears you shriek, the grip you have on his chest so hard he swears you might puncture his skin. Reaching back, he cups your knee with his palm, checking for any sign of blood or broken skin. Negative. And yet his hand lingers before he retracts it. He's just making sure. Double-checking. Over-indulging.
"The fuck was that, asshole?" You all but scream.
"I told you to hold on, didn't I?!"
He did. And if you weren't doing so now, tighter than before, you'd have hit him so hard in the balls that he'd have no choice but to adopt in later life.
"You could have fucking killed me!"
"Oh, boo-hoo," he sneers, catching his tongue before he says something he'll grow to regret.
Jungkook would never have killed you. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, and how to ride his bike almost as well as he knows how to get himself off. It's second nature. Innate. A gift.
But before you can argue back, he draws to a stop, his exhaust rattling, the motor purring. As much as he'd like to tell you to get the fuck off his bike, he can feel you trembling now. A part of him - a very slim, deeply hidden part - feels guilty for being so hard on you.
He's grown up with bikes. Trusts them. Lives, breathes gasoline.
He doesn't imagine you know how to change a bicycle tyre, let alone anything with a motor.
The hand that had checked you for damage earlier returns, his fingertips warm against your goosebumps skin. He strokes lightly, once, twice, quickly. "You're fine," he tells you, and you want to believe him.
"Never said I wasn't."
He snorts a small laugh, then taps your knee, encouraging you off of the bike. His hand remains close as you do so, conscious of the fact that you'll most likely be unsteady on your feet - feet that he now notices are clad in the strappiest pair of heels he's ever seen in his life. Perhaps he doesn't need to worry about your stability at all. If you can walk in those, then you can surely handle a pair of wobbly knees.
Without much thought, you take his offer of assistance, his jacket dwarfing you as you stand, hand clasped in his.
"Where are we?"
The alleyway you're down is unlike the previous one he stole* you from (*rescued). It's cobbled and damp, yes, but the doors down here lead to dwellings, garages too. Not an industrial-sized trash cart in sight. And it doesn't smell like fermented piss either, which is a surprise. You thought that was just the standard for side-streets around these parts.
"Doesn't matter," Jungkook shrugs ambivalently as he unhooks his leg over the bike.
He wants to ask why you're wearing such stupid shoes.
That's a lie.
He doesn't think they're stupid.
He actually quite likes them. You've nice ankles. They look good.
What he really wants to ask is why you're wearing them on a school night. The pair of you might be in college, but it wasn't student night at the clubs, and he hadn't picked you up from a particularly nice part of town.
There are only three types of women he ever sees in Daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. You aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get Percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. He's sure of it.
So it then further begs the question: why the fuck were you there?
Sliding off his jacket, you offer him a small smile. It's the least you can do, you suppose.
It's funny, because you only ever see three kinds of men in Daerim: drunks, gamblers, and dealers. Jungkook isn't any of those. You might not know that much about him, but you know he's a scholarship kid, and that he won the winter film festival on campus for his documentary on back-alley gambling.
"We're not too far from campus," he eventually states. Few blocks over. He assumes you live on campus. Got the money for it.
"Cool," you nod, sure that you'll be able to find your bearings from here. You don't live on campus. Not anymore. No money for it. "Thanks for the lift, I guess."
The atmosphere is awkward, dewy mist in the air dampening both of you. He nods back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
He knows he should invite you in, offer you somewhere to wait while you call a cab or something, but he's embarrassed. Of himself. His living situation. The fact that he doubts you've ever even been in a basement that isn't a wine cellar.
"Look I-"
"So-"
Jungkooks nose scrunches, cringing at the awkwardness. You glance down, self-conscious.
"What were you doing over in Daerim?" he asks rather out of the blue. He doesn't even process that he's asked until it's too late.
You clear your throat a little. "Just had some errands to run."
"At two in the morning?"
You nod.
"Right," he doesn't believe you, but can't think of a better explanation.
"Well, what were you doing there?" You ask, albeit a little more confrontational than intended. You were on the defensive.
His mouth is flat as he speaks, a narrowness to his eyes that makes your lips purse to suppress a smirk. "Running errands."
So you're both dirty little liars. Who'd've thought?
"Fairplay," you say with a smile. "Look, I still appreciate the ride. I'd have been fine," you add."But yeah, appreciate it nonetheless."
"Was nothing. I was headed in this direction anyway. If you take a left at the end of the street and follow the road down, there's usually a bunch of taxis waiting for the university cleaners to finish their night shifts. I'm sure you'll be able to get one."
"Take a left," you hum. "Cool. Will do." Bracing yourself to leave, Jungkook wonders if he should offer you a lift to your place too. "See you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Yeah, tomorrow. Class? That thing we attend during daylight hours?"
"Oh right. Yeah. See you tomorrow."
Bizarrely enough, if this is how awkward Jungkook is when he's being nice, you think you prefer him being an asshole. At least he has a little spark in him then.
Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook feels overloaded with fucking sparks, like someone's holding an axe grinder against the metal of his earrings, deafening him. The reality of his evening is kicking in, and the knowledge that he came a few metres from having a hole in his abdomen becomes overwhelming. He doesn't let it show, though.
"Thanks, again."
You make a promise to punch yourself in the face if you say thank you one more fucking time.
"It's fine, again," he smiles, with a small laugh, before focusing those eyes of his on the floor.
And so you leave, walking straight past the taxi rank and taking a shortcut to your apartment, which is a lot closer than you had realised.
Seven steps below street level, you jog down to your front door, petting the neighbourhood calico stray on your way down. The door closes with a slam, but you don't give a shit because the people in the apartment above never seem to give a shit when they stumble home at four in the morning.
Before he sleeps that evening, Jungkook wonders how much of the skyline you get to indulge in. Your dad works in the accounting side of one of the largest law firms in the city, he knows that much from his research. Knows that your immediate family has more money than probably all of his relatives combined. Alive and dead.
He just isn't aware that you're not seeing a single dime of it. Not since you dropped out of the economics and business side of school to focus on the creative arts. All that money your parents had 'wasted' on your education? Well, they weren't wasting any more.
Because you're a commodity, to be bought and sold, apparently. Not their daughter, who they should have just wanted to be happy.
So now you spend your Tuesday and Thursday evenings down in Daerim.
Because you are a commodity; and if anyone's gonna be selling you, then it may as well be your fucking self.
A stack of yellow 50,000 won bills sit on your desk. Twelve of them. 600,000 won. Not bad for a week's work. 6 hours.
Might have been cut off from your Dad's money, but your replacement 'daddy' wasn't a bad substitute.
The bluntness of such a statement usually makes you laugh, but not today.
If Jungkook knows the Daerim area like you think he does, then he'll be able to work it out soon enough. A bitterness fills your chest, like coffee dripping through a filter, forgotten about and left to go cold. You've been so good at playing pretend.
Secrets are so much easier to keep when they're not shared.
Perhaps that should be your project piece.
Secrets of Seoul: The Seedy Underbelly of The City.
After all, that was your unique view of the city; the side you saw that you were pretty sure no-one else did.
At least, no one else except Jungkook. Go figure.
"SEVEN WEEKS LEFT!" Your professor reminds the class as they dismiss you from your lecture. There's a little chatter, partners sharing ideas and friends discussing what to have for lunch - and then there's you and Jungkook.
He waits by the end of his row for you to walk to meet him, an inconspicuous look on his face.
The girl who he's watching neatly put a fluffy pen into her handbag looks a lot like you, but a hell of a lot different from the girl he gave a lift to last night.
Who the fuck are you?
Jungkook has always liked a little mystery. Seen the romanticism in the unknown. Still doesn't like you - but you've gotten him curious.
"You haven't sent anything over yet," he notes, keeping a slight distance from you as you walk together up the stairs.
"You told me not to bombard you," you remind him.
"Sending me video files once in a blue moon is fine."
"Once in a blue moon. Gotcha."
It's Friday, so he knows it's not one of your pre-determined days of having prior engagements.
It's only now that he realises that must have been why you were in Daerim last night; that your 'errands' are actually scheduled into your routine. It doesn't bode well for his 'not a hooker, an addict or a sugar-baby' theory.
"I was thinking of heading over to Dongdaemun this evening, seeing as you weren't free on Tuesday," he starts a little awkwardly, but the more he speaks, the easier it becomes. Being nice, that is. "I could still use a hand, if you're free? If you're serious about helping out, I mean. It would be good to make a start on things."
Relief washes over you. You've been fearing a conversation about the night before, but Jungkook doesn't want to talk about it just as much as you don't.
You meet him at seven o'clock that evening at Dongdaemun Design Plaza. You've always loved the green roof, how organic the landscaping looks above such a futuristic building. He listens as you explain this, eyes wide and in awe of the sloping pathways and curved walls, showing him your favourite of all the trees in the park.
Jungkook looks at you for a second, observes your hands, how they delicately move a few leaves to frame the shot you're taking. You've a Midas touch, and Jungkook wonders if your fingers would turn him to gold, too.
It's a silly, fleeting thought, but it doesn't stop him from focusing the camera on you as you roam Dongdaemun night market later that evening, lights cascading over you like glitter.
He thinks you're pretty in this light. Pretty when it's just him and you. No distractions.
Except there's hustle and bustle everywhere, a vendor chasing a thief, groups of high schoolers laughing on their way home from Hagwons, food sizzling, vapours making his stomach rumble. Perhaps you're the distraction, instead.
The pair of you spend the next week traipsing the city together.
Somehow, you only ever come together when the sun goes down, but it's fitting. You're a pair of nightcrawlers, swarming through the city when traffic sounds like a melody and destinations are unknown.
He learns that you drink your coffee black, no sugar, lukewarm. You learn that he'd rather rub coffee granules into his eyes than drink it.
And despite your preference for no sugar, he always tosses a little white sachet towards you whenever you order a coffee. He finds it funny. Insists that you have to be a sugar baby. It's the only way he can explain that night he saw you Daerim.
He's just joking. And you pretend not to, but you find it hysterical.
Mainly because he doesn't realise how bang on the money he is.
But also because you can't help but laugh whenever he does.
There's a comfort that grows between the pair of you, a familiarity. A casual ease that doesn't feel dangerous, not even when he's pulsing through the city on his bike, you holding onto him, his leather jacket wrapped around your body. You begin to like the way that the wind feels in your hair, and you stop wearing fake lashes. Jungkook doesn't tell you, but he likes you better with a few freckles showing, dewy highlighter and a little mascara being the only makeup you wear for the midnight city roams.
It's only because you can't be wasting resources reserved for clients on a boy from your film studies class. Times are tough, money is tight. No point in pouring funds into a boy you won't make revenue from. It's a bad business decision.
A few months ago, you did your makeup multiple times a day just for fun. Now you have to ration it. Life... life isn't what it used to be.
But Jungkook is ignorant to that, and you quite like it. Escaping from your reality. Becoming the version of yourself that he thinks you are.
He isn't sure which version of you he wants to spend time with the most; the too-good for him daddy's girl who dresses in Celine and comes with a pout, the enigma who lurks in the shadows that he thought he had a monopoly over, or the master director who seems to rival his talents for capturing moments of life in 4K.
As he watches your brows furrow while you turn your phone upside down, trying to understand a map, he decides that he doesn't care which version he gets.
Jungkook wants what he wants.
There's an impulsion to his desires and subsequent actions that he takes to obtain them. He's driven by gratification, and little else.
On the days he wants to feel wanted, he'll go to a bar. He never whispers false promises or pretends like he's after anything more than what can be achieved in a single night. The girls he goes for tend to see that as a challenge. They think they can convince him otherwise. It's not his fault when they can't. It's not his fault that they end up falling for him regardless. It's not his fault that he never has any intention of loving them back.
He tells them this. They ignore him. It isn't his fault.
On the days he wants to feel accomplished, he'll stay on campus until the cleaners usher him out of the room so that they can prepare it for the next day. Their insistence is lost on him - no amount of Cif can polish the dirt out of the walls. Once a shithole, always a shithole. He'll offer his apologies for getting in their way, and they'll coo over him like he's their own grandson. It's all very sweet.
They tell him not to overwork himself. He lies and says he won't.
On the days he wants to eat more than a single cup of ramyeon - which is most days, given his absolutely mammoth appetite - he'll send Hobi a text and request more drop-offs for that evening. Yoongi will give Jungkook a subtle look whenever a message from Hobi pings through, knowing it mustn't be good news. It never is.
Jungkook tells Yoongi to mind his business - but with a grin and a glint in his eye that eases his friends worry ever so slightly.
Disapproval never stops Jungkook from doing what he wants, regardless.
Not from his friends, from the cleaning ajummas, and especially not from you.
So he ignores the look in your eye, as he encourages you to follow him through a gap in the chainlink fence, which surrounds a disused water tower on the outskirts of the city.
Jungkook wants what he wants.
And right now, he wants to get a shot of the midnight city from his favourite vantage point.
"You said you've taken thousands of shots here," You hiss as a twig snaps beneath your foot. He smirks as you utter out a curse. "Surely you can just reuse one of those?!"
He guides you round, ignoring the ground level rubble, until you get to a ladder that definitely isn't safe for use. It's rusting by the bolts, and has a few vines trailing up it, undisturbed for months. Remnants of paint are flaking from the structure, collecting like ashes on the ground below.
"I have," he shrugs, unhooking your camera bag from your shoulder, popping it into his rucksack for safe keeping. He crouches, putting his palms upwards to offer you a leg up. "You haven't, though. You see the city differently to me, remember?"
He's taunting you. Reusing the phrase from your Professor that you had quoted to him on the first day of the project. Asshole.
Asshole with a smirk that suggests he's only teasing. Suggests that he's fond. Words that suggest he remembers the things you say to him. Memorises them, even.
Curious.
"Can't we just pretend like we see it the same way?"
"No can do, sugar."
"Oh my god, stop calling me that."
You're thankful for the midnight sky and the way it disguises your blush.
As if throwing packets of the white stuff at your face in coffee shops isn't enough, he's taken to calling you 'sugar', too.
"Give me a reason not to," he says as he tilts his head, encouraging you to accept his leg up. You check your feet for mud, then put your trust in his grip.
"I've already told you, I was just running errands," you defend yourself for the thousandth time. A short yelp escapes your lips as he boosts you up, your hands gripping onto the flaking bars beside the ladder.
He doesn't believe you for a second. He also doesn't believe that you're actually a sugar baby. It's just fun to fuck with you a little.
Once you're up, he waits for you to safely sit on the ledge, and then he makes the climb too. He's up a lot quicker than you, coming to sit beside you with his legs dangling over the ledge of the railings.
"Tell me it isn't worth it," Jungkook says a little airily, enamoured with the view.
And he's right. It is worth it.
A maze of city lights twinkle like the Carina nebula, interstellar, yet entirely of this earth. Bright whites, reds and greens speckle the horizon, and for a moment, it's easy to forget that you're looking at Seoul. There's a magic that can only be appreciated from a distance, far away from the scent of alleyways and the void nothingness of grey brick buildings. Skyscrapers tower above the skyline, but still look small from where you and Jungkook sit, silently, in awe.
"Look over there," he points across the vast expanse. You follow his trajectory, but you have no idea if you're picking out the right spot. "Daerim. Can always tell. Know the street layout too well."
"You're gonna get me thinking you're a sugar baby," you nudge your shoulder into his, and he laughs.
Reaching into his rucksack, you expect him to pull out your camera. Instead, his hand comes back into vision holding a pair of chopsticks and a tub of instant ramyeon. Uncooked.
He pulls the seal back, stabs at it with the chopsticks and offers you the small chunk he's broken off.
"It's good," he promises.
You know what dried ramyeon tastes like. You know it's good. You just can't understand what the fuck is wrong with him.
"Are you broken?"
He grins as he tosses the chunk of dried noodles into his own mouth. "Absolutely - but ramyeon is ramyeon."
You tell him he's weird, and he continues to smile, not resisting as you take the tub from him and break off a chunk with your fingers.
It's one of his favourite snacks. He's impatient and impulsive at the best of times. Waiting for it to cook? Too much effort. Cooking it at the convenience store and carrying it up the tower with him? Disaster waiting to happen. It's just easier this way.
And so the pair of you sit, not really saying much, watching the city roll by. Every now and again, he offers you a chunk from his chopsticks.
By the end of the night, neither of you have gotten any footage of the city.
And neither of you really care.
AS YOU SPRINT home after yet another spree around the city with Jungkook, running late for your Thursday evening appointment, you curse your inability to send his calls to voicemail.
You should really be working more. You need to be working more - but for the past four weeks now, you've answered every single one of his calls.
His messages? Yeah, you ignore those. He's learnt this, though. He messages you regardless, because... well, because he wants to, quite frankly. He doesn't give a shit if you respond.
He knows you read them.
He knows you saw that picture he sent of a flyer detailing a live art event last week. He knows that you noticed the veins on his arms.
You don't know that he'd spent a couple of minutes tensing his arm before he took the picture. Deliberately.
It's been said before that Jungkook wants what he wants - and what he wants more than anything, frustratingly, is your attention.
The way you study his arms the next time you see him proves that he's gotten it.
If anything, the delayed gratification makes it so much more worthwhile.
You have been thinking about him.
So as far as Jungkook is concerned, you can ignore his messages all you like, because you still always answer his calls with an airy 'hi,' as if talking to him takes your breath away.
The only time you don't answer is between the hours of eleven and two on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.
Chances are, if he just so happens to be in the area - which he always is - he'll catch you down on the wrong side of the tracks at just gone quarter past two.
He still calls you 'sugar', teasing you for the reputation of the area. You just roll your eyes and grin, then banter with him about how even if you were a sugar baby, he wouldn't be able to afford your prices.
He argues that he'd pay in ways that didn't include monetary value.
You don't ask him to expand.
But as you wipe your watery lash line in the bathroom of a shitty rental apartment in Daerim, you think about what he could have meant. If he actually meant it.
The TV blares from the living room, faint vapours of a mango e-cigarette wafting through the gap beneath the door. You've always thought mango smells like cat piss. Rancid.
Whatever Jungkook could have meant didn't matter. His flirty tone and angel eyes didn't pay the bills. The cash tossed down on the bathroom counter did - or more specifically, the widower, who occasionally wanted company from a pretty young girl, did.
A hundred thousand won for an hour, three hundred thousand total. It takes you just a week, two appointments, to make up the month's rent - but you still need to eat, to study, survive.
And so you return, every week.
It's not his actual apartment. He lives over in Gangnam, close to his kids' schools. More money than sense. He doesn't tell you much about his personal life. You think a lot of his small claims are lies, anyway - but you smile and flutter your lashes as if he's reciting bible verses.
Some nights are better than others. Sometimes, he genuinely makes you laugh. Occasionally, he'll ask you what you want to do. Takes you to museums. Fancy dinners. Theatre shows.
But he has a nasty streak, and in those three hours, you're his. He owns you. There's no sex, that's not the arrangement, but his hands have been known to roam, and the disparity of equality within your working relationship becomes apparent. You brush it off, tell yourself that it's natural for a man engaging with you in a romantic capacity to forget the rules. You tell yourself that it's okay.
The churning in your stomach and dis-ease of such a situation tells you that no, it isn't okay. But if you laugh at his painfully unfunny jokes loud enough, you're able to drown out the noise in your head.
The worst nights are the ones where he pays you extra.
There's no discussion anymore. The stack of notes is just thicker than usual upon arrival, and you know that at some point during the night, you'll have to sit in silence and watch as he sinks his hand down into his pants.
It's easy to forget the way it looks. Your eyes glaze over, and the discomfort, the slight disgust, indicated in your features gets him hard. He thinks it's taboo. Thinks you enjoy it too. That your panties look a lot like his hand by the time he's finished.
The snort-like grunts are what you find hard to forget. The wail of a moan that comes when he does. You hear that shit in your nightmares.
But it earns you an extra two hundred thousand, so you endure it because you don't have much of an option at this point.
Come 2 AM, cash stuffed down your bra, you don't have to think about it anymore. The fresh air of the city, a little smoggy and polluted, hits you like a freight train. You thank it.
When Jungkook enters Daerim that evening, he expects to find you. He normally does. You never look particularly happy - in fact, he often tells you that you've got a face like a slapped arse - but it's more so today.
He whistles from across the street, clad in black, a thick hoodie keeping him warm beneath his leather jacket. "Oi, Sugar," he calls, that boyish grin on his lips. Teeth so pretty you wonder how much novocaine it would take for you to be numb to the way it makes your stomach flip.
Eyes dancing up and down your body, he likes what you're wearing. Black tights, black dress that cuts off at your mid-thigh, a sweetheart neckline and chiffon sleeves that puff around your slender arms. He decides your boots are far more sensible than the heels you're usually in.
"That'll be twenty thousand, Jeon," you call back, arms folded over your chest as you change direction to walk towards him.
"Per hour?"
"Per every time you call me that stupid fucking name."
"What would you rather?" he goads, leaning against a window ledge on the back of a restaurant building. There's nothing down the alleyway, just trashbags and the distinct scent of fermenting piss. "Shugs? SB? Baby?"
You smirk, walking to the wall opposite him, mirroring his position, hands resting beside you on the ledge. There's a safe distance between the pair of you. A look, but don't touch type of vibe - but this time, unlike earlier on in your evening, you actually enjoy it.
"You really gotta make your mind up," your eyes roll, lips rising into a crescent. "One minute I'm a trust-fund princess with Daddy's money on tap, the next I'm a sugar baby with a different type of Daddy altogether."
Jungkook shrugs. "Just don't see why you waste your evenings roaming fucking Daerim of all places."
"Best dandanmian in the city," you say, referencing the abundance of traditional Chinese restaurants in the area. "Can't get the authentic stuff in Itaewon."
"Can't get hookers in Itaewon like you can in Daerim, either," he taunts you.
He doesn't really think you're a hooker, but he likes the way you grin whenever your eyes roll.
"Ah, so that's why you're here."
He holds his hands up to playfully admit defeat. "Guilty."
You laugh, knowing that there's no way in hell Jungkook will ever have to resort to hookers. Not when he looks like that. All doe-eyed and charming, floppy hair just begging for a pair of hands to run through it.
The pair of you let the moment simmer, droplets of water dripping from the drainpipe and into the sewer. He's lit by the neon light of a restaurant sign, red and yellow painting him like an impressionist masterpiece.
"You look cold," he acknowledges, but you shake your head and insist you're fine. Your hair is a little damp from the small shower you'd been caught in a little while previously, mascara smudged around your eyes. You looked like that before the rain, mind you. He shakes his jacket off and tosses it across to you, snorting quietly as it hits your face and crumples over your feet. "C'mon. I'm now about to ride home. I'll give you a lift."
He asks for your address, and you tell him that you'll just get a taxi from his place like you normally do. There's no need for him to go out of his way.
"The princess doesn't want the pauper to see her castle, huh?" he teases, always talking in bloody riddles.
"See!" you protest. "Always changing your mind! A minute ago I was a sugar baby, and now I'm a rich bitch again. Which is it, Jeon?"
"I dunno," he reaches behind himself, adjusting your legs and pulling you a little closer into his back, tapping your side to make sure you've got the jacket on. "You tell me, sugar."
He doesn't see you roll your eyes, but he knows you do it. You always do. Even when your pretty pink nails are clutching the fabric of his shirt, you pretend like you don't enjoy his company.
You've gotten good at playing pretend.
Jungkook only jokes about you being a sugar baby.
He doesn't fathom that you actually are one.
His engine begins to purr, and Jungkook kicks up the stand, setting off into the night.
The way you hold onto his waist is different tonight.
Physically, it's the same.
But it feels different.
And it is, because you're not just holding onto him; you're hugging him. Comfort in an old routine. You adjust your arms, keeping tight against his back, and he pretends like he doesn't notice the shift in dynamic.
He pretends as if he didn't notice your sad eyes earlier, too, and as if he can't feel the stutter in your chest as if you're trying not to cry.
Jungkook isn't a knight on a white horse, and nor does he want to be - but he doesn't mind being your rogue bandit who steals you away from the things that make you sad.
He's just an arc in your fairytale, not your happy ending.
But you've always been a sucker for a bit of a plot twist.
When you arrive at his, he wants to ask you to stay. He doesn't want an orange taxi cab to appear at the end of his lane and act like your actual knight in shining armour. He doesn't want you to ride into the sunrise with anyone but him.
And as luck would have it, your phone shares his desires.
Well, no. It doesn't. It's a mobile phone. It doesn't have cognitive thoughts - but it is out of charge.
"Different charging ports," he grits his teeth as he holds up his Samsung after you ask if he's got an iPhone charger. "I'm pretty sure I have an apple cable lying about though. You can come in for a second, get a little bit of charge just so that you're not stranded in a taxi without a way to contact anyone."
You nod appreciatively. "You sure?"
He doesn't answer, instead holding his door open and ushering you inside.
Jungkook cares in strange ways. He's practical, forward-thinking, trying to find solutions to problems that you'd normally shrug your shoulders at.
He's never told anyone that he loves them before, but he did once swap the hinges on his ex-girlfriend's bathroom door to the other side, so that it would stop hitting the sink basin every time she opened it. He shows his affections in meaningful ways, often without being asked or expecting anything in return.
Neither of you realise it yet, but this is one of those occasions.
It's not until you're perched on the worktop bench in his kitchen that he realises he let you in without hesitation. No longer embarrassed of where he lived, he kind of likes having you here.
You look out of place, silver pendant round your neck, expensive, and hair professionally coloured, nails done, toes, too. Not that he can see them. He just remembers a conversation you had once over chicken and a beer about the fact your toes always matched your nails.
Small details like that are what he thinks about when he's alone; like the way you blink a little faster when you're confused, and how you sprinkle Cheeto dust back into the bag off of your fingers instead of licking them like he does. He thinks about the way you laugh in his company, and how he's never heard you laugh like that with anyone else. And he tries to stop, but dammit, he thinks about how sexed up you look on those Daerim nights.
You're dressing like that for someone else, he knows that much.
But he gets to indulge in it too, when your body is pressed against his back as he takes you home.
He's stopped asking what you do in Daerim. He doesn't want to know.
For a few minutes a night, when he's alone, he likes to pretend what it would be like if he was the one you were dressed like that for. Only ever a minute or so. Gets him too hot. Finishes him off too quickly. Absolute sin.
"Kook?"
He doesn't even realise he's halted his movements until your voice breaks him from his thoughts. His jeans tonight are tight, and do a pretty good job of hiding the swelling between his legs. Fucking uncomfortable, though.
"Sorry," he doesn't turn to face you. "Was just trying to remember where I last had the cable."
"I was just saying that it's fine. It's really not that far. Don't wanna be a bother."
"Why'd you say shit like that?" he turns to face you, face twisted a little. He's annoyed.
"Like what?"
"Call yourself a bother. You do it a lot."
"I don't."
"You do," he insists, and you can't work out why he's so annoyed by it. You want to apologise all over again. "You just-" he takes a moment to find the right words. "I dunno who's conditioned you into thinking everything you do is bothersome, but it really isn't. If I didn't wanna help, then I wouldn't. It's not a bother. You're not a bother."
And you don't know why, but for some reason, you choke up a little. It's not like he said anything particularly groundbreaking, it's just for the last few months, your entire existence has felt like a drain on those around you.
The money you can live without, but you miss family dinners on Sundays, and face timing your little sister, more than you can even begin to explain.
And while no, you didn't want your parents' money, you didn't want to keep seeing a perverted old man just to be able to afford to eat, either. The flat rate was 500,000 now. Every single time. Without fail. You hadn't put the price up. He was just always paying extra. Always touching his prick. Always jerking himself off over your repulsion.
Earlier that evening, he had queried how much it would cost him to finish on your chest. You told him a million. He asked if you accepted bank transfers. You told him no. He offered 1.2 mil.
Part of you considered it. It's a lot of money. Not something to be taken lightly.
But when you ran into Jungkook, just like you knew you would, you were adamant you had made the right choice. He had scanned your body, getting a read on your mood, assessing what you needed, what you wanted, and then had offered up his jacket. All doe-eyed and sparkling. You finally got what all the girls swooned over, 'cause you were doing it too.
"Hey," he says softly, noticing the way your eyes are reddening. "Hey, hey, no. Don't cry, sugar."
You laugh through the first couple of tears. Stupid fucking nickname.
"I meant it," you sniff, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hands. He's standing closer now, hesitant to touch, hands hovering around you. "20 thousand won, Jeon. Pay up."
His fingers tenderly wrap around your wrists, keeping them from rubbing at your face again. He's smiling, eyes ever encompassing, cheeks so appled that you bet you could get drunk off the cider he'd produce.
"Can we do it on an I.O.U. basis?" he speaks quietly, playfully. "I get paid on Monday."
It's a lie. He gets his commission cut straight from his sales figures. There's 2 million won in his rucksack. He only gets ten percent. 200K. His job's not nearly half as lucrative as yours, but it's still nothing to be laughed at. He's making bank.
"Nuh-uh," you sniff again, letting out a little laugh. He laughs too. "Told you that you couldn't afford me."
And then it's silent. You can hear your heartbeat. He moves a little closer.
"Told you I'd just pay in other ways."
His voice is hoarse, as if he's scared.
As if he fears the consequences of his claim.
Your eyes drop to his lips. They're trembling slightly. Preparing.
The grip he has on your wrists loosens. He's giving you freedom. He's giving you the chance to back out, to run away.
But you don't.
"Pay up, then," you all-but whisper, lips closing on his.
Jungkook doesn't stall, no, but it takes him a second to respond. To realise.
And once he does, his brows furrow into the kiss, demanding that you know just how much he wants this. Wants you. Has done for weeks, now.
He pulls your body into his, needing you close. Your body curves, his arm hooked behind your back to keep you balanced.
A surge of intensity washes over you like crimson paint. It'll stain you, and everyone will know: That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.
He kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses, and he doesn't stop, as if he knows his first with you will also be his last - and when he finally does stop, forehead on yours, the pair of you are breathing so heavily into each other's mouths that it's as if you're sharing oxygen. Keeping each other alive. Both capable of first-degree murder.
And so neither of you pull away. There's no way he's doing time for you. There's no way you're doing time for him. Looks like you'll just have to kiss forever. Shame. Such a hardship. However will you cope?
"I-" he begins, before cutting himself off, easing his grip on your waist. One of his hands lingers, while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes wincing. "Shit-" he finally lets you go. "I don't know what that was. I'm sorry."
You want to tell him that it's okay, that you didn't mind, that he could do it again - but it's clear he doesn't agree.
"Just adrenaline," you offer, sinking down to perch on the worktop bench. Your defeated posture is hidden well like this. "Don't sweat it."
He stays silent as he turns around to resume his rummaging, looking for a charger that will fit your phone. He knows there's one in there, he just can't for the life of him remember when he last had it.
Everything feels a little awkward. You half think that you should fill the void with something, that you should break the ice, but what was the point? You'll be out of his hair soon.
And you are, home twenty minutes later. You had only charged your phone for ten minutes at his, just enough to get you home. It's about to die again. Not before Jungkook pings you a message, though.
He doesn't expect a response, but he lies awake until he sees your read receipt confirm that you've seen it.
Sadness doesn't suit you, sugar. I'm not gonna pry, but if you ever need a ride earlier than normal out of Daerim, give me a call.
He spent a good six minutes debating whether or not to end his message with a kiss, eventually deciding against it. No need to make the message any softer than it already was.
To his surprise, a bubble pops up on your side of the chat thread.
His heart twinges, your response saying everything he wished he had with just one simple letter:
x
JUNGKOOK HAS A terrible habit of taking out his stress on the people around him; the ones that he holds closest.
"I just don't see why it's such a big issue," Jimin says through a mouthful of salad greens. His teeth chomp so loudly that Jungkook thinks they'll have to swing by the dentistry labs later that afternoon. Which Jimin'll probably like, considering he won't stop fucking rambling on about a dentistry student at the moment. "She's hot, she's got guys practically falling at her feet and she's interested in you. It's one party. Stop being so fucking boring."
Yoongi casts Jungkook a sympathetic look. He doesn't work so much at the moment, what with his chemistry finals coming up, and especially not in the Daerim area.
That's Jungkook's market now - but he did happen to have a drop-off for a last-minute order a couple of weeks back. Territory isn't an issue between the friends, with Jungkook respecting Yoongi far too much to ever tell him to back off, or to not take deals in that area.
He had been about to approach Jungkook that night, when he noticed you crossing the street, a smile plastered on your face. He couldn't see Jungkook's face from the angle he was at, but he could see how raised his cheeks were. And so he left the pair of you to it, knowing better than to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted.
Unlike Jimin, apparently.
"Not boring," Jungkook retorts, tossing the wrapper his chopsticks came in at Jimin's face. "Got a bunch of assignments due in."
"Dude, you've been MIA for weeks. If we didn't have classes together, I'd have sent out a search party by now."
"You're being dramatic."
"You're being boring."
"Kids, settle down," Yoongi interjects, and wonders why he doesn't just find friends his own age. Logistics, he decides. The perils of having to save up for university before he could actually attend.
Jimin, being Jimin, then proceeds to bicker with Yoongi, leaving Jungkook free to find your face amongst the canteen crowd. You're sat with friends, none of whom he's ever met.
Your hair is up, like it always is during school, but you've let your grown out bangs frame your face. Pretty, he thinks. Prettiest girl here.
But then you stand up, and Jungkook turns caveman. Head empty. No thoughts. Just nonsense. Jesus Christ. Who gave you the right? God damn.
A few months ago, he would have looked at you in that outfit - a silky sage green playsuit over a white tee, sunglasses resting on your head like an alice band and a pair of white converse on your feet - and he probably would have scoffed. Wouldda said some bullshit about the fact you're dressed like a child, or that the weather isn't good enough to warrant such an outfit.
A few months ago, he was a fucking idiot.
You feel his gaze on you, just like you always do.
And you ignore it.
You've been getting good at that. Pretending as if you don't feel his eyes. As if you're unaffected, unbothered by the simplest form of intimacy: a single look.
He knows you've been keeping your distance. Watching from afar is all he can do when you slink out of class before he can catch your attention. He tells himself that he doesn't care.
Jungkook mutes the audio track of the editing software he uses when he stitches together your footage, so he doesn't have to relive your conversations or hear you laugh, or worse, hear himself laugh.
It's all a bit nauseating.
Maybe a party would actually be a good distraction.
"Tonight, did you say?" Jungkook pipes up out of nowhere, only dragging his eyes away from you when he sees you pull your phone out to send a text.
He pouts. You never text him. Not once since last Thursday.
And you were nowhere to be seen on Tuesday.
He had called you, and for once, you didn't pick up. He didn't try again. Decided that it was on you just as much as it was on him.
That being said, he didn't get home till four in the morning, two and half hours after his last deal. Spaffed away an entire tank of petrol. Rode in fucking circles. Just in case.
"Now we're talking!" Jimin grins. "Tonight. It's her birthday, she's rented a bar in Itaewon - Dad knows the landlord or something."
Jungkook didn't know who 'she' was. Hadn't been listening to that part of the conversation.
"Well, you kids enjoy yourselves," Yoongi sighs as he gets to his feet. "Can't risk my finals over a few crappy drinks in a shitty bar."
"Oh boo-hoo!" Jimin pouts. "Spoilsport."
When Jungkook enters the bar that evening, he's greeted with everything he expects. E-cigarette vapours cloud the air, a cocktail of flavours violating his senses as he heads to the bar, shitty EDM pumping through the speakers. It's been a while since he let his hair down, so to speak.
There's something about him that commands attention. People gravitate towards him, even through the smoke clouds and sweaty bodies. Girls buy him drinks. Guys buy him drinks, too. Anything just to spend time in his presence. Like leeches, they hope to share some of Jungkook's aura.
It's impossible, though. It's Jungkook's authenticity that gives him such charisma. Trying to emulate it only ever comes off as tacky - like the guy towards the back of the room who's permed his hair to look like Jungkook's. Pierced his eyebrow, too. Looks like shit. Jungkook doesn't want to judge him, but he's a few drinks deep, and being kind is what got him into that mess with you in the first place.
No good ever comes from being nice.
He takes a shot. Tequila. Chases it down with lemonade. The girl next to him is playing with the bracelets on his wrist. Her nails scratch a little bit, and he quite likes it, so he doesn't resist when pulls him onto the dancefloor. He observes the way she moves first, and isn't disappointed. She knows how to move her hips, and seems to like it when he puts his hands on them. He can't really feel the sensation when she kisses him. The alcohol has numbed his lips. Maybe Jimin was right to force him into this.
By the time he goes to the bar for another drink, he's faded. Off his tits. Helped himself to some of Hobi's stash that he was supposed to be distributing that evening. A little bit of coke never does him any harm. He knows his limits. Tastes like shit down the back of his throat, but he kind of enjoys it.
At first, he thinks he must be seeing things when he catches you with an espresso martini in hand, laughing with people he doesn't know.
You've this whole life that he's no part of. A whole entire world. He really is an outsider looking in.
You're one of the elite; an old-money heiress. The type to own a miniature dog breed and only fly business class. It was stupid of him to think your interest in him had been anything more than entertainment. A 'little bit of rough.' Excitement away from the confines of the life he's sure your parents must have planned out for you.
It might just be because he's coked up, but he doesn't care about any of that.
All he can think about is the fact he's pretty sure you've never looked more beautiful.
He feels so lost looking at you like this, as if he needs to be closer, for fear of losing sight of you entirely.
And so he sits beside you at the bar, orders his drink, waits for you to notice him. Which you do.
You'd spotted him the very second you walked into the bar, his hands all over some girl you don't know.
In all fairness, you didn't realise he would be there. Sohyun, the girl whose birthday it was and an old friend from high school, has been fawning over Jungkook for months. Just superficial drawling, comments about his thighs and the fact she'd quite like to be suffocated by them. Harmless, really. You know she's never actually made a move.
Sohyun doesn't know you're working on a project together. You avoid the topic of him altogether, especially with her.
But she does notice the way Jungkook is looking at you like he's seen a ghost; haunted and comforted all in the same expression.
"You're here," he finally says, and it feels as if your chest is about to cave in.
Turning to face him, you're casual in your posture. Unbothered. Completely unaffected by him, and the lipstick that's painting those lips of his that you like so much.
You raise your thumb and swipe it across his bottom lip. He's silent as you do so, watching you, holding his breath. His lip moves like rubber beneath your touch, soft and supple, springing back into position once you release it.
You raise your thumb to study the lipstick you've collected from him. "Plum's really not your colour, Jungkook."
He doesn't say anything, a little transfixed. It's barely ticked past midnight. You should be in Daerim.
In all fairness, so should he. Hobi had some choice words for Jungkook when he told him that he wasn't working that evening at such short notice.
You swipe open your phone and repeat the step, filming your thumb as Jungkook becomes captive to your touch. You want to look, to see how wide his dark eyes are, but you're too busy feigning disinterest.
"There," you smile, forwarding the video along before you lock your phone. "Just sent you a video of how I see the city tonight."
You've no right to be annoyed. You know that.
Jungkook can be in a bar with another girl's lipstick on his chin if wants to be. He can stay out all night, and he can stay in beds that aren't his. It's his prerogative.
But you are annoyed.
It's irrational, and pathetic, and you shouldn't be.
You barely know him. Not really.
After you'd shown him your favourite tree at the Design Plaza a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on taking you across town to Garosugil, a street in Gangnam lined with beautiful tall trees. He questioned why you only had one favourite tree, when you could have had an entire row of them instead.
At the time, you'd enjoyed the way his eyes looked beneath the lights of the designer stores that neither of you could afford. You didn't question what he had meant.
It seems like you found your answer.
"I'm not the city," he eventually says.
And he's right.
He's not the city.
Fuck it, no, he's not the city, but his eyes sparkle like Itaewon on Friday nights, and his hands are strong like the World Cup Bridge. He's not the city, but you find it so easy to get lost in him without a map, and sometimes wearing his leather jacket makes you feel like you're eating comfort food at your favourite breakfast bar over in Myeong-dong. He's not the city.
He's not the goddamn city.
But it feels a little like you'd accidentally anchored your navigation pin in him regardless.
All you do is smile, and tell him that he's right.
"Look," he begins, and you can smell the spiced rum on his breath.
"It's okay," you interrupt. Who are you to make him feel guilty for his promiscuous encounters?
He doesn't know what you do in the dark. Not really. If he did, he probably wouldn't have kissed you last week.
"No, I-" he cuts himself off like he always does when he doesn't wanna fuck up his words. The alcohol is doing him absolutely zero favours. "I dunno, sugar."
Your smile is sad, and he hates himself. You lean forward, press a kiss into his rosy cheek and whisper, "That'll be 20,000, Jeon."
And because he's drunk, and he wants to make things better, he reaches for his wallet. You were about to walk away regardless, but damn, if the boy doesn't know how to hit you where it hurts.
"Really, Kook?"
It's like he doesn't know you at all; doesn't remember how you banter with him, how you flirt with him. Or maybe you were just stupid for thinking that you'd been flirting with him in the first place. Maybe he just speaks to everyone how he speaks to you. Must have spoken to whoever was wearing that lipstick in the same way.
He doesn't answer, not verbally, but his brows pinch together and his lips develop a frowning pout.
When he stumbles home that evening, he asks himself the same question: really, Kook?
In the morning, he wakes alone, with no recollection of how he got home.
He doesn't remember the girl from the bar, or the fact that Jimin threw up in a fish tank, or that they're now barred from three different establishments for encouraging people to snort fish food (which Jungkook had stolen while Jimin was emptying his stomach). Regretfully, he doesn't even remember your arrival at the first bar. Doesn't remember how, for once, you'd dressed to impress just him.
His lack of recollection means fuck all though, 'cause despite his headache, the thing weighing down most heavily on him is guilt. He feels a sense of duty when it comes to you; duty that he hasn't performed lately. Were you getting home safe? Getting harrassed by scummy fuckers on the Daerim path of destruction?
Out of habit, he checks his phone, ignores the messages from unknown numbers and goes straight to your message thread to check the damage. He's surprised to find that he didn't drunk text you, but even more surprised to find that you'd messaged him. It's a video, just a few seconds, but it's enough to provoke some of his memories back.
He watches your thumb as it glides across his bottom lip. Watches it again. Notices the lipstick. Notices the thumb ring he never realised you wore before, and the fact that your nails are black now instead of their usual pink. There's something erotic about it; the way you touch him. The way you filmed yourself touching him. He'll probably get in trouble for it, but there's no way he isn't adding that to your project.
You consider ignoring his call when your phone flashes with his caller I.D.
It's only just gone seven, and you're still in bed, still try to make heads or tails of your life.
But you're weak, and so you slide your thumb across the little green icon.
"Hey."
"Uh, hey."
"You good?"
"So hungover, I think I might die," Jungkook jokes, voice hoarse. You wonder if he always sounds like this in the morning. "Just wanted to check in with you though. Barely seen you all week, and then I end up with a weird-ass video in our message thread that I don't remember."
Ah. You cringe.
"Ran into you at the bar," you shrug, not that he can see you. "Didn't realise you were friends with Sohyun."
"Hmm?"
"Sohyun... the girl who's birthday it was?"
"Oh. Right. Yeah. Nah, no, not really friends with her. Jimin forced me along."
You don't know all that much about Jimin, but from your limited interactions with him, it doesn't surprise you. Not in the slightest.
"Good night?"
Your question sounds forced and awkward, and he doesn't quite understand why.
"No idea," he admits honestly. "Remember fuck all."
He sounds as if he wants to keep talking but doesn't know what to say.
You don't know what to say either.
It's a mess. You liked it better when he hated you.
"Were you at the bar for long?" He asks, genuinely curious. "You're normally busy on Thursdays?"
"Just a drink. Had a last-minute change of plans."
"Oh?"
"Yeah..."
You know he wants you to elaborate. He wants more without having to explicitly ask for it.
Which is apt. Seems like it's a common occurrence with Jungkook.
"So what did you call for?" you change the topic, not wanting to dwell. The aversion doesn't go unnoticed by him, but it does go unquestioned.
"I-" there he goes again, cutting himself off prematurely. Coward. "Are you free? Now?"
Oh.
Not a coward. Just cautious.
"Now? I mean, yeah, I guess."
Jungkook takes a second, and then he bites down on the grenade pin.
"Can you come over?"
THE WAY YOU keep Jungkook hanging on tenterhooks is deliberate.
You're unsure of him, of his motivations, and what he does in the dark. And so, while you want to let your guard down, you can't. It's probably something to do with your parents - the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally - making their love entirely conditional and withdrawing it so suddenly.
It's the kind of shit you would have spoken about with your therapist, but you can't afford her anymore.
Can't afford much of anything, anymore. So much of the money you've earnt recently is tied up in credit card debt or rent.
Foundation was the first luxury that you'd compromised, and you're still yet to buy any more. Cheap stuff always makes you break out, and thankfully your parents did give you decent genetics, at least, so your skin was pretty clear.
It's the lack of make up that suggests to Jungkook you're opening up; not hiding from him anymore.
But it's also what tells him something is incredibly wrong, when you show up at his door half an hour later with a graze beneath your eye. Little flecks of reddened skin creep up your cheekbone, and Jungkook thinks it almost looks like carpet burn.
He hadn't noticed it last night, but it was dark, and he was drunk.
He lets you in, takes your jacket, offers you a drink. Everything that he knows he should do. Asks how you are, keeps a safe distance.
You don't know why you're here. Why you didn't say you were busy.
Except you do.
It's cause you miss him whenever you're away from him.
"I like these," you smile as you look at the artwork he has up in his room. The studio space is small, cramped, like all semi-basements are, but it's distinctly 'his'. A lot different to yours. Everything you own is still in boxes, not yet unpacked.
You've refused to come to terms with that being your life now.
"Thanks," he nods, watching you as you explore the box of a room he calls home. "They're from a guy down by the coach station. Has a little stall."
"You'll have to show me," you muse, turning to smile at him. It's saccharine, but the graze on your face is just so bitter. He hates it. Hates that he doesn't know how you got it. "Think I'd like some for my place."
"I have a feeling they'd look a little out of place in a princess tower, sugar."
Your shoulders shake as you laugh quietly, not correcting him. He doesn't need to know that you're a basement dweller, too.
"How's the editing coming along?" You steer the question away from your living situation.
"Nearly there," he grins, brimming with quiet excitement. Something about the way your camerawork looks with his editing technique layered on top just really works. He's always been confident with his final projects, and this one scares him a little bit, but in a good way. It's his best yet. Maybe he did need you after all.
"Can I see?"
"Not yet."
"Kook," you say, and - oh god - you're pouting. Jungkook suddenly begins to feel nervous.
It's that scary feeling again. A fear of the good stuff. Trepidation.
"What?" he grins, walking a little closer to you, letting his hand stroke against your back as he sits down on his bed. His fingers catch yours. It's fleeting, but enough.
You both feel it.
"Such a tease," you say, talking about the project, but there's innuendo in your words, too.
"Some girls like it," he flirts back.
"The girl at the bar last night seemed to like it."
Jungkook rolls his eyes, boyish and charming. It's annoying, you think, how impossible it is to be mad at him. It's not because you're weak, or because you can't resist his charms, but because he has a way of playing things off as if they're no big deal.
The girl at the bar? A nobody, his shrug suggests. She doesn't matter.
And it's so easy to believe, because you're the one in his apartment. You're the one he wanted here, the one that he missed. Or at least, the one that he was thinking of when he decided that he could do with some company.
It might be nothing, just something to pass the time, but it makes you feel wanted. Desired. Needed.
So you accept his hand when he reaches out towards you, pulling you closer, positioning you between his spread legs. You're standing, his eyes level with your chest, unashamed as he looks at your body.
"You look warm," he husks.
Just like he always uses your body temperature as excuse to give you his jacket, he's using it as an excuse now, too. The desired effect is obvious.
His AC switchboard is on the wall behind his bed. You'd clocked it when you were walking around, observing his possessions. Yanmar, the branding reads, the plastic outer frame beige. Once, it would have been crisp white. Age has dulled it. The monochrome monitor has a clock symbol in the corner, an indicator that Jungkook has his AC set on a timer. It suggests a sense of permanence. This is his home.
You haven't set your timer yet. You just flick it on when you get hot. It isn't your home.
He watches you as you move, curious. He's smirking, because he just cant help himself.
And because he knows that you like it whenever he does. Gets you a little bit flustered.
One of your knees hooks over his lap, and then the other follows suit.
He'd have said you were straddling him. You'd have argued that you were simply reaching over to the AC.
And you do exactly that, flicking the switch, watching as it lights up. "There. Much better."
Touche, he thinks. Smiles. Grips your thighs, as if he's scared you'll stand up again. Scared to lose you.
In all honesty, he had been hoping you'd take your shirt off, but he isn't going to complain with you in his lap, instead.
Doesn't matter if you mix the eggs with the milk first, or the flour. You still bake a cake at the end of it all.
Jungkook looks at you in such a way that you find yourself thinking maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so horrible to let someone in. His eyes are honest, void of ulterior motives. He's doing this because he wants to. Because he wants you.
Wants that feeling back. The one where his lips are cushioned between yours, his tongue licking into your mouth.
Jungkook wants what he wants. Jungkook gets what he wants.
And, fuck, if it isn't bare minimum - but you know this, and you don't care. Bare minimum tastes pretty fucking good when you're licking it from his lips.
His hands roam, and you let them. He's rough with his movements, but the fleshy pads of his fingertips are soft, like silk against your skin. It's almost like he's afraid, filled with the knowledge that he can bruise, if he really wants to.
But he doesn't want to. He wants to ask about the graze that's sitting pretty where blush should be. Jungkook doesn't wanna hurt. He wants to heal.
"I catch you looking, you know," you tell him before he gets a chance, wanting to see how he responds. "Every now and again..." He hikes you forward in his lap. Places you dead centre over his cock. You can feel it. He can feel you. "...I catch you looking at me." He presses a kiss against the base of your neck, obsessed with the way it vibrates when you speak. "Why are you always looking at me?"
The fact that you're sat in his lap, grinding your hips against a solid bulge, should be indication enough.
Jungkook isn't going to spell it out for you. The eroticism of suggesting he's a fucking voyeur makes him want to laugh - but the way your nipples are tenting the shirt you're wearing distracts him.
His teeth graze your throat, hands creeping round to your tummy. His fingers are long, practically the length of the expanse between your hips and the underneath of your plump tits. Just a little further and he'd be holding them, cupping them, caressing. Just a little further.
"I look at you-" His hands continue their exploration as he leans back, watching the movement beneath your shirt. It somehow feels forbidden - like he can touch, but not look. After all, your question had sounded quite a lot like a telling off. "-because you like me looking at you."
He's fucking with you, trying to get a rise.
"Do I?"
The way that you whimper as he brushes against your nipples has him pulsing his hips. Your eyes close, head tilting back ever so slightly. You like this. The way he does it.
"Uh-huh," he mumbles, lips wet against your neck. His fingers knead into the flesh of your tits, nipples hard in his palm as he relieves his stresses. "Bet you think about it all day, don't you? Think about the way I look at you when no-one else does."
Yes.
"All day?" you smirk between dulcet moans. "You're lucky if I pay you any attention at all."
"I think you're lying," he declares rather boldly, hands all over you. "I think it plays on your mind. I bet you fall asleep thinking about it, don't you?"
Yes.
"Ddaeng."
"I bet you get yourself off thinking about it."
Maybe you do.
Maybe you've whispered his name in the dead of night, imagining how it would feel to have his body weight on top of yours. Maybe you get intrusive thoughts of that kiss every single time you try to draw close. Maybe Jungkook has made you cum without ever laying a single finger on you.
But even if he has, you won't tell him.
And you don't need to, because his phone buzzing on the bedside table behind you cuts the conversation dry. Jungkook glances towards it automatically, then back up to you. His frustration is evident, jaw tense.
"I gotta get this," he mumbles, encouraging you off of his lap. You don't resist, accepting the last five minutes for what they were: a momentary lapse in judgement. He sighs as he stands, adjusting his trousers, swiping his phone and putting it to his ear. He strolls just far enough away that you won't hear what or who is on the other line. "Hobi. Speak to me."
Hobi, you muse. A friend? A colleague? Another girl?
You swallow back the nauseating feeling in your throat, pretending as if the prospect of Jungkook with someone else doesn't chip away at your self-worth a little bit. It wasn't like you thought you had anything special between the pair of you.
But he was right. You did like him looking at you.
More than you had realised until the prospect of him looking at someone else arose.
From the corner of the room, you could hear Jungkook trying to interrupt the person he was talking to. The first syllable would escape, and then he'd hush again, never quite managing to get the words out in full.
"Ho-" His nostrils look quite cute when they flare, lips pursed, a pair of unique dimples becoming evident. They're different to the usual ones you notice. Full of surprises was Jeon Jungkook.
"Hobi, can I-"
He runs his hand through his hair, already dishevelled from your hands.
"Hobi will you let me fucking talk!"
Attaboy.
The pause that follows Jungkook's outburst would suggest that Hobi had said 'no' - and then a few more choice words. If Jungkook rolled his eyes back any further, they'd surely get stuck.
"Look, I'm a bit tied up right now- no! No, not that. Who? No. I don't know a Taehyung, and even if I did- Huh? Ain't got nothin' to do with Holangi. Don't know a single one of 'em."
You try to decipher the conversation, but fail.
"You're a real fuckin' cockblock, yanno?"
You blush.
"Fuck it, fine. But you owe me. I'm not saying yes next time."
He glances over to you, catching your raised brow. Next time?
A smile catches on his lips. You thought this would be a one time thing?
He's barely hit second base. If there's one thing you're yet to find out about Jungkook, it's that he loves to win. He won't be satisfied until he's got a home run.
Any other girl, and he'd have probably been running laps for fun by this point, but you... yeah, you didn't bowl him easy hitters, that was for sure.
Jungkook moves with confidence, like he always does, as he strides over to the sofa, the bulge in his pants considerably softened but still present. "Take a picture," he grins. "It'll last longer."
You roll your eyes, but it doesn't stop you from asking if that's an offer. He laughs - that soft, gentle thrum of his vocal chords that sounds so heavenly in your ears - and tells you to behave.
"I just gotta help a friend out," he says as he reaches over you to grab his rucksack. It's heavier now than it ever is at school, the jingle of crushed tin foil rustling as it briefly catches on your knee. He pretends not to notice the curiosity in your eyes. Pretty eyes, though. He quite likes them, especially when he's towering above you and can see the whites just above your lashline. Yeah, he likes them alot. "I'll only be an hour or so. You can stay here, if you like?"
The way he phrases it is so casual that it's almost like you're old friends.
That, or Jungkook's just used to having women he doesn't know very well stay at his place.
You're unaware of the mental gymnastics he's putting himself through. If he could kick himself without looking like a twat, then he definitely would.
Shrugging, you give him a polite smile. "I don't wanna overstay my welcome."
"Nah, you're fine. I can give you a lift back to yours when I'm home? I'll be an hour. Two, tops."
Finally you agree, watching as he leaves like a lovesick puppy, listening out for the familiar rattle of his exhaust pipe. There's a cough and splutter of petrol spitting onto the sidewalk as his motor roars into action, and then he's gone.
You don't hang around for much longer.
You tell yourself that you will. That it would be nice. That you and Jungkook might not be so ill-suited after all.
But as the clock ticks by on the wall, you find yourself getting antsy. You find yourself asking stupid questions. Who exactly is Hobi? What was in Jungkook's bag? Why is he always down in Daerim? Is that where he's gone now?
The thoughts grow, adapt, intrude. Before you know it, you're considering what you'd find if you opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet.
Realistically, you know it would probably be a wank sock and a tub of vaseline - it doesn't matter though. Your mind is wondering. You need to scratch the itch.
Just a little peek. He'll never know.
Oh, how you loathe your brain.
What's the worst you could find? A revolver? His ex-girlfriends panties? Love letters? A crack pipe?
Somehow, you'd rather find a pipe than panties.
It's not that you want Jungkook to be a crack addict. It's just the more that you think about it, the more you come to realise that you really, really don't like the idea of someone else feeling how warm his torso is, or how his upper teeth always nip slightly when he starts kissing you, until the pressure of his pecks plump his lips. You've only experienced it a handful of times, and it's stupid to get carried away, but he just makes it so easy.
He didn't ask you to stay, you tell yourself. He asked you if you wanted to.
Moments of instability like this are exactly why girls like you don't spend time with boys like him. It's stupid. Futile. A game for fools.
You leave his apartment as you found it, with not even a note to say thank you. He's had a squeeze on your tits. You deem that thank you enough. If anything, he should be thanking you.
When he returns, just half an hour after your departure, he can still smell your perfume. He tosses his keys down, calls out your name, and is met with silence. It takes him a moment or so to realise that he's alone.
There's a sinking feeling in his chest that he doesn't recognise. Doesn't like. Hates, in fact.
But fine. Fuck it. He didn't want you there anyway. He'd just been doing a good deed. Being kind because - if your face was any indication - obviously someone else had been particularly unkind to you.
Jungkook thinks he knows who, now.
Daerim nights have always been sketchy, but the days are no better.
He's just the lowest rung on a long ladder of criminals who turn a profit when the sun goes down in Seoul.
Hobi had asked him to drop the stash in his rucksack off at a club, some gang-run joint that Jungkook doesn't know much about, so that he could get them back to his boss.
That had been the plan, at least.
He slings his bag down, now empty, and sinks into the sofa, not bothering to get a rag to clean himself up. No point. The dried blood will just wash off in his shower. It's not the first time this has happened. He doubts it will be the last.
Jungkook's nose is currently bleeding, dripping down his chin and hitting the ceramic tiles of his apartment with small slaps. A bruise is forming above his left eye socket, and his knuckles are red.
A punch to the face means very little to Jungkook.
He's young, but he's strong. Fast, too. It could have been a lot worse if he wasn't.
He pushes the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing, before unlocking his phone, and dialing a number he knows now by heart.
The dial tone bleeds out, just like his nose.
And so he hangs up, and calls the only person he knows he can rely on.
"Wassup, kid?"
Jungkook doesn't mean to sob, but he cant help it. He knows Yoongi has finals coming up. He doesn't need his bullshit on his plate, too.
"I got jumped Yoongs."
Fuck.
"You alright? Sound pretty bad? Where?"
"Daerim-"
"The fuck you doing there at this time of day?"
"Hobi wanted me to drop off my stash."
"Kook..." Yoongi speaks slowly, coming to a horrific realisation. A few punches had never bothered Jungkook before. Something bigger was at play. "The stash...?"
Jungkook can hear it in Yoongi's voice: fear.
"Gone."
Yoongi sighs down the line. "Hobi know yet?"
"No."
"Alright, get outta your flat," Yoongi begins, not wasting time. Now is not the time for emotions, and it's clear that Jungkook isn't capable of that just yet. "I need you to go somewhere safe, somewhere you can lie-low for a little bit alright? Let me sort it-"
"Yoong-"
"Let me sort it. I got you into this mess. Don't sweat it."
"Ple-"
"Kook. Seriously. Trust me with this."
Yoongi doesn't let him debate it any further - and it's just as well he doesn't, because as soon as he hangs up the phone, another call comes through. Jungkook wants to answer it. Really, he does.
Jungkook's just very aware of the fact that the guy who jumped him had almost been waiting for him. Right by the entrance of the apartment block which he always picked you up from.
In between blows, he'd warned Jungkook to 'stay the fuck away from the girl'.
The girl who's now returning his call.
"Hey," you say animatedly, having not expected him to call. You thought the pair of you would resume your usual awkward routine of pretending like nothing ever happened. "Sorry, I was in the shower. You good? Sorry I left, I just did-"
"I need a favour," he doesn't bother with formalities.
You want to banter with him, to flirt, but the tone of his voice warns you not to. So instead you tell him that you'll do whatever he needs.
"Can I come over?"
Fuck. Anything except that.
"Please."
YOU DON'T EXPECT to say yes. You don't expect to care more about him than you do about protecting your own dignity. You don't expect Jungkook to traipse down the stairs that lead to your slovenly open door with a glum look on his bloodsoaked face, as you stand there waiting for him.
But he does.
He makes no comment, no remark about the building. Just wraps his arms around your head, cradling you against his chest as you stand in your doorway. You can hear his heartbeat, thud, thud, thud against his ribs.
Go somewhere safe, Yoongi had told him. It was a no brainer.
"I'm sorry," he says, eventually pulling himself away from you. "I didn't know who else to ask."
You tell him it's fine, and you mean it. Keeping up pretences doesn't really matter so much anymore. Perhaps honesty was overdue from the both of you.
"The fuck happened to you?" You ask, tenderly reaching up to stroke away some of the dried blood from his lip. He winces, hisses, body tense, but he lets you continue. "Sorry."
"Could ask you the same, sugar," he speaks kindly, not wanting you to think he's being critical as he nods to the entryway behind you.
You grit your teeth together and let your hand rest on his shoulder. "King kicked the princess out of the castle."
And, suddenly, it doesn't seem embarrassing anymore. In fact, it seems perfectly apt that Jungkook knows. He doesn't pry, don't push for further clarification. Just nods. Accepts your reality.
"Castles are overrated, anyway," he presses a kiss to your head, and gently guides you through the threshold. The corridor is short, opening up to an open plan studio. The layout varies from Jungkook's, but it's similar in size. Small.
"Ignore the wallpaper," you say of the awkwardly granny-ish floral print. It's beige, so not totally offensive, but dear god, you think it looks like vomit.
"No," he grins. "It's... wow. Your landlord really knows how to make a statement, don't they?"
You perch on your bed and cringe. "A statement... a crime against interior design. Whatever you wanna call it."
Jungkook continues to pace around your room with a curious smile. He's partially deflecting from the fact he knows you're probably dying to ask about his face, and why he was so desperate to be with you, but he's also interested in the life you neglected to share with him.
Brown cardboard boxes are piled high in the corners, your possessions not yet unboxed.
This place is just temporary.
You've got three and a half million won sat on your desk. A couple more weeks, just a few, and you'll have enough for a deposit on a decent flat. Then you can get a regular job, something stable, and you won't have to worry. You could work through the summer and then figure out what to do next. Just as long as you keep on moving upwards, you'll be happy.
"So," you begin gingerly, as you head to the kitchenette beside your bed, wetting a cloth beneath your tap. "You gonna tell me what happened to your face?"
He takes your previous position, inviting himself to sit on the end of your bed, anticipating your return. There's light coming in from the thin windows by your ceiling, hitting directly onto your back. He thinks it's apt. Thinks you're the kind of girl who deserves a spotlight. Thinks that Mother Nature agrees.
Jungkook shrugs, in that lazy, boyish way he so often does, as you walk towards him. He spreads his legs, encouraging you between them, letting his hands graze your thighs. You pretend not to notice as you press the damp cloth to his cheek. Tiny crows legs appear at the edges of his eyes, face wincing from the contact. It's painful.
But being alone would be more painful. He chose to be here. To be with you.
And so he tells you what happened, with as much honesty he can muster. There are some things better left unsaid, his occupation being one of them. You listen attentively, dabbing at his wounds, a frown etched into the lines of your face.
"Stay away from the girl, huh?" you muse, avoiding his eyes as you study his face. His nose is still bleeding, but every time you tell him to tilt his head towards the ceiling, it ends up back in its original position. He can't see you as well with his head tilted back. Doesn't like it. Doesn't wanna do it. "Could be any girl."
Jungkook's dimple forms in his cheek. "No. No, it couldn't."
His fingers that have been grazing at your thighs squeeze tenderly, letting you know he means it. More than he thinks you know. More than he knows he should.
There's a chance that any words spoken between the pair of you could be misconstrued. He doesn't know what his feelings for you are, and you don't really understand yours for him - but you understand your body, and the electric current running beneath your lips, dying for a connection. A little spark.
So you do the only thing that makes sense: you kiss him.
And he kisses you back. Slowly, tenderly, deliberately. His lips melt into yours, hand pulling your legs closer. He encourages you onto his lap, as if he needs to be insufferably close to you. Once you're positioned how he wants, just like you were earlier, he grips your waist, keeping you stationed there.
Jungkook knows he should stop.
He knows he should have paid attention to the pair of fists that warned him off you as his skull hit the pavement earlier that morning, knows he shouldn't let himself get so wrapped up in such a red flag - but he just can't help himself. It's like you're laced in the narcotics he deals, and slowly but surely, you've gotten him addicted.
He's craving. Dying for a hit. Just a little taste of your tongue on his, the scent of your shampoo in his nose.
Red flags, red stop signs, pretty red lips all plump from the kisses he's smothering them in. Red blood, too. His nose is still a little damaged, and the way he's painting your cheek in crimson should repulse you.
Should repulse you.
Like fuck it does, though. You can smell the copper twinge through his plasma, and suddenly it's as if the Cullen's had the right idea all along.
When he pulls back, only for a moment, hands clutching at the side of your face to assess the look in your eyes, he notices it too. Hard not to. You blush all the fucking time, so much so that he knew the shade by heart, and the rouge on your cheek is far too vibrant, too scarlet. It's his fucking blood on you.
It should scare him, he knows. But the way you're looking at him, eyes all wide and glassy, lips swollen and waiting for more, has him unable to think straight. It has him obsessed, the way you don't care. The way he's covered you in blood and you still seem to want more.
But there's a softness to the way in which you're looking at him, mild confusion, as if you've got the same strange warmth running through your veins as he does. It's not a feeling he recognises, pulsing through his bloodstream with every beat of his heart.
Perhaps it's nothing. Jungkook tells himself that it is. Just adrenaline, probably.
You look at his lips, all crimson and blushed, and realise you much prefer the shade of his blood to the plum lipstick that had tainted them the night before. You're delicate as you wipe your thumb along his pouted bottom lip, just like you did in the bar. Except this time, the jealousy that had blossomed in your diaphragm is nowhere to be found. There's still a pinch beneath your ribs, but this time it's in your heart, and it's far more aching. This time, you feel his hurt.
Jungkook reaches down to where you left the damp cloth on your bed. It's wet and heavy in his hand, a little warm, too. He brings it to your face and dabs silently, cleaning you of the mess he's made. Fixing you. Restoring you to your former glory.
Its futile, 'cause his nose is still fucking bleeding, and you don't plan on leaving it more than a moment before you kiss him again. You simply don't care. Want him for all that he is, blood, sweat and tears.
But still, he insists on ridding you of his stain. Doesn't want to tarnish you. He's soft with the way he presses the cloth against you, mirroring how tenderly you were with him earlier. He's learning from you, adapting to you. Wants to be like you. Wants to be 'better'.
You watch as his eyes scan your face, brows twisted like they always do when he's about to say something but stops himself. The vertical groove just above his cupid's bow is red, blood tacky as it dries. If he kisses you now, he'll leave a stamp; a mark that says 'you're mine.'
It's too much. Far too much. You aren't his, and he knows this. He never wanted you to be his, in fact, for the longest time, he had wanted to be anything but yours.
But now he sits beneath you, crestfallen, heart in his throat, blocking him from speaking.
This was never part of the plan. He was never supposed to end up here. He was supposed to escape from the trenches, to get on the path of straight and narrow. Thrive. Succeed.
And it's not your fault, he knows this, but there's a little part of him that wonders what could have happened if he hadn't seen you that night in Daerim, hadn't seen the way your eyes look beneath night market lights, hadn't heard your laugh as he looked at his favourite view of the city.
You whisper his name, your palm resting flat on his chest, and his brows soften.
It doesn't matter what could have happened, anymore.
All that matters is what is happening.
The shortness of his breath, the flutter of his lashes against your cheek, the swelling between his legs. You can feel it, feel him, and he knows it. The way he's pulsing his hips upwards is testament to that.
It's a comfortable position, you sat on his lap on the end of your bed, not one that either of you wishes to break from. Not even as he begins to breathe against your lips, unable to properly control his reactions thanks to the friction beneath his briefs.
"Want you," he mumbles, pressing his lips into yours, the air in his lungs giving itself up to you. "Want you so bad."
You shake your head, brows pinched just a little. "I'm bad news for you."
And maybe that's it. Maybe he just wants you because he knows he shouldn't - but fuck it, if he can't let himself indulge in simple pleasures, then why bother getting himself beaten to a pulp over you?
"I'm bad news for myself, sugar," he husks against your lips, tickling them as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Deeper, deeper. Closer, closer. He wants it.
Wants it all.
Wants you naked.
Wants to know what it feels like to have you gasp in his ear as his hands roam beneath your panties.
Wants to know if you'd still look at him like you're stargazing even when he's railing you.
Wants it. Wants you. Just wants.
And what Jungkook wants, Jungkook gets.
He slips his hand up your shirt and pushes it upwards, before letting it crumple to the floor. You know that you should be more bashful, a little bit ashamed, but it's impossible when he's looking at you like this.
He has a visual now that he didn't have earlier. The glow of your skin beneath his bruised knuckles looks almost sinful, like he's plucking forbidden fruit from its tree. He'll pay the price for this, and he knows it, but he just can't resist.
Jungkook has always been a boob guy, always loved the way he could get girls moaning with just a little pinch, but never had he had a pair quite like yours. So full, so round, he's not sure his hands are big enough, and that doubt makes him throb. Soft and pillowy, he groans as he watches his fingers sink into them, utterly enthralled. His hips adjust, pushing upwards, pressing himself into you. He wants this. Wants it so bad.
You can feel the metal of his rings against your skin, and then you can feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth as they graze against the plush skin of your chest. He licks around your nipple, letting the air cool the wet trail, hardening you for him.
He's utterly obsessed.
His mouth pulls at the sensitive skin, suckles, sucks. His lashes are splayed on the tops of his cheeks, lips pouting around your nipple as he does so, small groans of pleasure vibrating against you. It will be a miracle if he can't already feel you seeping through your panties.
You whimper as his teeth graze your hardened nub, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn't detach himself, but instead, he keeps your gaze as he sucks. The pressure varies, and then it's hard. Really fucking hard. So hard you'll think he'll somehow give your nipple a hickey - but fuck, if you don't love the sensation.
"Christ," you gasp, before biting down into your bottom lip.
"Too hard?" He mumbles against you, peppering you in kisses and soft licks as if to apologise.
"No," you pant. "Was good. Was great. Just - fuck."
You laugh, soft and airy, and Jungkook smiles from the sound.
He likes this. Likes how you react to him.
And while he’s patient and gentle with you in a way that he isn't with other people, Jungkook has only ever known how to have sex in one way. It's ingrained into him, as if he was made to fuck like it; like he doesn't give a shit about the person he's screwing.
Jungkook doesn't do love, and you know this. He trades. Works in transactions. Settles debts. You don't really know this part, but you aren't stupid. You know he's never in Daerim for any good fucking reason.
You don't question it as his hands move south, slipping past your underwear. In fact, you're smug as he curses when he feels how wet you are, fingers slippery in your panties.
He pushes a finger into you, and closely follows it with a second. They curl ever so slightly, and it's at this point that you realise Jungkook is absolutely going to ruin you. Just a few pumps. Just to ease you up.
He's bored of waiting. Wants you now.
The pair of you move fluidly, minimal discussion needed, just occasional checks of 'you good?', or 'this okay?'. The answer is, always, without a doubt, 'yes'.
He gets you on your back, panties pulled off, legs not quite hanging off the edge of your bed, but nearly. He strips himself of his shirt first, and grins as he notices the way you whine.
"What?" he toys.
"Nothing," you flirt. "Just wish you'd hurry up. I'm a busy woman."
"Oh yeah?" The sound of his buckle coming undone is enough to make you fucking leak. "Busy doing what?"
You neglect to tell him. Not because you don't have a witty remark lined up, but because he's fucking naked now.
What a sight to behold he is. Body lean, honey skin flawless, muscles defined. You pretend like you're looking at his body, but your eyes are drawn to his cock. You'd expected length, but not the girth - and he has both in abundance. The tip of his cock is blushed and wet, with Jungkook just as aroused as you are.
Noticing your gaze, he rolls his eyes, and toys with your pussy again, lightly running his fingers up and down your slick entrance. When he pulls back, his fingers are still connected by thick clear fluid. His cock throbs.
"You're gonna get me so dirty," he hums, as he crawls onto the bed above you, before holding his fingers to your mouth. "Clean them."
Part of you wants to say no, but the other part of you can see his darkened gaze and the way his cock is twitching. You can't refuse.
His fingers are on the tip of your tongue, the tip of his cock nudging so close to your entrance that he may as well just do it. You raise your hips, encouraging, but he retracts a little just to tease.
The fingers that were in your mouth come to grip at the soft flesh of your cheeks, his thumb on the other side. "Don't you fucking dare."
There's tepid aggression to his movements, and it makes you feel vulnerable - but you like it. You like the way he's gripping your face, the ways he's looking at you with narrow eyes, just like he used to do across the lecture hall. You like being reminded of when you were nothing to one another, because it makes the satisfaction of feeling his stiff cock jump a little against your pussy as you moan so much more worth it.
He used to hate you, now he can't wait to bury his fat cock in you. Victory is yours, even if he's trying to act like he's the one holding all the cards.
You don't correct him, though. You let him think he has the upper hand. You'll play pillow princess just this once if it means you get to see him a little bit mean again.
"Dare what?" you pout, cheeks still squished between his fingers. He grips a little tighter, your chest rising as you gasp. He pulls your face towards his, sinking down into your lips, until he decided he's done with you.
He stands by the edge of your bed, and yanks your ankles towards him, pulling you close enough to the edge for him to fuck you like this.
The loss of his grip is unwelcome by you, a frown forming. He isn't looking at your face now, eyes down on his cock, which he's rubbing between your soaked pussy lips, but he can almost hear you brace yourself to whine. He smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, head knocking to the side slightly.
"Don't you dare try and set the pace," he finally husks, still not glancing up towards you. He's taking his time, making sure the head of his cock kisses every inch of your exposed mess. "Nearly got my nose fucking broken for this pussy-" he spits, hard and fast, right onto your clit, spreading it with his cock. "- so I'm gonna make sure I get what I'm owed."
He spreads your thighs back, his fingers gripping harshly just how you like it. Perhaps you should pretend to be embarrassed by the fact your cunt is leaking for him, begging for him, but the way he hisses at the sight, chest heaving, prevents it.
Jungkook's thought about this before, about how pretty and pristine you'd be, about the mess he'd hoped you'd make. Thought about it so many times. Fingers wrapped around his shaft in the middle of the night when no one can hear him chant your name as he spills over. Yeah, he's thought about it a lot.
His imagination has never done you justice. One look and he's obsessed. Wants to spend hours touching, caressing, licking you.
"Take it," you whisper. "What you're owed, Jungkook. Take it."
He looks up now, brows threaded together. You don't recognise the contemplation his face is laced in, but he doesn't give you the chance to question it, for you begin to feel that burn. The one your fingers can never give you. It's alien, and yet familiar, inherently natural but intrusive nonetheless.
"Shit," is all you can manage to say, eyes locked on his.
He wants to watch himself sink into you, watch as his fat cock forces your slick wetness out of your pussy, but he can't. Not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your chest is heaving and your eyes are watering beneath tense brows. Not when your mouth is hanging open and just begging to be fucked like your tight little pussy.
And then he starts feeling something a little strange. A little unfamiliar. A little bit like his heart has stalled to beat in time with the contractions of your chest. And though he's not in pain anymore, too busy feeling you, he's aware that it hurts. Aware that he can't fuck you like he wanted to, 'cause his chest needs to be against yours. Needs to feel the beating drum beneath your ribs.
He doesn't even realise that he's paused until you whine a meagre, "please."
"That's more like it," he hums, as he pushes into you, the base of his thick cock plugging the weeping mess that he's made. You know that as soon as he pulls out, you'll be whimpering, begging for the tip of his cock to kiss your walls once more. "See how nice things can be when you just behave yourself, huh?"
His hips push just a little deeper, and he knows that it hurts. Knows that the little gasp isn't entirely from pleasure. He's seen his cock. Doesn't take a genius to work out that it can do damage.
"You can take it," he tells you, and like a pathetic, whimpering mess, you fucking nod. He's still inside of you, still deeper than you thought possible, and then his hand is on your stomach. He grabs your hand and places it beneath his. "You feel that?" He retracts just a little, pushing back in just as deep. Beneath your hands, there's a bulge. External or internal, it doesn’t matter. It's him. He does it again. "You feel me taking what's mine?"
Whatever the fuck you moan is incoherent, but he doesn't give a shit, 'cause he's ploughing now. Bucking his hips into you like pneumatic fucking drill. Shit. He's done this before. Got it mastered to a fine art. Momenta worthy of a museum exhibition.
Your tits are pillowed on your chest, nice and round, wobbling as he takes command of your body. He slaps one of them, just to watch it ripple, before that firm grip of his is on it. "Perfect tits," he growls the compliment, not really meaning for it to come out. "Gonna put my cock between them later," he tells you. "Gonna cum all over them."
He doesn't tell you that he'll also clean them with his hungry tongue, before delivering his cum into your mouth. Figures he'll just let you find out. His brain is working at a mile a minute, trying to reign back thoughts of sharing his cum with you in such a filthy manner. God, he wants to do heinous things to you. With you. For you.
But for now, he needs to focus on his cock. It's rubbing inside of you, nuzzling. He knows he's weeping, and that his precum is getting mixed with your slick juices. Knows he won't last long if you keep whining like that. Mewling. Purring.
He stalls his hips, letting go of your tits as they jiggle back into position. Your cheeks are flushed, imprints of his fingers reddening your skin. Lips pouted and resting ajar, Jungkook thinks they've never looked more fuckable. More kissable. More whisper-sweet-nothings-against-able.
"You ever shut the fuck up?" he teases, but is quick to notice confusion flash in your eyes. He didn't mean it as an insult, but it's easy to read the hurt in your perplexed features, and the way you begin to try and push your legs together. It's futile. His cock is keeping you open.
But you feel embarrassed, as if your natural reactions to him are a turn-off. It's silly, because he's quite literally inside of you, fat and solid, using you to milk himself. Of course, he's not turned off, but you're hyper-aware of how vulnerable you're feeling right now. It had been fun to pretend like you were in control, but as soon as he slipped inside of you, all sense of power had evaporated.
He doesn't realise this though. Doesn't realise that his cock is nudging so deep into you that it's practically knocking against your heart. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Your mind taunts, but you daren't answer.
"Hey," he coos, one of his large palms stroking on the inside of your thighs. That uncomfortable, obscure feeling is back again. The one that tells him he needs to be closer to you. This time, he doesn't ignore it. His hips pulse, just the once. A reminder he's still very much into this. Into you.
His hands grip your waist, softly this time, as he manoeuvres himself onto the bed with you, keeping himself snug. Your head is by the pillows, Jungkook's knees on either side of your ass, his chest flat against yours as one of his hands cradles your jaw. He presses a chaste, airy kiss against your lips, and whispers, "I love the way you sound." He kisses you again, hips rocking. You're trying not to, but you whine. "Fuck, sugar. You're my favourite fucking sound."
Your legs hook over his back, and he groans now. The angle change lets him delve deeper, your walls massaging him so well. Jungkook thinks he might have died and gone to heaven. He's slipping in and out of you with minimal force, skin slapping together. He makes sure to let his moans roll off his tongue and into your mouth. You eat them up and give them back. The pair of you aren't kissing anymore, just gasping and humming into one another's mouths. He's stuttering.
There's a pause as he adjusts his grip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs. He likes it, the way you seem to melt around him in all capacities. His lips nudge against yours as his steady hips begin to rock into yours again.
You groan as he pushes down on your legs, pushing you as far apart as your bones allow. It's typical of him, seeing how far he can take things. Push them to the limit. Always gets him in trouble. There's a click, as air escapes from the socket where your leg meets your pelvis.
"You good?" He checks and you respond with a kiss. Hands tangled in his hair, you hope it conveys the fact you've never felt better. He laughs a little, soft and serene, into your mouth, the weight of his body keeping you trapped beneath him.
You're morbid in your thoughts, and consider how nice it would be for Jungkook to suffocate you like this; steal you of the air you breathe with his tiny giggles of satisfaction. So, so nice, you think.
And so you tell him. You tell him that you want his hand on your throat. He takes a second to respond - not because he doesn't want to, but more so because he can't believe you actually asked.
He doesn't normally fuck the girls he cares about like this. Then again, he never really cares about the girls he fucks.
"God," you moan as he pushes one of your legs over his shoulder. His body is clammy against yours, skin hot and damp, chest lean but built. He's working hard; not just for his release. For yours too. Rams into you, stuffing your cunt with his cock, dipping his head to lather your clasped throat in wet kisses.
"That's it, sugar," he growls as his teeth graze your neck. "Need to hear how good you feel. Need to hear what my cock does to you. You owe me."
You want to laugh. You're about to laugh. But then his head dips down to your chest, and he latches onto one of your pebbled nipples, sucking so hard that all you can do is tremble. He knows you like this. Knows it makes your pussy all creamy and slippery for him - and like clockwork, he's proven right. The sounds are lewd. He loves it.
"On your back," you husk, punctuating your instruction with a whimper as he suckles even harder. He shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth vibrating and full of your tit. Not a chance, he tries to say, but it just sounds likes he's forgotten how to speak. Too busy. Too close to spilling himself into you. Doesn't wanna get distracted.
So focused, he doesn't realise you're pushing him over until you're on top. He frowns as he detaches from your nipple with a pop, but his hands are running all over your body regardless. Obviously doesn't care that much. Course he doesn't. That ache in his chest has settled.
Until he starts thinking about it, and oh god, it's back and it's fucking unbearable.
"C'mere," he pulls you flush against him, as your hips begin to work against him. His hands cradle your face so he can kiss you as deeply as he likes, tongue slipping into your mouth, as his cock slips up and down your pussy. This, he thinks, is it. This is what fucking should feel like.
"Shit," he whispers. "Shit."
The friction of his surprisingly neat hair that rests at the base of his cock is nice. Real fuckin' nice. You're not even fucking him anymore, just grinding against it. Using it, using him, to get yourself off.
You think you're being slick, like he won't notice - but he does. Of course, he does. He's obsessed with your body.
"God, yeah, baby," his back arches, pressing his chest against yours, eyes closed. "Use me like that. Use me," he bites into your shoulder gently. "Fucking use me."
He means it. Doesn't give a shit about himself anymore. Just wants to feel you tremble as he holds you close. Wants to press kisses against your lips as your moans become undignified. He needs to be the reason you cum; needs to be responsible for your oxytocin rush.
You sit up a little, and Jungkook holds back a pout from the separation - but how can he complain when you're sat like that, his cock buried inside of you, hair a mess and with eyes like his favourite constellation? He's hypnotised as your boobs begin to bounce, pussy working up his shaft like the true Daerim woman of the night you are. He's forgotten about all of that, now. Can't think about anything except for how to not fucking cum.
He can't and he won't. Not until you do. But you're bouncing, and it's wet, and he can hear it, and it feels so fuckin' good. His toes are curling, torso tensing, eyes half-shut, pretty little pout hanging open. He's fucking whining. "Yeah like that," he encourages. "Gonna milk me so well, baby. Gonna... ah. Fuck. Gonna-"
Jungkook can't fucking speak. He wants to. Wants to tell you how fucking beautiful you look, how he wants this endlessly, how he never wants to let you go. Needs to tell you how right this feels, how good you make him feel, how he doesn't understand his feelings but fuck, just that he is feeling. Feeling so much.
You're not sure at which point he started calling you baby, but you're actually convinced that the name alone could tip you over the edge.
The pace of your hips is slowly, savouring. He doesn't quite get it. You were so close. Why stop?
The stillness of your movements makes way for something new. He feels a throb around his fat cock, which is begging for release. Notices the way your chest is shaking like you've got hiccups, tiny whines of pleasure making themselves known. Your pussy was always warm, but it's hot now, contracting around him.
And then he gets it.
"Oh, shit," he mewls, his hips slowly pumping upwards. "Yeah, that's it, baby. Let yourself cum. All over my dick," he encourages, hedonistic and self-serving. "That's it. Cream for me."
His slow movements as he fucks up into you amplify the sensation, the tip of his cock nudging languidly against your tight walls. Your entire body shudders, the feeling rippling from your chest right down to your toes. You rasp out moans, the sensation all too powerful, a creamy mess pooling at the base of his shaft. There's a jerk as your muscles spasm, your orgasm well and truly delivered. He pulls you down and into his chest, his strong arms wrapped around your back.
Your body rests on his, spent and sensitive, and he can tell you can't hold out for much longer. He pushes back the hair that's sticking to your clammy face, and presses kisses into your temple.
"So big," you hum, voice hazy, eyes shut.
"Just a little more, baby," he promises. " You're doing so well. Just a little..."
You've considered how Jungkook would orgasm on more than one occasion - and you're pleasantly surprised to find that your imagination was wrong. There's no grand declaration, nor large grunt. He's not aggressive, either, like you'd half-hoped he would be.
Instead, Jungkook kisses you as his hips begin to stall. His brows are creased, moans muffled against your lips. His torso shudders, abdomen as tight as his balls. "Baby," he drowsily mewls, and then it's happening. His cock pumps into you, unloading thick creamy spurts with every stroke of your pussy. The first one is so desperate that you're almost positive you can feel it paint your insides. You moan along with him, utterly obsessed with this, him, whatever the fuck just happened.
He doesn't withdraw immediately. Just lays there and kisses your skin, absolutely spent.
You don't move a muscle. You don't want it to be over. Don't wanna lose this. Lose him.
When you tilt your head to look at him, he's smiling. Eyes closed, cheeks appled. Serene. In a state of fucked-out bliss.
You tell him that he's pretty, and he lets out an airy laugh, covering his face with one of his hands. You move his hand and watch him fondly, enthralled with the grin that he's struggling to fight.
He turns to look at you, and the smile he's been boasting amplifies. "God, you're gorgeous."
It's not a new observation; just one he's never voiced before. One that he was able to resist saying. But you're naked now, chest pillowed against his, eyes glowing and nose blushed.
You hum, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'm glad you chose to come here."
Just like that, there's a knot in Jungkook's stomach that seems to anchor that feeling he keeps having.
"Yeah," he nods. "Me too."
IT'S THREE IN the afternoon by the time you wake from your post-fuck snooze. Jungkook's never had one of those before. Hated being sticky after sex with anyone else. Always had to shower - but with you, he wants to stick to you like glue.
"Should have filmed that," he hums, the tips of his fingers stroking up your arms. You aren't sure if he's joking or not. "Would have given us a unique take on the project. Probably wouldn't have gotten us very high grades, mind you, but art is subjective."
"Some would argue that the critique of art is objective," you muse back, still blissfully cum-drunk from the events prior to your nap. Jungkook's nose has stopped bleeding, and the pair of you have almost forgotten the reason he showed up in the first place. "Documentary maker by night, porn star by day," you flirt. "Although it's cute that you think you fuck like a porn star."
"I felt you shaking," he says, knowing there's no possible way that you didn't enjoy it. His nose feels a little cold after all the trauma of the morning, so he buries it into your hair. "Can't fake that."
"That's what I'm saying," you simper, pressing a kiss against his bare torso, just below the meeting of his collarbones. And then another, simply for good measure. "Porn stars never actually look like they're making the woman feel any good." You trail down his chest, tongue licking gently at the darker skin around his nipple. "You... yeah you don't fuck like a porn star." And then you suck a little. He hisses, in the best possible way.
"Don't," he says. "Not ready to go again."
You laugh.
Jungkook thinks he's reached Nirvana. Almost certain, in fact. Never had a girl do that to him before. He loves to give it, but hasn't ever thought to receive it. Wonders what other things you'll do to him that he's never had done before. He can feel his cock fucking twitching again, achy and sore, definitely not recovered yet from how hard he went earlier - but god, he wants it. Wants to bury himself inside you again. Belong to you.
His hands paw at you, one gripping on your chest, the other on your ass, pulling you closer. Your leg hooks over him, and he can feel how wet you still are on the side of his thigh. His balls fucking tighten. He can feel it happening, blood rushing to his crotch.
Yet despite it all, he just kisses you. Softly. Tenderly. Merely his lips languid between yours. Withdraws slowly. Keeps his eyes closed. Bliss.
"The fuck have you done to me, sugar?" he whispers, dark eyes opening to look into yours. His speech is husky, like he trying to steal the answers of a pop-quiz from you. You can't help him. You don't have a clue what the answer is. You're just as stuck as he is. "Got me feeling all fuzzy 'n' shit."
"Just a sugar rush," you smile. "It'll pass."
You're both acutely aware that it won't, but that will be a problem for another day.
"Tell you what," Jungkook muses, though his thoughts are shallow. He's not digging deep. Just talking for the sake of it. "I might not fuck like a porn star, but you don't fuck like a hooker."
He pulls your arm up so that he can study the crease of your elbow. You let him move your body like you're a barbie doll. You'll be his toy, you think, if he wants. No bother.
His fingers press at the thin skin that covers your veins, inspecting.
"Not a scratch," he assesses. "So you're not an addict either."
You laugh, slightly amused. "No? Maybe I just don't inject."
Jungkook gives you a stern look. Hopes you're joking. Tells you that you better fucking be joking. The sweetness of your laughter tells him that you are.
"So?" you press. "I'm not a prostitute and I'm not an addict. It's your lucky day. What of it?"
Jungkook tilts his head down so that his nose is nestled into the crown of your head again. Comforting, he thinks. Smells like laundry. You must have washed your sheets recently.
His next statement takes you off guard.
"Only ever see three kinds of women down in Daerim."
And you know.
You know he knows.
You can feel it in the way he protectively presses his lips into your skull, as if he's Prince Charming trying to rid his Sleeping Beauty of the nightmare she's been living. Wake up.
But Prince Charming rides a white horse, not a petrol-spitting, air-cooled, steel-framed shadow that rips through the city at night.
There are no nightmares, either. You're already wide awake. There's no saving you.
He sighs against your head. Pauses. Resists, and then confronts.
"I know what you do in the dark, sugar."
You don't say anything for a moment, and then you're pulling away from him, reaching for your shirt. He doesn't like this. Misses your warmth, but doesn't stop you. Instead, he follows, sitting on the edge of your bed, the corner of your comforter lazily protecting his modesty. His muscles are relaxed now, a little crease in his stomach from the way that he's slouching, hands in his lap. Those Bambi eyes of his are peaking through his hair, cheeks red and grazed from the morning encounter he'd had in Daerim.
He watches as you pull your shirt over your head, hair just as messy as his, and a graze on your cheek to match. He was pretty certain before that it had been carpet burn, but now that he's seen it up close, softly rubbed his thumb against it during pretty kisses, he's sure of it.
You avert his gaze. Feel shameful. Hate that he knows. You never cared before. It was just a fun little secret, the fact that he didn't know you were no angel.
But you want him to think that you're one, now.
For a moment, you were sure that he had.
Instead, now, it feels like you're falling from grace.
He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back. "Please don't."
And so he doesn't. Just sits for a little while instead. "Do you want me to get dressed?"
You really don't.
But your tongue is lodged in your mouth and it won't budge. You turn away, internally furious with yourself. It's been a while since you've gotten like this; so dreadfully panicked that you can't talk. It's a once in a blue moon kind of thing, the early onset of a panic attack, but you're hoping it won't reach the stage of no return. Praying.
"Babe?"
He sounds worried now, and it's making it worse. Feels like you've just reached the top of Bukhan Mountain without taking a second to catch your breath.
Has your chest always been this tight? Or has someone just been wrapping rubber bands around your torso without you noticing?
It isn't possible, and you know this, but it feels like it and - oh God - you can hear him shuffling, the buckle of his belt clanging. He's leaving, he's leaving, he's leaving, your ribs cackle as they close down on your lungs.
There's a light hum behind you, like a wasp is coming to send you into a state of anaphylactic shock and then it stops. His jeans are tossed to the floor once more.
"Yoongi?" Jungkook speaks quietly behind you into the receiver of his phone. "Wassu- Yeah, yeah, I'm safe. I'm good."
I'm safe.
I'm good.
"Where are- Yoongi stop. Stop it. I'm being deadly fucking serious-"
You don't realise it, but your chest begins to mellow as you listen in to his conversation.
"It's my mess!" He shouts now. "I'll fucking fix it. I don't give a fuck what Hobi says. Where you at? The Zoo? I'll be there- Yes, I will. Don't do anything fucking stupid."
And then he hangs up, chucking his phone into your bed with more aggression than he'd ever wanted to show in your presence. You don't see it, back still turned, but you hear it, the way his phone rebounds against the springs of your mattress.
"Shit," he hisses, and when you turn to face him, you find that his head is in his hands, elbows on his knees.
Crouching by him, your chest expands. You don't give a shit about yourself anymore. Your palms rest just behind his elbows, eyes anchored below his, looking up.
"He's got his fucking final in an hour," is all Jungkook says. "He's gonna miss his fucking final."
He lifts his head, tender lips pouted, eyes bloodshot from the pressure he's been placing on his palms. Looks right at you. Decides he'll never trust another pair of eyes more.
"I know what you do in the dark, sugar," he relays. "But I do worse. So much fucking worse. And I've just gone and fucked it all up."
And while he blames it all on himself, you know it's your fault.
He didn't stay away from the girl. He tempted fate, tugged on the red string, and accidentally snapped it.
Forlorn, he slumps, tongue wetting his bottom lip as he bites down on it. It's only to stop it from trembling. Clouds lurk in his eyes, trying to block his vulnerabilities from you, but it doesn't take a genius to work out that he's scared.
"Take it," you say, lips in a flat line, eyes stern. You nod towards the pile of cash on your desk, and his eyes follow. "Take it. Pay your debts. I can earn it again. I don't have a deadline. You do."
He shakes his head.
"I'm not taking the money you've earned."
"Yes, you are."
"I'm not," he protests and you've got it in your right mind to slap his pretty face silly. "Gonna be totally honest," he adds, "Don't really want your sugar baby money. Kinda resent it a little. Resent the fucker who gave it to you."
Jungkook hates him.
Doesn't know him.
Loathes him.
"So then give him the middle finger and take it," you plead. "He got you fucked up into this mess, he got you jumped, he got your stash stolen. Take his money and get yourself and Yoongi out of it. You don't have time to be fucking arguing with me."
He wants to fight back. You stop him.
"We can argue later," you promise.
And that ever-present effervescent feeling is back in his chest.
"Sugar," he speaks quietly. "Don't do this."
"Kook," you respond, voice much firmer than his. "You gotta do this. Yoongi shouldn't be fixing your mistakes and you know it. We can work it out on an I.O.U. basis. It's okay."
"I.O.U. suggests I'm gonna keep seeing you for a while," Jungkook mumbles. He isn't feeling as confident in himself as he had done earlier.
You stand, offering your hand to him so that you can pull him up with you. Neither of you acknowledge the fact that he's stark bollock naked. It's really not the time. Nothing you haven't seen before, after all.
"Well, yeah," you shrug with a straight face, but there's a glint in your eye. "I'd hope so. Pretty sure you said you were fuck my tits later? Gotta hold up your end of the bargain, sugar."
And despite it all, he laughs, toying with your hands before slipping his finger between yours. "Don't call me that."
"Why not?" You squeeze his hands. "You're technically my sugar baby now."
"That's not how it works."
God, he knows he shouldn't be fucking about, wasting time flirting, but he just can't help himself.
"No?" You question, equally distracted.
"No," he says. "If you're paying me, and I'm fucking you, then that makes me a hooker."
He's not wrong.
"Oh, that's kinda hot," you smile, pulling gently on his hands to encourage him to lean down. He does as he's told, and kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"You're so fucked up," he whispers against you, knowing that it's exactly why he enjoys you so much.
You don't let the moment linger, though, tossing him his clothes and going to grab the money while he dresses himself. You stack it together, all nice and neat, using the desk to straighten the edges. The wedge is thick in your hands. Yellow 50's are laughing at you. Stupid girl thought we'd fix her problems, they chatter silently to one another.
"Three and half million won," you hold it out to Jungkook. He hesitates, so you force his grip around it and let go. It's his problem, now. Not yours. You smile so warmly that Jungkook can't help but let that feeling in his chest simmer. Your hair is still messy, mascara still smudged. He wants to kiss your cheeks.
Jungkook hasn't disclosed what exactly was in his bag.
But in the same way he knows there are only three types of women in Daerim, you know there are equally only three types of men.
There's only one demographic that he belongs to. Yoongi, too.
You don't say it explicitly, not like he does.
"Holangi are nasty fuckers," you acknowledge. "I know they raise the stakes just for the fun of it. Whatever got stolen, the street value doesn't matter. Take it all. You'll need it."
Take what I owe you.
When he kisses you goodbye, it's just like the first time; all breathy and needy, lips parted and pouting. Again and again, he presses down into your lips. His brows furrow, hands on your cheeks, chest pressed against yours.
The crimson paint that had stained you from his very first kiss returns. You're painted in red for the second time that morning, but this time only you can see it. Only you can feel it.
That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.
But it's funny now, because you know that he does mean it.
When he finally leaves, his nose is blushed, his cupids bow too. Eyes glassy. Smile forlorn.
Disappointingly, as you close the door of your apartment when he's no longer in your line of sight, you remember exactly how Jungkook had kissed you for the first time:
Like it was going to be the last.
And it consumes you, because the kiss you just shared felt exactly the same.
Your chest is uncomfortable again, but it's not rubber bands this time.
It's that stupid red string that Jungkook had tugged too tightly on.
in which his office hours turn into debates about your lack of criticism or rather into an entirely new method of passing his class.
pairing: professor!kim namjoon x you/reader
warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, lots of drama, explicit sex scenes, explicit language
word count: 17.5k
authors note: merry christmas <3 and here is my present.
you stared at your grade, though calling it a grade was generous because staring at the words not passed felt more like being punched in the throat than academically evaluated. not passed. not passed? how? how was that even remotely possible when you had basically sacrificed your entire existence to this class for the past few weeks. you had studied through meals, through showers, through sleep, through the few pathetic moments of free time you had left. you had built your whole routine around this stupid midterm and now the universe had the audacity to tell you that all of that meant nothing.
you had built your routine around this midterm not because you wanted to, god no, but because the alternative was academic death via administrative technicality. you had told friends "i can't, i have to study." you had told family "no, i don't have time." you had even told your group chat "i'll respond soon," which everyone correctly interpreted as "see you in six months."
all for what? not. passed.
the words glowed back at you like an accusation. like a smug little shrug from the universe.
your stomach dropped, dramatically, theatrically, as if it were auditioning for a tragic role. your fingers hovered uselessly over the trackpad, scrolling up, down, up again, rereading the same message as if maybe, just maybe, the meaning would change with enough persistence.
your eyes dragged reluctantly toward the margin, where mr. kim, sorry, mr. expectations incarnate, had left a few short, merciless comments. purpose? unclear. structure inconsistent. needs deeper analysis. that was it. no paragraph, no gentle guidance, not even one of those condescending academic smiles scribbled as a doodle in the corner. just three phrases that felt like someone had handed you your shattered self-esteem on a piece of cheap printer paper.
you felt your pulse beating in your ears as you sat there, frozen, your laptop glowing mockingly in the dark room. for a solid minute you truly believed your soul was trying to leave your body and go major in something less humiliating. basket weaving maybe. rock collecting. anything but this.
but you knew exactly why this happened, why that horrible, humiliating little word was staring back at you in thick red font as if it was personally offended by your existence. it was not because you had studied too little, because god knew you had turned your life into a monastic cycle of waking up, studying, eating while studying, showering while reciting historical dates, and falling asleep with open tabs about eighteenth century policy reforms. it was not because your answers were unclear, or lacked structure, or were missing citations, because you had triple checked every paragraph until it felt like your brain was leaking out of your ears. no, the reason was not you. the reason was currently standing at the front of the lecture hall, sleeves rolled up, white chalk in hand, talking about how students needed to put in more effort if they wished to succeed, as if the universe had personally asked him to insult you through academic feedback.
he was the reason. his sudden arrival months ago, as replacement lecturer, because mr. choi was out for an indefinite amount of time, his dramatic entrance, his meticulous expectations, the way he graded like he was training you all to enter an olympic sport instead of pass a required course, every part of it led to this moment. he was the reason you were standing there with your pulse in your throat and something like disbelief mixing with fury, the kind that made you want to crumple the paper in your hands and also maybe throw it at his painfully composed face.
you could still remember it perfectly, painfully clearly even, how you had sat in that exact same seat barely two months ago, blissfully unaware that your favorite professor was about to announce he would be out indefinitely due to health issues. back then you had been annoyed, sure, disappointed even, but nothing could have prepared you for what walked through the door next. and when he stepped in front of the class, tall, calm, annoyingly composed, you had blinked once, twice, and the only coherent thought that had formed in your mind had been something dangerously close to "oh my god is that our new professor and if he teaches us i will gladly attend every single class", "even the morning ones."
you would never admit it out loud, not even under emotional torture from your friends, but for the tiniest, microscopic second you had thought he was attractive. just a little. just enough for your brain to betray you for a moment. but then he opened his mouth. and he ruined everything. spectacularly.
"a midterm and an essay are mandatory requirements for final exam eligibility," he had said, voice smooth, steady, merciless. "the passing threshold for each is seventy percent. failure to meet either standard results in automatic disqualification. any student with more than one absence should consider retaking the course."
you remembered blinking at him, outrage blooming like a wildfire inside you. automatic disqualification? seventy percent for everything? one absence and you were done?
exaggerating, hissed your mind, and you knew half the class thought the exact same thing because someone behind you whispered oh he's one of those and someone else muttered why do hot people always have the worst personalities.
you had stared at him, jaw tense, trying to convince yourself you had misheard. maybe he was joking. maybe he had a sense of humor. maybe he wasn't actually the academic grim reaper in an expensive button-up.
but no.
he looked perfectly serious, perfectly composed, perfectly determined to ruin your semester before it even started.
and you remembered sitting there thinking great, amazing, wonderful, not only is he strict, but he's also tall and good-looking which makes this a thousand times worse, thank you universe for nothing, as he continued outlining the syllabus like he was announcing military protocol rather than a mid-level seminar.
mr. kim had stood at the front of the room that day like he owned it, like the air itself bent around him, explaining expectations with that calm certainty that made you want to roll your eyes into the next dimension. "if you cannot keep up with the assigned readings or analytical depth required, you may want to reconsider your enrollment," he had said, and for a moment you had genuinely wondered if he practiced sounding condescending in the mirror every morning.
and the longer he talked, the more your initial oh he's cute shifted into oh he is absolutely unbearable, followed by a very strong and immediate kill me right now.
and god, the worst part was how calm he looked now while explaining that many of you had not met the standard he expected. you stood in the third row, arms stiff at your sides, listening to him speak with that steady voice, every word perfectly enunciated, and all you could think was yes, of course, easy for him to say, he was not the one who had spent nights spiraling and rewriting slides and obsessing over whether your thesis statement was profound or simply pretentious. no, he got to stand there and look handsome and intelligent and composed like the universe's favorite academic, while you stood with a sheet of paper that screamed failure.
you felt it in your stomach, that slow sinking feeling that told you this was not only unfair but also entirely, infuriatingly, embarrassingly his fault. because if mr choi had not gotten sick, if mr choi had not vanished into indefinite medical leave, if mr choi had simply stayed where he belonged, then you would not be standing here questioning your entire identity as a student. instead you would be breezing through this class the way you always had, proud and confident, not this mess of self doubt and crushed expectations.
and the more he spoke, the heavier your lungs felt, because every sentence he delivered about expectations and standards was just another reminder that your safe world of predictable structure had been shattered the moment he walked through the lecture hall doors. it was like he had turned the academic difficulty knob from moderate to impossible simply by existing, and you hated how much power that gave him over your mood, your semester, your peace of mind.
yes, he was the reason. the reason your chest felt tight, the reason the paper trembled slightly in your hand, the reason you stood rooted in place even after the class ended, the reason you knew you were not going to let this go. not quietly. not peacefully. not ever.
because this was not over. not even close.
you stood in front of his door.
not because you wanted to. not because you had woken up that morning full of academic ambition and personal growth. no, if it had been up to you, you would have continued doing what you'd perfected over the last weeks: avoiding him, pretending none of this bothered you, and boiling quietly in your own resentment.
but unfortunately, you had a best friend. and even more unfortunately, she was persuasive when she decided to be.
"go to his office hours," she had said the night before, already halfway sunken into her couch, remote in hand. "figure out what went wrong. argue with him if you have to. be mature. or immature. i don't care. just stop pacing around my apartment like you're about to declare war."
you had stared at her, unimpressed. "you're seriously not taking my side right now."
she didn't even look at you. "i'm taking the side of my peace. and," she added, flipping channels, "please let me watch physical asia in silence. katsumi looks way too good for me to be emotionally available."
you had scoffed. "you do know he's married, right?"
she waved a hand dismissively. "i'm just casually crushing. not actively trying to destroy a marriage."
that conversation replayed now, unhelpful and unwanted, as you stood outside his door.
your hand curled into a fist at your side. your pulse was louder than you liked. you had prepared for this—rehearsed calm, reasonable sentences in your head. things professors respected. things that didn't sound defensive or emotional or desperate. you were going to be composed. collected. professional.
none of those words felt accurate anymore.
the door looked the same as every other office door on this floor. plain. unimpressive. annoyingly unremarkable, considering how much power the man behind it seemed to have over your academic life.
you exhaled slowly, straightened your shoulders, and raised your hand.
the first knock came out too soft. barely there.
you frowned at yourself, waited a beat, then knocked again, this time with enough force that there was no pretending it hadn't happened.
there it was. the point of no return.
you weren't here because of tension. or because of whatever unspeakable thing had settled between you the last time you'd been alone in a room with him. you certainly weren't here because you wanted to be.
you stepped inside, closing the door a little too carefully behind you, as if a soft click would make this situation less humiliating. the office was small, warmer than it should've been, lined with tall bookshelves and stacks of papers that looked intimidating in a very academic, very "you-will-fail-here" kind of way. he sat behind his desk, glasses low on his nose, reading something with the type of bored focus only a cruelly intelligent person could have. he didn't look up immediately, which somehow made everything worse.
you barely had time to swallow your nerves before namjoon looked up from whatever paper he was grading, one elbow on the desk, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, expression already somewhere between bored and unimpressed. the kind of look that made you feel like you were interrupting something far more important than your entire academic future.
"y/n," he said, voice steady, almost flat, like he'd expected you at some point. "what brings you to my office hours?"
you opened your mouth. "it's about my—"
"your midterm," he cut in, not even bothering to disguise it as a question, just stating it as if it were the only logical reason you'd dare step foot into his space. "i assume that's why you're here."
you swallowed, tasting the bitterness on your tongue. "yes."
"did you read my comments?" he asked, leaning back just slightly, arms crossing over his chest. the way he looked at you made you feel twelve again, standing in front of a teacher who already assumed you didn't know what you were talking about.
"i did," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "i read all of them."
"then why," he said slowly, deliberately, "are you here, if you already have my feedback?"
there was no kindness in it. no softness. just a simple, sharp question, as if the answer should've been obvious to you already.
you clenched your jaw. "because the comments don't make sense to me. i don't understand what i supposedly did wrong."
his eyebrow lifted. and god, you hated that it made your stomach twist a little. "you don't understand," he repeated, like he was amused. sarcastically amused. "y/n i wrote clearly that your responses lacked analytical depth and consistency."
"but they don't," you argued before you could stop yourself. "i followed the rubric. i literally went through each point. i worked on that exam for weeks."
he hummed, a short, low sound in the back of his throat that somehow felt like a slap. "working hard isn't the same as doing well."
your breath hitched. "are you saying i'm what? stupid?"
"i never said that." he stood up from his chair then, slowly, and you felt your pulse spike for reasons you refused to acknowledge. "but if you're here expecting me to tell you you deserved a better grade just because you spent a lot of time preparing, then yes, you're in the wrong place."
you blinked, heat shooting up your neck. "i'm not asking for special treatment—"
"aren't you?" he stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you felt it. that tightening in your chest. that awareness. "you come here saying you make no mistakes, that you don't understand how your answers could be anything but perfect. what exactly do you expect me to say?"
your fingers curled around the strap of your bag. "i expect you to explain why i failed something i know i did well on."
he laughed. not loudly, but quietly, disbelievingly, the sound brushing right over your skin like something you didn't want to feel. "you're confident. i'll give you that."
"i'm not confident," you snapped. "i'm right."
that got him to tilt his head. "oh? go on then. right about what?"
"that my answers weren't vague. or shallow. or whatever else you wrote. i compared them to the rubric. i compared them to the examples."
namjoon exhaled slowly and rounded his desk, coming to stand directly in front of you. close enough that you could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw tensed when he was holding himself back from saying more. his height didn't help either, making you tilt your chin up just to meet his eyes.
"and yet," he said quietly, "you still failed."
you flinched.
he noticed.
his voice softened. just barely, just enough to make it worse. "y/n sometimes students misunderstand what depth of analysis actually means. you're not the first."
"don't talk to me like i'm naïve," you said, heat rising to your face. "i'm not misunderstanding anything. something about the grading is off."
"are you accusing me of being unfair?"
"i'm saying something isn't right."
he stepped even closer then, slow, deliberate. barely a breath between you. "be very careful with your words."
your throat tightened. "why? because you don't like being wrong?"
his eyes narrowed. "i'm not wrong."
"neither am i."
the silence that followed felt heavy, thick, almost electric. for a moment it didn't feel like a conversation about an exam at all. it felt like something tipping, something dangerous, something that neither of you knew how to step away from without falling.
namjoon exhaled through his nose, controlled, irritated, and yet, god, there was something else there. "you're frustrated. fine. i get it. but storming into my office won't change your grade."
"i didn't storm," you muttered.
"you did," he said, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, but not the warm kind. the kind that made your blood simmer. "i know students like you. you all are the same."
"what do you mean with 'students like you'? you don't even know me."
"i know enough," he said, voice low. "you're stubborn. proud. easily provoked. and apparently convinced i'm the villain in your academic downfall."
you stared at him, jaw tight. "you want me to leave."
"i want you to read the comments again," he said. "properly this time. without assuming i'm out to get you."
"maybe i assume that because your feedback doesn't match the work i did."
"or maybe," he said, leaning just slightly down toward you, "you're not as objective about your own work as you think you are."
your breath caught, and you hated that he saw it.
he straightened, like the conversation bored him now. "i have another appointment in ten minutes. do you need anything else?"
you opened your mouth to argue, to fight, to push back again, but something in his eyes warned you it wouldn't get you anywhere. not today.
"no," you muttered, even though everything in you screamed yes. "i'll reread the notes."
he nodded. "good."
you turned to leave, but just as your hand touched the doorknob, his voice drifted behind you, lower than before.
"and y/n?"
you didn't turn around. you didn't trust yourself to.
"next time," he said, "come prepared to actually listen. not just defend yourself. this only shows your lack of criticism."
your nails dug into your palm.
"have a good afternoon."
you walked out without answering. because if you had, you weren't sure whether it would've been a curse, a scream, or something dangerously close to the way your heart had stumbled the moment he stepped toward you.
and you hated that most of all.
to say his words had sparked something deep inside you, something sharp, stubborn, almost humiliatingly determined, wouldn't have been a lie. there was a part of you, buried somewhere between pride and pure, exhausted frustration, that refused to accept the way he had looked at you in that office, the way he had dismissed your questions with a tone so calm it felt like a slap, the way he spoke as if you were naive for even daring to ask. and maybe it was irrational, maybe your sleep-deprived mind had blown the whole encounter out of proportion, but after that day you found yourself walking into his seminar with a new kind of focus, the kind that clung to your ribs and wouldn't let go.
you raised your hand more. far more than before.
the first time, you thought he genuinely hadn't seen you, that maybe his eyes had simply skimmed across your row too quickly. but the second time, when you lifted your hand just as steadily and his gaze passed right over you, so intentionally you could feel the cut of it, you realized it wasn't an oversight. and when it happened again, and again, until you lost count somewhere around the tenth attempt, there was no room left for doubt: he saw you. he saw you every single time.
he just refused to call on you.
his gaze always found you when you raised your hand, brushing across your face with that strangely assessing sharpness before sliding away, choosing someone else, anyone else. sometimes he picked students who were clearly unprepared, people who blinked at him like deer in headlights, people who stammered through half-formed thoughts while he stood there with folded arms and that expression that hovered between patient and cruel. but he never picked you. for days, then weeks.
and even though a part of you wanted to shrug it off, wanted to act like it didn't get under your skin, another part, the part he had unearthed so expertly, refused to let it go. you remembered too vividly the way he had leaned back in his chair during your office hour, fingers tapping once against the desk as he looked at you with a faint, unreadable curve at the corner of his mouth and said, "if you don't understand my feedback, then you didn't understand the question in the first place." the calmness of it had cut deeper than if he had raised his voice.
you didn't forget that look.
and maybe that was why now, every time he entered the room, your spine straightened involuntarily, your senses sharpening as if you were stepping into something volatile, something dangerous that you couldn't quite stay away from.
"does anyone want to elaborate on that?" he asked one afternoon, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard, hands buried in his pockets with that effortless confidence that should've annoyed you less than it did.
your hand shot up. so did a few others.
he looked at you first. you knew it. you felt it like heat under your skin. but instead of calling your name, instead of giving you even the smallest acknowledgment that your effort meant something, he turned his head slightly and said, "yes, nora," directing his attention to the girl two rows behind you.
your stomach didn't drop this time. it tightened. sharpened.
nora spoke quietly, hesitantly, and he didn't even appear to listen. his gaze drifted across the room while she talked, scanning faces, tapping his thumb once against his elbow, until his eyes found you again, lingering in that way that was too long to be coincidence and too controlled to be an accident. when you met his stare, something unreadable flickered in it, challenge, annoyance, interest, all twisted into something you couldn't name.
you were the one who looked away first.
after class, you stayed seated until the room had mostly emptied out, pretending to finish notes while your laptop screen remained dark. the murmur of voices faded, footsteps echoing out the door, until there were only a few people left. and still, still, you felt it. that awareness. that pressure of being watched. you didn't have to look to know where it came from; the air itself felt different when his eyes were on you.
finally, you stood and walked toward the exit, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder. as you passed him, because of course he was standing near the door, you realized he wasn't even pretending to be occupied with anything else. he didn't move aside either, didn't shift to give you space. you stepped left; he stepped left too, almost lazily. you stepped right, and only then did he move, barely enough for you to squeeze through.
your sleeve brushed his. a fleeting, accidental touch. but it felt like a spark anyway, sharp and unwelcome, tightening something inside your chest so abruptly it threw off your breathing for a second. but you didn't stop. you kept walking until the hallway swallowed the moment whole.
the next week, the tension was worse from the moment you sat down.
he scanned the room once as he arranged his notes, eyes flicking past you, then returning. slower. heavier. a tiny shift in his expression, something too subtle to name, made the hairs on your arms lift.
"before we begin," he said, leaning against the desk with the kind of casual posture that only made his voice sound sharper, "it seems some of you are still struggling with the basic expectations for academic writing."
your pulse kicked. you knew he meant you. he knew you knew. and he wanted you to know.
"i won't repeat myself," he continued, crossing his arms. "if you're confused, it means you didn't read the rubric carefully enough."
the room was silent.
you raised your hand.
slowly, deliberately.
his eyes flicked to it, then to you, and for a moment everything in you tightened, waiting, bracing, daring him.
the corner of his mouth twitched, not in amusement but in something almost cruelly satisfied.
"anyone else?" he asked.
silence.
still he refused you.
"fine," he said coolly. "moving on."
you lowered your hand with a steadiness you absolutely did not feel. the burn under your skin was back, but it wasn't humiliation, it was anger. focus. something undeniably alive. your jaw clenched so tightly your teeth ached, and beneath the desk your fingers curled into fists.
the rest of the lecture passed like a drawn-out challenge neither of you named aloud. every time his eyes swept the room, they lingered on you first; every time someone else spoke, he looked at you as if waiting for a reaction; every time his tone sharpened on words like clarity or understanding, you felt the direction of it like a blade.
and the longer it went on, the more undeniable it became that whatever this was, whatever this tension curling thick and hot in the space between you meant, it wasn't random. he was pushing you, provoking you, testing limits neither of you had acknowledged.
and the worst part, the part you didn't dare say out loud, was that you weren't backing down. couldn't. not after everything he had started, everything he kept stoking with every look, every ignored hand, every pointed remark.
so the next week, before he even finished posing the question, your hand was already in the air, steady, unyielding, daring him.
because you weren't done with him. and he clearly wasn't done with you.
it was a saturday night, the kind of night you normally spent buried in articles or rewriting notes you already knew by heart, but tonight your apartment was overflowing with people who had apparently decided a "break" was something you desperately needed. eunji and mihi had insisted they were "just stopping by," which, judging by the fact that jungkook and taehyung arrived first with an armful of controllers, five bags of snacks, a dangerously large bottle of soju, and identical shit-eating grins, was the biggest lie of the century. the moment they showed up, two hyperactive golden retrievers with the subtlety of a fire alarm, you knew exactly who had orchestrated this entire thing. not that they tried to hide it.
"we heard you needed a distraction," they sang in perfect unison, practically shoving past you before you could laugh, cry, or throw them out.
and then, like dominos falling, the rest arrived: yoongi with his usual unimpressed expression and a six-pack of beer tucked against his chest; jimin, already kicking off his shoes and making himself at home; hobi, bright and loud and sunshine incarnate; and even jin, who should've been locked away finishing his master's thesis but somehow still found the time to show up with freshly baked cookies as if this were a charity event and he was the patron saint of stressed students. eunji shot you a look when jin walked in, a look that said he dragged himself here for you. you pretended not to notice.
by the time everyone settled in, the couch was full, the floor was full, and your tiny living room looked like a sleepover hosted by adults who refused to admit they were adults. you squeezed onto the floor next to jin, placing a bowl of gummy bears between you, because the man looked like he needed sugar as much as you needed air.
"how's your thesis going?" you asked, leaning your shoulder lightly against his. he exhaled dramatically, running a hand through his hair.
"exhausting. i'm almost done, but i swear i hit a wall this week. total creative shutdown."
you pulled your bottom lip into a pout, sympathy all over your face. "you need some time off."
from the other side of the room, you could feel eunji staring. like laser beams. like she expected you to spontaneously combust under the weight of your own academic obsession.
"is something wrong?" you asked, meeting her eyes.
"no," she answered too quickly, too innocently, too everything.
before you could argue, yoongi, who had been silently observing the chaos with the resigned energy of someone used to this exact group dynamic, spoke up.
"so," he said, nonchalantly tearing open a bag of chips, "how's that lecture with mr. kim going? already killed him with your eyes?"
mihi groaned. "no, please not this again."
and before you could open your mouth and say something, hobi chimed in, louder than necessary, "wait, are we talking about mr. kim as in kim namjoon?"
and suddenly the entire room erupted.
everyone talking over each other. voices overlapping. questions flying.
but you only heard hobi's voice.
"how many mr. kims do you even know?" you snapped back, already annoyed, already tense.
taehyung raised a hand. "technically, i am one."
jungkook pointed at jin dramatically. "and so is he."
the two exchanged a high five like idiots.
"that's not the point," hobi said, waving them off. "i just meant kim namjoon is that mr. kim."
"and what is that supposed to mean?" you asked, stomach tightening even though you tried to keep your voice steady.
hobi hesitated. really hesitated.
and that made you nervous.
"i mean i don't want to ruin the mood or anything," he began cautiously, scratching the back of his neck, "but last year someone dropped his course. crying. like ugly crying. because he kept, well, humiliating her. publicly. repeatedly."
you stopped breathing.
eunji didn't.
"crying?" she repeated, voice sharper than a knife.
"yeah," hobi confirmed. "one of the guys in my program was in that class. he told me she left halfway through the semester and never came back."
you stared at him, mouth slightly open. "why would you tell me this right now?"
"i didn't know you meant that mr. kim!" hobi defended himself, hands in the air. "you never said a name, you just said 'my professor is ruining my life' which, honestly, could have been any professor."
before you could curse at him, mihi leaned forward, eyes wide.
"wait, does anyone have a picture of him? everyone keeps talking about him like he's some bitter, balding sixty-year-old who screams at students for fun."
you let out a humorless laugh. "i wish." he looked unfairly good.
"there has to be one on the uni website," jungkook said, already unlocking his phone.
taehyung leaned over his shoulder. "type his name, type his name, type his na—"
"shut up, tae."
but it was too late. within seconds, jungkook found the faculty page, tapped it, scrolled, then froze.
"oh– oh wow," he whispered.
taehyung gasped next to him, dramatically clutching his own chest. "he's hot."
"let me see!" jimin yelled, practically diving across the couch.
within a moment, the entire group had swarmed around jungkook's phone, forming a human wall of gasps, commentary, and way too much enthusiasm for your nerves to handle.
"holy shit—look at his jawline," jimin said.
"no, look at his hands," mihi added.
"his hands?" eunji asked, shoving her way in. "move. move. i'm short, let me see—"
you sat on the floor, arms crossed, watching your friends collectively lose their minds over the man currently making your academic life a burning hellscape.
"what is even attractive about him?" you muttered. "his inner ugliness drips through his pores."
"i would voluntarily fail his class just to watch him talk for ninety minutes," eunji said without missing a beat.
you stared at her, betrayed on a spiritual level. "you're supposed to be on my side."
"i am," she said, still staring at the photo like she had discovered a new god. "but i'm not blind."
at that exact moment, taehyung, because of course it was him, looked at you with the kind of expression people usually reserved for life-changing revelations.
"wait," he said slowly, dramatically, deliberately, "is this the man you've been losing sleep over?"
you opened your mouth to deny it.
but mihis voice cut you off before you could even lie. "losing sleep? she's been obsessed."
"i am not—"
"you are," eunji insisted. "you talk about him non-stop. you complain about him nonstop. you rewrite your notes because of him. even when we're hanging out, you always bring him up."
"that's not—"
"you literally ranted about him for thirty minutes last week because he didn't call on you in class," jungkook added.
"he never calls on me!" you snapped, louder than intended, louder than emotionally safe, louder than everyone expected.
the room went silent for exactly one second.
then yoongi raised an eyebrow. "you sound like you're in a situationship with your professor."
"i'm going to push you off my balcony."
jimin snorted. "you don't have a balcony."
"i'll build one just to push him off."
jungkook laughed so hard he dropped the phone.
but then, as the conversation began to die down, as your pulse slowed a little, as the noise faded into background hum again, eunji turned to you: "y/n," she said, quiet but firm, "i think there's more going on here."
you stiffened instantly. "don't."
"i'm not saying you like him," she said quickly.
you glared.
"or that you hate him," she corrected. "i think he gets under your skin. too much. and you let him. you're smart, and you're stubborn, and he's—"
"a sadist."
"okay, maybe, but also intimidating. intense. and you're acting like his every move is life or death."
you wanted to deny it. you opened your mouth to deny it. but the words didn't come.
instead you exhaled, long and shaky, frustration clawing its way up your chest.
"he failed me," you said, voice low, tight, unraveling. "not because my answers were wrong, not because my writing was bad, but because i 'did everything except what he wanted.' he told me i can't handle criticism. and since then? i've been invisible in his lecture. he doesn't call on me. he barely looks at me, except when he's judging me."
you could feel your pulse in your throat.
fast. betraying. miserable.
"so yeah," you continued, breath uneven, "maybe i'm losing sleep. maybe i'm obsessing. but it's not because of him. it's because he's making me feel like i don't know what i'm doing. like i don't belong in a course i've worked my ass off for."
the room went still. no jokes. no teasing. just quiet.
then eunji finally nodded, face softening. "okay," she said. "that's fair."
"more than fair," hobi added.
"and messed up," jimin said.
"and also," taehyung whispered loudly, "he's still hot."
jin threw a pillow at him.
you threw one, too.
but you didn't say anything else.
you just sat there, surrounded by the people who loved you enough to invade your apartment on a saturday night, knowing full well they were right: you were in deep. and you hated it. and you hated that you couldn't stop thinking about kim namjoon. and you hated, most of all, that deep down, you weren't sure you wanted to.
to say you were dragging yourself into the lecture hall would've been an understatement, at this point, it felt more like you dragged yourself there because attendance was obligatory, and whatever leftover stubbornness you hadn't yet burned through in the past weeks. normally you would've been excited for a seminar like this; korean medieval history had always been one of your favorite areas, the kind of topic you could get lost in for hours without feeling the time pass, and before this semester, you actually had been that person who looked forward to ninety-minute lectures more than to half the social events your friends begged you to attend. but something had changed, no, someone had changed everything, and the moment you stepped into the room your entire body seemed to recognize it before your mind even caught up: the slow tightening in your chest, the way your shoulders crept upward, the strange simmering heat crawling under your skin as your eyes landed on him standing in front of the desk, casually flipping through his notes with the same calm arrogance that had been driving you insane for weeks. mr. kim namjoon. you hated that even thinking his full name made something flare inside you, something sharp and exhausting and way too familiar by now.
you sank into your seat with the resigned heaviness of someone walking into an exam they already knew they'd fail, setting your notebook down even though you knew you'd barely look at it, and tried, really tried, to breathe through the irritation, the hatred, the frustration that had been building like a pressure chamber inside your chest. you weren't even subtle about your mood anymore; everyone around you could tell something about this class got under your skin, but no one said anything, because everyone had someone in academia they despised and this man, this professor, was yours. and the worst, most embarrassing part was that he never did anything you could actually complain about. no shouting, no direct insults, nothing technically against the rules. he just looked at you, ignored you, pressed you, dismissed you, pushed your limits in ways that felt intentional and cruel in that quiet intellectual way you were starting to despise.
you forced yourself to focus when the lecture began, even though your mind kept drifting somewhere between i hate him and why do i care so much, and you tried to keep your gaze from wandering toward him every time he moved across the front of the room. telling yourself that in a couple of weeks you were, hopefully done with this class and if not you would take another class, if that wasn't possible in another university or you would wait till he was gone.
but then it happened, so suddenly you nearly jumped.
"miss y/n."
your head snapped up, more on instinct than awareness, because it had been weeks since he'd called on you, weeks of raising your hand until your arm ached only for him to look right through you. for a second you thought you imagined it. but then, "miss y/n," he repeated, slower this time, eyes fixed directly on you in that sharp, dissecting way that made your pulse stutter unevenly. "am i interrupting something?"
you blinked, realizing belatedly that you hadn't even registered the question he'd supposedly asked. murmurs rippled through the room as you opened your mouth, closed it, inhaled, exhaled, tried desperately to gather the scattered fragments of your attention.
he raised a brow, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, barely there, but enough to make your stomach twist with humiliation and anger.
"your name has been called three times," he said quietly, coldly, so the entire class could hear. "if you're going to sit in my lecture, the least you can do is stay conscious for it."
heat flooded up your neck, burning the tips of your ears. you heard someone suck in a breath somewhere behind you. you wanted to shrink into the chair, sink into the floor, evaporate, anything but sit under the weight of his gaze as he continued, "since you weren't listening the first three times, i'll repeat the question for you, miss y/n: could you explain the primary ideological function of the royal genealogies during the mid-goryeo period?"
your mind blanked completely, no thoughts, nothing, just static.
his eyes narrowed.
"or," he added softly, "are you planning to stare out the window again until the hour ends?"
you gripped your pen so tightly your fingers ached. you swallowed. and you forced yourself to speak, even if your answer was messy, even if your voice trembled. you managed a few sentences, clumsy, disjointed ones, but sentences nonetheless, and the moment you finished, he gave a slow, unimpressed nod that made your entire body lock up.
"that," he said, "is exactly the kind of performance i do not want to see in your essays. speaking of essay don't forget to put the copf of it on my desk at the end of the lecture."
your stomach dropped.
essays?
you hadn't heard anything about essays.
he moved on before you could process the panic flooding your system, shifting his attention to another student, his voice smooth and effortless again as if he hadn't just carved you open in front of the entire room. and for the rest of the lecture, you couldn't focus on anything, not the slides, not the discussion, not even his occasional pointed glances that you pretended not to notice. all you could think about was essay. what essay? when was this assigned? how much? how long?
the moment the lecture ended, you didn't even wait for the room to clear. you marched straight down the steps toward him, your chest tight, your words ready to spill out in a frustrated rush.
"mr. kim?" you forced out, the name sticking in your throat like something you weren't meant to swallow. "the essay i didn't— i didn't catch—"
he didn't even bother to look up from the papers he was sorting.
"of course you didn't," he said, voice low, cutting, almost bored. "you didn't catch it because you weren't paying attention."
the humiliation hit first, hot and sharp. then anger.
"i was paying attention—"
he laughed under his breath. laughed. not loud, not mocking in the obvious way, it was worse, quiet and amused, like you had told a very stupid joke.
"were you?" he asked, finally lifting his eyes to you, and god, you almost wished he hadn't. the way he looked at you, unimpressed, unbothered, dissecting, made something in your chest twist painfully. "because from where i stood, miss y/n, you seemed fully absorbed in everything except the material I was delivering."
you flushed so hard your ears burned.
he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing lazily over his chest, as if he had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.
"first you fail the midterm," he continued, tone clinical, merciless, "and now you don't even bother submitting the essay?"
"i— i didn't not bother," you snapped, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "i just didn't hear you assign it—"
"that," he cut in, "is not my problem."
your breath hitched. once. twice.
he wasn't done.
"do you have any idea," he said slowly, deliberately, "how irresponsible it is to miss an assignment that was stated clearly? multiple times?" he tilted his head. "i should fail you for that alone."
your stomach dropped. actually dropped.
"you can't just—"
"i can," he said simply. "i could fail you for the course right now. it would be completely justified."
your heart hammered against your ribs, too fast, too loud, too much like panic.
he watched it, watched you, with a calm, detached interest, like he was observing a lab specimen that reacted exactly as expected. then, after letting the silence stretch long enough to feel like a rope tightening around your throat, he sighed.
"fortunately for you," he said, voice cooling but not softening, "i am giving you a chance."
you blinked. "a chance?"
"two days," he replied. "six to eight pages. proper citations. proper structure. no excuses."
you stared at him. actually stared.
"two— two days?" you repeated, incredulous. "for a full essay? that's— that's barely enough time to—"
he raised a brow.
"would you prefer," he said lightly, "if i gave you until tonight instead?"
your mouth fell open.
"i— what? no, i'm not saying—"
"because," he continued, voice dipping lower, "considering you submitted nothing while every other student in this course managed to meet the deadline, allowing you forty-eight hours is more generous than you deserve."
your throat tightened painfully.
he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, gaze fixed on you with a precision that felt like a blade being pressed just barely into skin.
"two days," he repeated, slower this time, as if to make sure you absorbed every syllable. "bring it to my office hours. printed. not emailed. and if the quality resembles your exam," his lip curled faintly, cruelly, "don't bother turning it in at all."
you felt the floor tilt beneath you, the humiliation and frustration tangling together in your chest until you couldn't tell where one feeling ended and the other began.
but he didn't wait for your reaction.
he simply turned back to his stack of papers, already done with you, already moving on, as if the conversation, as if you, were nothing more than a brief administrative inconvenience.
"you're dismissed, miss y/n," he said without looking up.
you wrote for two days straight. the hours bled together, each one marked by the relentless tapping of your keyboard and the occasional groan of your chair as it protested against your endless sitting. sleep had become a distant memory, something you caught only in stolen moments curled over the edge of your desk for twenty minutes before the alarm or the insistence of your own restless mind yanked you back into consciousness. three hours of sleep, seven cups of coffee, two energy drinks, and a pounding heart that refused to slow down were the cost of even attempting to meet the impossible demand. every line you typed felt like dragging yourself across every paragraph a negotiation with your own exhaustion. the words sometimes came in flashes, brilliant in their clarity, only to dissolve into confusion when your eyelids drooped, when your mind refused to hold more than a fragment of your argument at a time.
and yet you couldn't stop. because if you didn't, you could already imagine mr. kim's expression, the faint tilt of his head, the unyielding precision of his gaze, the cold calm in which he had reminded you of your previous failures. you had missed the essay deadline, had failed his exam, and now, now he was granting you two days to produce something coherent, something worthy of the bare minimum. two days to compress the work of weeks into a single document, six to eight pages that demanded everything you had, and probably more than you had to give. your fingers ached. your shoulders ached. even your eyes screamed at you from the screen, red-rimmed and stinging, but still you typed.
every time your eyes flicked to the notifications, there it was: jungkook, and the messages from your friends, each one like a small injection of energy, a push against the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your chest. go girl, you got this, you can do it. a smirk tugged at your lips, though fleetingly, because even the smallest relief was tempered by the gnawing sense of inadequacy that mr. kim's voice had instilled in you, the relentless awareness that no matter how hard you worked, you were always a step behind, always insufficient, always someone else's standard of perfection to fail to reach.
you lost track of minutes, hours. every sip of coffee burned, every energy drink rattled through you, but still your hands moved, typing, deleting, retyping, rearranging, trying to make each sentence a weapon against the impossible standard he had set. your essay took shape, slowly, painfully, each paragraph a monument to the tension coiled inside you, the frustration, the determination, the humiliation that had been building since the day you first stepped into his seminar.
and then it was done. somehow, impossibly done. you leaned back in your chair, hands trembling, staring at the screen, at the final words, at the bibliography meticulously cited, at the argument constructed and revised and polished until it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the notion that you could do this. maybe it was exhaustion. maybe it was sheer stubbornness. maybe it was the little push from jungkook's messages, from your friends' encouragement, from that tiny spark of defiance that refused to let him have the last word.
the next morning, you stood outside his office door, your essay clutched tightly in your hands, staring at the polished wood and the faint nameplate that seemed to mock you. you took one last, futile breath to adjust your blouse, even though you knew deep down it wouldn't matter, he didn't deserve even the smallest pretense of effort from you. still, some part of you hoped that at least for a moment, he might see you as more than a student whose work he could dismiss. with a deliberate knock, you stepped inside the office the second he said "come in," forcing your gaze to meet his across the desk. he was already seated, pen poised, the first page of your essay open before him.
"i don't have the whole day," he said, switching to korean with that clipped sharpness he reserved specifically for you. "give me your essay."
you rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself, but you handed it over anyway. the moment the papers touched his hand, your fingers brushed his, barely, for a seco, but it was enough to send a strange, unwelcome jolt through your stomach, tightening something low and hot and deeply inconvenient.
he noticed. of course he did. the faintest smirk tugged at his lips, quick and cruel, gone as soon as it appeared.
you sank onto the chair opposite his desk, sitting as far on the edge as humanly possible, like one wrong movement might send you tumbling into whatever mess the two of you had been avoiding since that night. your palms pressed together in your lap, nails digging into skin just to keep yourself anchored.
without a word, he began reading.
slowly. deliberately.
every page turned with the measured, controlled precision of someone who knew exactly how to make you squirm. his pen scratched across the paper, hard lines, sharp cuts, entire sentences obliterated. he circled things, underlined aggressively, annotated with clipped, irritated strokes. your heart sank each time the pen moved.
you tried not to stare, but your eyes kept darting to the margins, your arguments crossed out, your phrasing slashed through, your structure dismantled like it offended him personally.
maybe it did.
he didn't look at you once, but somehow the tension in the room grew thicker with every page. your leg bounced uncontrollably. your fingers twisted in the fabric of your pants. you could hear your heartbeat in your throat.
after a few agonizing minutes, he clicked his tongue softly.
that was all it took for your panic to spike.
"what are you doing?" you blurted, unable to hold it back any longer. your voice came out sharper than planned, frustration and disbelief leaking through. "why are you crossing out everything? it's an essay, not—"
he didn't even lift his head.
"speak quieter," he murmured, voice icy and unhurried, eyes still moving across the page. "your volume doesn't change the quality of your work."
the nerve. the absolute nerve.
you felt heat rush up your neck, indignation mixing with something far more dangerous, something you refused to acknowledge.
"i'm asking you a question," you snapped.
this time he paused.
the pen stilled between his fingers. slowly, finally, he looked up.
his eyes were sharp. steady. colder than the room itself.
"and i'm reading," he said. "or trying to. although i'm not sure reading is the correct term, given what you've handed me."
your breath hitched, anger flaring.
"excuse me?"
"your essay," he said, tapping one of the crossed-out paragraphs with the end of his pen, "is a structural disaster. your thesis is unclear, your arguments contradict one another, and your sources," he flipped a page, expression twisting with something that looked almost like disgust, "half of these are outdated to the point of irrelevance. i'm not grading archaeological artifacts, miss y/n."
you stared at him, speechless, heat spreading across your chest, mortification, anger, and something else, something electric that pulsed beneath your skin.
"you're exaggerating," you finally managed, though your voice wavered.
"am i?" he asked softly, leaning back in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. "because from where i'm sitting, i'm being generous."
your mouth fell open. "you literally crossed out entire pages—"
"because they were wrong."
he said it so simply, so calmly, so confidently that for a second all you could do was stare.
"you asked what i'm doing," he continued, tone dropping lower, quieter, more dangerous. "i'm showing you how far from acceptable this is."
your chest tightened the moment he spoke, as if the very air in his office thickened just to suffocate you. anger began bubbling up from somewhere deep and exhausted inside you, slow at first, then rising so fast it almost startled you. your hands curled into fists at your sides on instinct, knuckles whitening, the tremor of your restraint visible if anyone cared to look closely enough. "you can't be serious," you breathed out, voice already trembling with the weight of everything you'd held back for weeks. "i spent two straight days on this. no sleep. every minute, every second—"
he cut you off before your frustration could take proper shape. he didn't raise his voice. he didn't even sound irritated. instead he simply tilted his head in that way like he had all the time in the world to dissect you piece by piece. "two days?" he said, calm and maddeningly measured, as if he were commenting on the weather instead of tearing apart two sleepless nights of your work. "and yet it's still insufficient. two days are more than enough to give me something good. in your case, something merely adequate would've been enough. but even that," his gaze flicked over you, unhurried and cutting, "you couldn't manage."
your face flushed instantly, heat rising up your neck, rage and disbelief colliding so violently in your chest your lungs felt too small to hold it all. "something adequate?" you repeated, the words cracking with fury. "are you trying to insult me? that essay was more than good. you just refuse to see it—"
"i see good work," he interrupted smoothly, "when it presents itself. you, however, have yet to give me anything."
his tone wasn't harsh, wasn't loud, but somehow that made it worse.
your nails dug half-moons into your palms. "no," you said, shaking your head as the anger finally broke free, raw and exhausted and shaking. "no, i think you're doing this on purpose. i think you want me to fail your lecture."
you stood then, so quickly the chair scraped at the floor, and even mr. kim, who had been silently organizing papers at the shelf, snapped his head up. you didn't even remember when he'd stood, when he'd looked so startled, but you didn't care. the words kept coming, unstoppable now.
"i prepared for the midterm," you said, voice rising, "more than enough. i inhaled every source, every article, every page. i could recite the page numbers from memory if you asked. but sure, let's ignore all that, because apparently none of it is good enough for you. because i'm not 'open to criticism,' right?" you paused long enough to drag in a breath, chest heaving. "i took your comments seriously. i reread every single one multiple times. i made absolutely sure i didn't repeat what you criticized. i did exactly what you asked and suddenly that's still not enough?"
you laughed once, humorless and shaking. "at this point i don't think you have an issue with my work. i think your issue is me."
"miss y/n," he said, and this time his voice dropped, lower, quieter, almost dangerous in the way it seemed to vibrate with something controlled. "the way you're speaking to me i could report this. do you want me to?"
he moved around the desk, each step slow, deliberate, and with every one he came closer, something inside you tightened. not fear. not really. something adjacent, something more complicated, something that infuriated you precisely because you didn't have a name for it.
"go ahead!" you snapped, heart pounding so violently you could hear it in your ears. "i'm done being intimidated by you! "i stayed quiet for way too long. months, actually. months of putting up with you not cutting me a break, of you failing me on a midterm, months of you humiliating me in front of the whole class and i didn’t say a single word. not one. and now you’re surprised i finally snapped?"
he leaned forward just slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that the air between you changed. charged. tense. the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth appeared, not a smile, not a sneer, just something that felt like a quiet declaration of power. "really?" he murmured, low and unhurried. "really? you think you can challenge me? defy me? let your anger run wild at me?"
your jaw locked. "yes," you said. "i can. i will."
you were seconds from storming out, ready to slam the door, ready to put distance between you and this impossible class and this infuriating man who always spoke like every word you said was beneath him. "honestly?" your voice cracked with exhaustion. "fail me. i'm done with this childish bullshit."
you began to turn.
and then his hand closed around your wrist.
firm. unyielding. stopping you mid-step as if he'd anchored you to the floor with a single touch.
the shock stole your breath. his grip wasn't painful, but it was strong, strong enough that every thought in your head scattered, every practiced retort dissolving into static. for a second, the world shrank to nothing but the pressure of his fingers around your wrist and the way your pulse pounded against his hold.
"miss y/n," he said, low, sharp, almost a growl, "you do not get to speak to me like that. understand?"
you forced yourself to lift your chin, despite the tremor running through your body. "oh, i understand perfectly," you said, voice barely steady. "but if you think your threats scare me? they don't. not even close."
his eyes darkened, subtle, but unmistakable. something in them shifted, deepened, tightened. "so you're challenging me?" he asked softly, leaning closer until the space between you felt unbearably small. his breath brushed your cheek and your knees almost buckled. "you really think you can do that? defy me and survive it?"
you swallowed hard, pulse racing so fast it made your head spin. your fists clenched, your entire body trembling not just with rage anymore, but with something else, something hotter, deeper, terrifying in a way that made your chest feel too tight.
"i—i don't care," you whispered, though the defiance in your voice remained sharp. "i don't care."
suddenly, it felt like the room had been stripped of every last breath of oxygen, as if the walls themselves had leaned inward just slightly, enough to make the air turn thick and heavy and warm against your skin. it didn't happen all at once, no, it crept in slowly, like a rising tide, like heat pooling under your ribs until it became impossible to pretend you didn't feel it. and his eyes, god, his eyes, were fixed on you with that unnerving, unblinking precision he always wielded like a weapon. except now it didn't feel like a weapon. not exactly. it felt like a hand wrapped around your pulse.
you weren't even sure when you stepped back. you weren't even sure when the door met your spine with a quiet, traitorous thud. all you knew was that one moment you were standing in the middle of his office and the next you were pressed against the wood, as if the room had tilted and pushed you into place. you didn't even realize what had happened until the faint coolness beneath your palms cut through the heat buzzing under your skin.
no space. no distance worth naming. no air that wasn't charged and heavy and threaded with something you had spent weeks trying to deny. he wasn't even touching you, hadn't so much as reached out, but the mere fact of him standing there felt like pressure against your body, like gravity bending in his favor.
you hated that your knees trembled. you hated even more that you weren't sure if he noticed or if he noticed too well.
you tried to speak. you really did. "i— i—" but the words dissolved the second they left your tongue, scattered by the heat rolling off him in waves that made your thoughts slip out of reach. your hand searched blindly behind you for the doorknob, fingertips brushing the metal once, then losing it again when your breath hitched in your throat.
he didn't move. didn't help. didn't step back to give you space. he simply watched you with that slow, dissecting gaze that felt like fingertips tracing your skin without ever touching it.
and when his gaze slid down, your stomach twisted. because there was no rush in his eyes, no stumbling desire, no clumsy uncertainty. there was only control, steady and infuriating, the kind of control that had followed you from lecture hall to office hour to this very moment. the kind that pushed every one of your buttons and brought every buried emotion to the surface whether you wanted it or not.
you finally caught the doorknob. cold metal. solid. grounding. or it should have been. but your fingers curled around it without turning it, without pushing it down, without doing anything except trembling in a way you prayed he wouldn't notice.
but he noticed everything.
your breaths came too quickly, each inhale snagging on the edge of the tension between you. you felt trapped, not by the door, not by him, but by the unbearable way his presence wrapped around you like heat, like gravity, like something you didn't want to name because naming it would make it real.
he tilted his head the slightest bit, enough to make the air shift. "you're not leaving," he said quietly, not mocking, not cruel, just stating it the way someone states the time, like it was a fact that required no argument. "you're still standing here."
your voice scraped out weakly. "i should go."
"should," he repeated, slow, almost thoughtful, like he was tasting the word. his gaze climbed back to your face, lingering far too long on your mouth before returning to your eyes. "but you won't."
heat pulsed between you. thick, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
you swallowed hard, hating the way the movement felt shaky and loud in the quiet room. "i'm leaving," you said again, but your hand didn't turn the knob, didn't push, didn't do anything except hold on as if the metal might anchor you against the pull between you.
and then he stepped closer.
just one step. small. subtle.
but enough that when he inhaled, his chest brushed yours. barely. a whisper of contact. but it felt like a spark snapping through your entire body, sharp and electric and humiliating in how much it affected you.
your pulse stuttered painfully. "don't," you breathed, though the word barely carried any weight.
he stopped, but he didn't step back. he didn't retreat. he just watched you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in a way that made your stomach twist.
"you don't tell me what to do," he said, voice low but not cruel, not like all the other times he wielded his tone like a blade. this one was different. softer, somehow, but more dangerous because of it.
your lips parted, but no sound came out. you tried. you really did. but your throat tightened, strangling the words before they could form.
and he saw it. he saw everything, the hesitation, the confusion, the anger tangled with something warmer and unbearable and infuriatingly real.
something in his expression shifted.
he lifted a hand, not fast, not sudden, not aggressive. slow. almost gentle. his fingertips brushed the line of your jaw, feather-light, barely there, but enough to send a tremor down your spine so intense you had to fight the urge to close your eyes.
"that's what i thought," he whispered.
then he pressed his lips to yours, sudden, aggressive, claiming. it wasn't hesitant or testing, it was forceful, dominant, a kiss that stole your breath and twisted it inside you, igniting every nerve, every inch of you, in an overwhelming tangle of shock, heat, and fury. your hands shot up, pushing at his chest, trying to shove him back, to break free, but he held you firm, unmoving, every muscle taut, every motion controlled, as if daring you to resist.
your mind screamed, your body protested, but somewhere beneath the shock, beneath the outrage, the chaos of it, a pulse of something raw and dangerous surged, tying you to the moment, to him, to the impossible tension coiling between you.
then his hands were on you. his hands were everywhere. one found the curve your waist, the other sliding down your back, fingers fanning wide like he was trying to memorize every inch. his grip was rougher, needier. no longer tentative, no longer holding back. pulling you closer. it wasn’t not gentle. no it was hard. it was hot and so warm.
your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, tight and needy. kissing him, putting everything you had accumulated over weeks of playing games into that kiss. his hands feverishly exploring your body.
his mouth opened against yours, his tongue finding yours. his tongue brushed yours, slow at first, coaxing. testing. then something changes; his grip tightens, and he exhaled sharply against your mouth, like he has been holding something back too long.
you pressed against him for a heartbeat too long, his lips claiming yours not with gentleness, but with a bruising, proprietary force that made your chest tighten and your knees wobble. it was a collision of pure anger and raw desire, a cataclysm you hadn't wanted, hadn't expected, but now, in the searing heat of the moment, couldn't possibly deny. every rational thought you possessed screamed at you to pull away, to shove him off, to remind him and yourself that you hated him, that you despised the very ground he walked on. yet the heat between you, an undeniable magnetism that felt like a physical force, the sharp, infuriating way he made you feel both utterly alive and terrifyingly exposed, rooted you to the spot as surely as if you were chained there.
your hands, trembling with a betrayal that felt both foreign and inevitable, lifted to his chest. it wasn't to push him away, not truly, but to create a sliver of space, a desperate attempt to reclaim the tiniest shred of control you felt slipping through your fingers like sand. finally, reluctantly, your lips parted from his, breaking the kiss with a sharp, almost desperate inhale that sounded more like a sob than a breath.
"we shouldn't do this," you whispered, your voice strained, uneven, a fractured thing that carried both indignation and the tiniest, most humiliating trace of longing you couldn't quite name. it was a feeling that made your stomach knot with dread and your pulse thunder in your ears, a wild, chaotic drumbeat of panic and arousal. your chest heaved as you stumbled back a step, a pathetic attempt to put distance between you, as if the mere act could somehow restore the order of your thoughts, could rebuild the carefully maintained walls of resentment and pride you'd so meticulously constructed around him. walls designed to keep out the way he always managed to push every button you didn't know you had, to provoke you into a volatile mixture of fury and fascination that made your own emotions feel like traitors. "this, this is wrong," you managed to whisper, trembling, your hands falling to your sides in a gesture of utter helplessness, your chest heaving with the effort of breathing. "we shouldn't—"
he didn't retreat, of course. he didn't move an inch. he simply stood there, his presence a suffocating weight, his eyes darkening to an unreadable, fathomless black. that familiar, infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a silent, unrelenting dare that promised he knew exactly what you were feeling. the silence stretched, heavy and charged, thick with unspoken words and the almost imperceptible hum of electricity arcing between you.
and yet, because he was him, because every scowl, every cruel comment, every impossibly sharp glance was coated in that same dangerous heat, he didn't pause. he didn't let the moment cool. he pressed his forehead briefly against yours, his eyes glinting with a dark, possessive light, and kissed you again. slower. deliberate. possessive. as if the world had contracted until only the two of you existed in a dangerous bubble of proximity and tension. and you realized with a jolt that this kiss wasn't about softness or tenderness. it was about defiance. it was about proving something neither of you could voice, about acknowledging that what you hated and what you wanted weren't opposites, but two sides of the same unbearable coin.
your body shivered against him, caught between the primal urge to escape and the overwhelming desire to succumb. and the sharp, infuriating realization hit you all at once: you would fight him. you would argue, you would push and shove and call him every cruel name in the book. but you would also kiss him again. because no matter how much you hated it, no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you were already trapped in the gravity of him, in the way he made you feel, and in the undeniable, terrifying allure of that slow-burning fire between enemies who knew, with a certainty that scared them both, that every fight could end like this.
"so often i've been thinking about how to shut that ignorant mouth of yours," he whispered, his voice a deep, dangerous rumble that seemed to crawl right into your soul, coating your nerves in ice and fire. "maybe with my lips." he took your hand, which was trembling in the air like a trapped bird, and guided it slowly to his own lower lip. you felt the warmth of his skin, the soft, full flesh of a lip that had just been claimed by you, the faint taste of yourself still lingering there. "or maybe," he continued, his eyes darkening to an almost impenetrable black, like pools of oil, "with my cock. buried deep down your throat."
suddenly, your hand was no longer on his face. with a fluid, possessive movement that spoke of absolute control, he had guided it down until it landed on the firm, unyielding resistance of his crotch. through the dense wool of his pants, you felt him: long, hard, and pulsing with a life of its own, a living testament to his desire. your heart hammered against your ribs, a loud, frantic drumbeat that drowned out the city sounds beyond his office window. you couldn't help but move your fingers, a tentative exploration, tracing the thick, rigid shape straining against the fabric. you began to move your hand slowly, up and down, and as your wide, frightened eyes met his, his mouth stretched into a triumphant, almost mocking smile. he placed a finger gently under your chin, his touch a brand, tracing your jawline with a slowness that made your skin tingle and tighten. "what would you prefer?" he asked, tilting his head, a casual, threatening gesture. "my lips or my cock baby?"
you were frozen, trapped under the intense weight of his gaze, a fly caught in amber. "well, since you can't decide, i guess i'll have to for you." and without further warning, you felt the unrelenting pressure of his large hands on your shoulders, a force that was both a push and a command. "on your knees." you couldn't resist, your legs felt like they'd turned to water, and you sank, a little awkwardly, until you were on the floor, your face level with the straining fabric of his pants. "you look even prettier on your knees," he said, his voice a low, approving murmur that was more humiliating than any insult. prettier? you could only look up at him with wide, questioning eyes, a confused animal facing its predator. "why are you suddenly so nervous?" he continued, enjoying your visible unease, the way your chest hitched with every shallow breath. "don't you have to earn your grade somehow?"
just as you were about to open your mouth, to say something, anything, a sound to say that he couldn't talk with you like that, his thumb slid across your lower lip. a gentle but firm pressure, and you felt your body respond to this simple, intimate gesture, a wave of liquid heat washing over you, pooling in your core. namjoon slid his finger into your mouth, and without thinking, you instinctively started sucking on it, your tongue swirling around the digit, your eyes never leaving his. his cocky grin widened. "such a good girl. so eager to please." suddenly, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling empty and wanting. you heard the metallic click of his belt buckle, the sound of his zipper, a symphony of your impending defilement that was louder than any scream.
and then it all happened in a dizzying, soul-shattering blur. he yanked down his pants and his boxers in a single, rough motion, and your mind just went blank, wiped clean by the sheer reality of him. he was bigger than you had anticipated, to be honest far bigger and thicker than any man you had ever been with. it wasn't that you were particularly experienced, but no man could have compared to him in that regard. it hung heavy and thick, a powerful arc of flesh, the tip already leaking a clear bead of pre-cum that slowly trailed down the side of his shaft. and then you saw it. a piercing. a small, silver barbell nestled just under the head, glinting in the low light. who would have thought that the kim namjoon had a dick piercing.
"speechless?" he asked, taking his cock in his hand and beginning to stroke it up and down slowly, his thumb smearing the leaking pre-cum over his head. just when you thought he couldn't get any harder, he seemed to stiffen even more, to an almost painful-looking erection.
"open wide," he commanded. he rested the tip on your tongue, and you closed your eyes, breaking the searing eye contact, savoring the salty, masculine taste of his pre-cum. a soft, helpless moan escaped you, your warm breath fanning over the tip. it was heavy on your tongue, a solid weight, a promise of more, and he stayed still, letting you get used to the feel of him. slowly, agonizingly, he began to move. you focused on relaxing your throat, his girth always taking a moment to adjust, but he still stretched you to your limits, your jaw aching already. namjoon's hands, which had just been on your shoulders to push you down, found their way into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, pulling back firmly, holding you in place. while he traced your lips with the tip of his cock, slapping it against them again and again with soft, wet sounds, he looked at you with black, hungry eyes. "who would have thought a cock in your mouth would be enough to silence you," he mused. and suddenly, he pulled you closer by the hair, the grip painful and absolute. his cock found its way back into your wet, tight mouth. not gently or slowly, no, namjoon rammed his entire length into your mouth at once.
you gagged, a violent, convulsive reflex, your throat constricting around his massive length as your hands flew up to grab onto his thighs, your nails digging into the denim, clinging on for dear life as he forced himself deeper. he grunted, a deep, animalistic sound of approval, his hand tightening in your hair and making your scalp sting with a delicious, sharp pain. your eyes watered involuntarily, tears blurring your vision; you had to blink, but you were terrified that if you took your eyes off him for even a moment, you would forget how angelically he towered over you, a dark god demanding worship. your mouth was stretched wide, your head thrown back at an impossible angle. as you struggled to accommodate his length and your gag reflex subsided into a manageable tremble, you took him in further, bobbing your head as you slowly lowered yourself an inch or two more, feeling him fill your throat, the metal of the piercing a shocking, alien sensation against your tongue. you quickened your pace, spit coating the shaft of his cock, making it slick, and you used your other hand to twist up and down the thick base where your lips couldn't reach, trying to milk the cum from him.
"show me that you deserve to pass my class."
choking on him, you buried your head as close to his pubic bone as you could, the coarse hairs tickling your nose, before popping back up for air, taking in greedy, desperate gasps before diving back down on his cock. you pumped furiously, now only needing one hand as you sank your mouth deeper and deeper on him, already gagging as you tried to force the tip to reach the back of your throat. you looked up at him with tears and mascara running down your cheeks, gagging and struggling to breathe through your nose, your tongue moving underneath his shaft, trying to stroke him along with the rest of your mouth.
he gave a slight smirk, as though utterly amused by the sight of you making a messy, desperate wreck of yourself on his dick. "so good baby." your spit was running down your wrist and his shaft, down his balls and over his lap, soaking into the expensive leather of the armchair. it also dribbled down your face, running down your chin and soaking the white top you wore until it was near transparent, the fabric clinging to your skin and giving him a clear view of your hardened nipples and the swell of your tits beneath. you didn't care, though, a primal need taking over, repeatedly bobbing your head to go deeper, prying yourself off to gather your breath before going in for more, as though his cock were more important than air. it absolutely was. he plunged back inside, slamming his hips forward, meeting your face halfway. "such a good cockslut."
the force of his thrust snapped your head back, a brutal, piston-like movement that sent a shockwave through your entire system. he was no longer letting you set the pace; he was fucking your face with a raw, unfiltered fury, using your mouth like a cheap, disposable toy. there was no pretense of tenderness left, only the brutal reality of his dominance.
"that's it, take it," he grunted, his voice a ragged, guttural sound from deep in his chest. "take every fucking inch." his grip in your hair was merciless, a painful anchor that held you in place as he pistoned his hips, driving his cock deeper into your throat with each savage thrust. the metal barbell of his piercing was a constant, maddening sensation, scraping against the tender flesh of your throat, a brand of ownership that was both agonizing and intoxicating. you could feel the thick veins of his shaft sliding against your tongue, the sheer, overwhelming size of him stretching your lips to their limit, your jaw aching with a dull, persistent throb.
"look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with lust. you struggled to focus your tear-blurred vision, forcing your eyes upward to meet his. his face was a mask of pure, unadulterated desire, his lips parted, his eyes dark and burning with an intensity that both scared and thrilled you. "i want to see those pretty eyes when you choke on my cock." he held your gaze as he pushed deeper, his hips grinding against your face, his heavy balls slapping against your chin. you gagged violently, your throat spasming around him, and he moaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. "fuck, yes. your throat feels so fucking good when it spasms like that."
he pulled back suddenly, leaving you gasping and coughing, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. you took a greedy, ragged breath, your lungs burning. before you could fully recover, he was pressing his cock against your cheek, smearing your own spit and his pre-cum across your skin. "so fucking messy," he said, his voice a low, possessive growl. "such a good girl for me." he rubbed his cock all over your face, a humiliating act of marking his territory, before slapping it lightly against your cheek. "open up again."
you obeyed without hesitation, your mouth a willing, eager receptacle. he slid back in, this time with a slow, deliberate thrust that allowed you to feel every inch, every ridge, every vein. he began to move again, a slow, deep rhythm that was somehow more intense than the frantic face-fucking from before. he was savoring it, savoring you, his control absolute. his other hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek with a surprising gentleness that was more disarming than his brutality.
"you're doing so well," he murmured, his voice softer now, a stark contrast to his earlier harshness. "such a good girl, taking my cock so deep." the praise, so unexpected, sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you moaned around his length, the vibrations making his cock twitch in your mouth. "you like that, don't you? you like being told what a good little slut you are." you could only nod, your mouth too full to form words, your eyes locked with his in a silent, desperate plea for more.
he picked up the pace again, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding. he was chasing his own release now, and you were just a means to an end, a warm, wet hole for him to cum in. the thought was so degrading, so utterly humiliating, that it sent you over the edge. your orgasm crashed over you, a sudden, violent convulsion of pleasure that ripped through you, leaving you trembling and sobbing around his cock. your body bucked, your thighs clenching as waves of ecstasy washed over you, a powerful, overwhelming release that was both a surrender and a conquest.
you could see he was about to come, the spasms of your throat around his cock sending him over the edge with a guttural roar. "not like this," he growled, his voice a raw, ragged sound. before you could even process the sudden withdrawal, his hands were under your arms, hauling you up from the floor with a rough, effortless strength that left you dizzy. your legs, weak and trembling from your own recent orgasm and the prolonged kneeling, could barely support you. you stumbled, but he held you upright, his grip like iron bands around your biceps. "when i'm come, it's going do be in that tight little pussy of yours."
before you could catch your balance, he was already pushing you on his desk, alteady on your pants, ripping the denim with a hard, tearing sound, the button popping off and the zipper screeching open with a final, damning noise. "t—the door," you stuttered, your fingers scrambling against the hard, cold wood of his desk behind you, the only reality in a whirlwind of traitorous sensation. "th—the door," he mocked back in that low, smooth drawl, each syllable slow and deliberate, as if tasting the shape of your panic. "you didn't care about the door when you were choking on my cock."
your breath hitched, a small, helpless sound in the suffocating silence of the office. "it's locked." the words were barely a whisper, a final, useless confirmation of your captivity. he didn't even glance at the brass knob. he just sank to his knees in front of you, a fluid, predatory movement that made you freeze in place. his eyes, dark and fathomless, remained locked on yours, holding you captive in a gaze that promised nothing good and everything you secretly craved. he saw the tremor in your bottom lip, the panicked flare of your nostrils, and he smiled. his hands came to your hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants.
he peeled the denim down your legs with agonizing slowness, his gaze never leaving your face as he watched your composure crumble. when the fabric pooled at your ankles, his eyes dropped to the evidence of your betrayal. the delicate fabric of your underwear was soaked, a dark, damning patch clinging to your shape. a low, humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "pathetic," he breathed, the word a shard of ice. "how wet you are for someone who's pretending to hate me."
"lets see if this pussy tastes like i imagined." i imagined? he imagined it?
he didn't give you a chance to respond. he leaned in, not where you expected, but to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. his lips were impossibly soft, a stark contrast to the cruelty of his words. he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss just above your knee, his tongue darting out for a fleeting taste of your skin. a shudder wracked your body, a violent, uncontrollable response to the gentle assault. he was methodical. a tormentor.
he began to kiss his way up your leg, a trail of deliberate, wet heat that left a path of fire in its wake. each kiss was a brand, each flick of his tongue a promise of the degradation to come. he was worshiping you with the mouth of a devil, and your body was a traitor, arching into the touch, begging for more. he could feel the fine tremor in your muscles, the way your leg tensed under his lips as he got closer to his goal. he paused just millimeters from the soaked fabric, his breath ghosting over you, teasing, taunting. you were holding your own breath, your entire body coiled with a tension so tight it was painful. he looked up at you, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement as he watched you squirm, watched the desperate tears leak from the corners of your eyes and trace paths through your mascara. "look at you," he murmured against your thigh. "falling apart before i've even really touched you."
then, he finally closed the last inch of distance. he didn't pull the fabric aside. he pressed his open mouth right over it, his hot breath searing through the thin, wet material. he exhaled slowly, and the heat was unbearable. then, he hummed, a low, vibrating sound that traveled directly through the fabric and into your clit. it was a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that made your knees buckle. only his iron grip on your hips kept you from sliding to the floor. he began to torture you in earnest, his tongue tracing the shape of you through the soaked barrier. he lapped at your entrance, his tongue firm and insistent, pushing the fabric against you, mimicking the act you both knew was coming. it was a maddening, indirect stimulation that was somehow more intense than the real thing. every drag of his tongue was a fresh wave of humiliation, every circle he drew around your swollen clit a testament to how completely he owned you, how your body's desperate response was the ultimate joke.
"you're so sensitive," he taunted, pulling back for a second to admire his handiwork. the fabric was even darker now, plastered to you. "i can feel you pulsing through your panties. so desperate to be filled." he dove back in, sucking hard, his mouth creating a perfect, obscene seal over your clothed core. the combination of the wet heat, the pressure, and the friction was a sensory overload. you were sobbing silently now, tears of shame and frustration streaming down your face as he expertly worked you, bringing you to the edge with nothing but his mouth and a thin layer of soaked cotton. he was reducing you to a quivering, begging mess, and he hadn't even stripped you completely.
when the first tremor of your orgasm began to build deep in your belly, he pulled away completely. the sudden loss of stimulation was a physical blow, leaving you cold and empty. you cried out, a raw, wounded sound. he just looked up at you from his knees, his chin glistening, his expression one of smug, absolute control. "not yet," he said, his voice a low growl. "i want to hear you beg for it properly first." a ragged sob escaped your throat, the sound of a broken animal. "please namjoon," you gasped, the word a raw, shameful confession. "please." a cruel, triumphant grin spread across his face. he savored this moment, the power he held over you. "please what?," he asked, his voice dripping of sarcasm. "i know you can beg better than that," his grin widened, "or is it just that you're too stupid for anything?"
"please namjoon, please just do something, anything." the words were a pathetic, broken whisper, a complete and total surrender.
with a swift, brutal movement, he grabbed the sodden fabric between your legs. you heard the tear of cotton, a sharp, final sound as he ripped your panties off, the fabric giving way like paper. the sudden, cool air against your bare, hypersensitive skin made you flinch, a violent shudder racking your frame. the removal of the last barrier was a shock that left you feeling even more naked and vulnerable than before, utterly exposed to his gaze and his will.
he wasted no time. his mouth was on you instantly, hot, demanding, and utterly relentless. this time there was no fabric, no separation, no teasing. his tongue slid directly over your swollen clitoris, a hard, targeted thrust that bent you forward over the desk, a cry, half pain, half overwhelming pleasure, stifled in your throat. his hands gripped your thighs, bruisingly tight, forcing you to receive him, to hold still for the onslaught. he was no longer gentle. he licked and sucked with a wild, almost furious energy, a man starved. his tongue traced vicious circles around your most sensitive knot before slicing hard over it, making you tremble and convulse. he thrust into you, deep and impetuous, his tongue finding your opening and plunging in as he lapped at your flowing juices, drinking you down. the obscene, wet sounds filled the office, louder than any scream you could have uttered, a filthy symphony of your defilement.
"namjoon fuck," you moaned loud. way too loud. not caring if someone, anyone could hear you.
namjoon growled against your pussy, the vibration a deep, resonant hum that traveled through your sensitive folds and up your spine as he licked slowly and messily, moving up to your swollen little clit. his hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, giving you no chance to escape, no chance to do anything but take what he was giving you. "fuckin' dripping," he muttered, his voice a low, guttural rasp, just before sealing his mouth over your whole slit and sucking hard enough to make you see stars, to make your vision go white at the edges.
one of his hands slid down between your legs, his fingers beginning to rub rough, punishing circles over your entrance, teasing you before sinking two fingers into you without warning, stretching you with shallow, deliberate thrusts. all you could do was moan, high and sharp, a sound you didn't recognize as your own, as your greedy pussy clenched desperately around them, trying to pull them deeper. namjoon growled when he felt your inner walls flutter and clench around his fingers, the sound of your slickness and his fingers opening you up was obscenely loud in the quiet room, a wet, squelching rhythm that was the only thing you could focus on. he pulled back only for a moment, just long enough to drag his tongue over your swollen clit again, slow, teasing circles designed to make you squirm, to make you beg.
your mind dissolved. there was only the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hands, and the unstoppable wave of pleasure coursing through your body. your hands slid into his hair, your fingers digging into his scalp, no longer to push him away, but to pull him closer, to force him deeper inside you, no longer caring about anything but the overwhelming need for more. you were grinding your hips against his face, using him, chasing your own release with a desperate, single-minded fury.
he felt your surrender, the way your hips lifted against his mouth, the way you pulled his hair. he pulled back for a split second, just to stare at you, his face glistening with your wetness, his eyes burning with a possessed fire that made your stomach clench. "this is it," he growled, his voice a raw, primal sound. "take it. take it all."
then he lowered his head and gave it all to you. he sucked hard on your clitoris, a relentless, pulsing pressure, while a third finger slid inside you, curling and hitting that spot deep within you that made you explode. the world went white. a loud, raw cry was torn from your lips as your orgasm washed over you, a massive, spasmodic wave that clenched every muscle in your body and threw you backward. he held you tight, his mouth and fingers working you through each wave of ecstasy, prolonging it, drawing it out until you were a trembling, limp bundle, kept from sliding to the floor only by his iron grip on your hips.
with your trembling hands still tangled in his hair, namjoon worked diligently, devouring without mercy the five-star dish that was your pussy. his tongue pushed in and out of your entrance, fucking you with it, while his lips covered as much of you as they could, pulling pleasure-shaped arches from your back and tremors from your legs. there was so, so much to taste; you were drenched, and he was determined to lick up every last drop.
"oh god baby."
he didn't let you down gently. he simply released his grip, and you would have collapsed in a boneless heap on the floor if he hadn't been there to catch you. instead, he held you up for a moment, your body a dead weight, trembling and spent against him. you were panting, trying to draw air into lungs that refused to cooperate, your mind a blank, buzzing void. he let you lean against him, a moment of strange, almost tender stillness in the aftermath of the storm. you could feel the hard, steady beat of his heart against your back, a grounding rhythm in the chaos of your own body's frantic pulse.
then he pulled back, you couldn't meet his gaze, your head bowed, your hair a tangled curtain hiding your face. you felt exposed, ruined, and utterly at his mercy. he used a finger to lift your chin, forcing you to look at him. his face was a mask of raw, unfiltered desire, his lips swollen and glistening with your essence, his eyes dark and burning with a fire that made your breath catch. he looked at you for a long moment, a predatory assessment, as if admiring his handiwork.
"now you can't even look into my eyes? not after you were begging me to please you?" he asked, his voice a low, rough purr that vibrated through you. you could only stare at him, your lips parted, unable to form a single coherent thought, let alone a sentence. a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. "that's what i thought," he whispered, and before you could react, he was moving again.
with a fluid, powerful motion, he stood up spun you around, his hands on your waist turning you so your back was to him. he took a single step forward, his body pressing against yours, and you stumbled, falling forward. your hands flew out to break your fall, slapping against the polished wood of his desk. you were bent over the desk, your bare ass in the air, your cheek pressed against the cool, smooth surface. you were completely exposed, completely vulnerable, your position one of total submission.
he kicked your feet apart with his own, widening your stance, making you feel even more open, more available. you could feel the cool air of the office on your slick, swollen folds, a constant, teasing reminder of your state. you could hear the sound of his belt buckle, the metallic click loud in the quiet room, followed by the low rasp of his zipper. your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, terrified drumbeat.
then you felt him. the hot, heavy weight of his cock pressing against your entrance. he didn't thrust in, not yet. he just let it rest there, a promise of the invasion to come, a threat and a temptation all at once. he leaned over you, his chest covering your back, his lips brushing against your ear.
“look at this mess,” he breathed, his voice a low, contemptuous whisper that sent a fresh wave of shame through you. “i haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already dripping all over my desk like a cheap little whore.” he shifted his hips, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. “you’re so fucking pathetic. you came all over my fingers, and now you’re practically begging for my cock with this greedy little cunt.” he paused, letting his words sink in, each one a fresh humiliation. “i should make you lick this mess up when i’m done. would you like that? cleaning your own filth off my desk with your tongue?”
you could only whimper, a desperate, pathetic sound of need and surrender. he seemed to take that as an answer. with one powerful, relentless thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. the stretch was incredible, a burning, aching fullness that stole your breath all over again. the piercing was a shock, a hard, unyielding ridge of metal that scraped against your tender inner walls, a sensation so intense it was almost painful. he was so much deeper like this, his angle perfect, hitting places inside you that you didn't even know existed.
he sheathed himself in one brutal, unrelenting thrust, and the sensation of being split open was magnified a thousand times by the piercing. the thick, hard cock stretched you to your limits, but the metal barbell was a focal point of intense, searing pressure, a foreign object that scraped against your inner walls with a devastating, exquisite friction. the air was punched from your lungs in a silent, shocked scream. your inner walls spasmed violently, not just from the sudden stretch, but from the overwhelming, unfamiliar sensation of the cool metal piercing the heat of your core. it was a violation so specific, so intimate, it felt like he was branding you from the inside out.
"baby you’re so tight," he groaned as soon as he felt your walls suffocating him.
he gave you no time to adjust, no moment to process the brutal new reality. he immediately set a punishing, devastating rhythm, pulling back almost all the way out before slamming back into you with the force of a battering ram. every inward stroke was a fresh assault. the thick, veined shaft of his cock stretched you, but it was the piercing that truly destroyed you. the hard metal ball at the head dragged against your g-spot with every thrust, a targeted, calculated pressure that sent bolts of white-hot pleasure shooting up your spine. the other ball, on the underside, rubbed a relentless, maddening path against your walls, a constant, tantalizing friction that was different from the flesh surrounding it. the sound of his hips meeting your ass was a sharp, wet slap that echoed obscenely, punctuated by your own choked cries and the frantic creak of the desk as it skidded across the floor with each powerful impact.
"who's fucking you?" he snarled, his voice a ragged, guttural sound in your ear.
"you are," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, unyielding surface of the desk.
"and what are you?"
"your slut," you cried out, the words torn from your throat by the force of his thrusts. "i'm your slut."
his praise was your undoing. "good girl," you could feel his hot, ragged breath in your ear, a primal counterpoint to your own whimpers of fear and a dark, blossoming arousal. he hiked your skirt up around your waist with a rough tug, the fabric bunching uselessly, and then his hand was between your legs, he chuckled, a low, cruel sound that vibrated through your entire body. "look at the way this pussy grips me," he growls, his voice a low, guttural rumble right against your ear, his hips grinding into you, forcing you to feel every single inch of him buried deep inside. "feel how your walls are clinging to me, trying to pull me in deeper." he punctuates his words with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that makes you gasp, the sensation a maddening mix of pleasure and pressure. "this tight little cunt was fucking made for me. it's a perfect fit. like it was custom-made to take my cock." his hands tighten on your hips, his grip bruising as he starts to move again, each thrust a hard, possessive statement. "you can pretend all you want, but your body knows the truth. it knows who it belongs to."
he was fucking you with an unrestrained fury, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you would wear his fingerprint-sized bruises for a week. he was using your body, taking his pleasure from you with a selfish, brutal intensity that was both terrifying and intoxicating. "is this what you wanted?" he snarled, his voice a ragged, guttural sound in your ear. he leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his sweat dripping onto your skin, his weight pinning you down. "you wanted to be fucked like a little slut? this is how a little slut gets fucked."
you couldn't form words, couldn't think. all you could do was feel. feel the punishing rhythm of his cock, the painful grip of his hands on your hips, and the overwhelming, alien sensation of the piercing. it was a constant, maddening texture inside you, a source of pleasure so intense it was agonizing. the initial, searing pain had long since dissolved, replaced by a tidal wave of raw, unadulterated need. your whimpers of pain had transformed into wanton moans of encouragement. you hated yourself for it, hated your body for betraying you, for arching back into his punishing thrusts, for craving the very thing that was destroying you so completely.
he felt the change in you. he felt the way your pussy started to clench around him, no longer in protest but in greedy, welcoming spasms that seemed to milk the piercing for every drop of sensation. "that's it," he grunted, his rhythm somehow becoming even faster, more erratic. "take it. take every fucking inch." one of his hands left your hip and snaked around your body, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit. he began to rub it in time with his thrusts, hard, rough circles that sent sparks shooting up your spine. the dual stimulation was too much, a sensory overload that shattered what was left of your control. the coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. “namjoon i— i’m coming."
"come baby. come for me."
it wasn't a gentle wave; it was a tsunami. your vision went white, your body seized, and a silent scream "oh god" ripped from your throat as your pussy convulsed around his thick, pierced cock. your arms gave out, and your face slammed against the cold wood of the desk, but you barely registered the sharp pain. you were lost in a maelstrom of sensation, a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. your juices gushed around him, drenching his cock and thighs, making the sounds of his fucking even wetter, more obscene. the piercing seemed to vibrate with the force of your climax, amplifying the waves of ecstasy until you thought you would truly break apart.
your violent climax triggered his. with a guttural roar "fuck", he slammed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could possibly go. you felt him swell inside you, and then a series of hot, powerful pulses erupted from his cock. he came in thick, endless ropes, painting your insides with his cum, a scalding, possessive heat that marked you as his from the inside out. the piercing seemed to throb with each pulse, a final, devastating reminder of his unique claim on your body. he stayed sheathed within you, his body weight pinning you down, his chest heaving against your back as you both fought for breath in the wreckage of your shared destruction.
the silence that followed was heavier than the noise had been. you were a boneless, trembling mess, your cheek pressed to the desk, your body slick with sweat and his release. after a long moment, he slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled out. a soft, broken whimper escaped your lips at the sudden, aching emptiness. you felt the warm trickle of his cum as it began to leak out of your abused, gaping hole, a raw, throbbing reminder of the piercing.
you whimper to the feeling of loss when he finally pulls out, his cum dripping out of your pussy, leaking thighs desk. "class passed."
genre: comedy, fluff, angst, eventual smut / greek life, fake dating, roommates, lovers to enemies and back to lovers au
description: Everyone knew about the war that had been brewing on the edge of campus for the past two years. Sorority versus Fraternity; a showdown for the ages. However, when the escalating antics between them yields the consequence of possible suspensions for both chapters, the presidents of each house must come together to try and figure out how to end this battle… Which is kind of hard, considering they were the ones responsible for it in the first place.
→ part one / part two
Leave or stay? Leave or stay? Leave or stay? The decision should have been harder, or at the very least leaving should have been an option that was considered more heavily. After all, there was technically nothing wrong with this situation. This was his apartment and you weren’t supposed to be moving in for a few days, so in theory this was perfectly understandable — But plans change.
Classes get cancelled. Move in dates get pushed up. You walk in on your ex-boyfriend turned current fake boyfriend mid-fuck. So yeah, leaving was probably the more appropriate response… But the declaration of “Well, honey, I’m home now,” forced its way past your lips regardless; the door closing behind you and marking your choice to stay.
“Y/N!” Jungkook shouted, yanking a blanket off of the floor that you assumed had fallen during their… activities, and pulling it over their bodies. “Jesus fucking Christ! What’re you doing here?”
At this point the girl beneath Jungkook had the covers smashed against her face, clearly embarrassed by this ordeal. You admittedly felt bad, knowing that if you were in this position you would also be cowering beneath the blanket and wanting to sink into the pits of the Earth. But again, the decision had already been made. You were in the apartment and Jungkook’s glare of death was currently trying to claw its way past your skin.
You weren’t going to back down though. Instead, you kept a smile plastered on your face and started to walk past the couch and stood in front of a room that was empty aside from some basic furniture. “I assume this is mine?” You asked casually, and that seemed to only infuriate him more.
He scoffed. “Are you serious?” And suddenly he was sitting up and yanking on his boxers before stomping towards you. “That’s what you’re asking right now?”
“I mean I do have to know where to put my stuff. Unless you’re trying to get me to stay in your room?” You paused and glanced towards the couch. “But from what I can see you probably have enough company in there as it is.”
Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his palms against his temples with a groan. “First of all, you weren’t supposed to be moving in yet, so the courteous thing to do when you see something like that is to fucking turn around and leave.”
At this point the snarky attitude you were putting on was starting to get replaced with actual anger. You dropped all of the bags you had wrapped around various parts of your body onto the floor inside of the room so that you could face him without pounds of clothes weighing you down.
“My class was cancelled, and I wasn’t about to carry all of my bags back downstairs just because you decided to get your dick wet in the middle of the living room and not your own bed.”
Jungkook stared at you with this incredulous smile, as if he couldn’t believe that you thought that you were right in this situation. And in all honesty you weren’t sure if you were right. If the roles had been reversed, you probably would’ve wanted him to leave, so, sure, maybe you were being a giant hypocrite and maybe you should’ve apologized, but unfortunately you didn’t get the chance to before he decided to make his final, stinging comment.
“Jesus, just stop, Y/N.” He paused, and it felt as though he was looking down at you with such pity. “Stop making bitchy comments about my sex life every chance you get. It hasn't been your business for a long time now, so just drop the guilt trips already.”
You recoiled at how hard his words slapped you across the face with humiliation. It stunned you, and you were left standing there, unsure of how to even respond. Instead, your eyes danced across the floor, not wanting to see that pitiful expression being cast towards you. And you might’ve just stood there, forever paralyzed by his words, if not for a thankful interruption.
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but I’m leaving.” You glanced towards the woman that had been lying beneath Jungkook when you walked in. She was fully dressed now. You had been so consumed with your short-lived argument that you hadn’t even noticed her putting her clothes on. “Bye,” She hissed, clearly annoyed, and you didn’t blame her for that.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jungkook repeated before turning to do a short jog towards her and putting his hand on her waist. “I’m so sorry. I know this has gotta seem beyond fucking weird.”
“Uhm, yeah.” She scoffed. “What is this? Were you using me to cheat on your girlfriend, asshole?”
“No, no, that’s not it. She’s my… ex-girlfriend.” He paused, probably trying to search for a simple explanation, but there was so no simple explanation for this circumstance that the two of you had put yourself in. “It’s very complicated.”
She let out a small laugh as she rolled her eyes. “Well, have fun figuring that out.”
Jungkook tried to say something else, but she was already pushing her way outside. And you decided to follow her lead, because before he could even turn around to face you again, you had already slammed the bedroom door behind you before sliding down to the floor. You buried your head between your knees, muttering to yourself about how much of an idiot you were between shaky breaths.
—-——
You sat there for a while, wallowing in your own self-pity. But eventually, you dragged yourself off of the floor and started walking around the bedroom that was now considered yours. You wanted to start putting things away, just to get your mind off of what just happened, but unfortunately in your fit of rage you left all of your bags in the living room.
You went to reach for the doorhandle, but your hand stopped, clenching into a fist as the scene that had just unfolded before you replayed through your mind. Limbs tangled together, his mouth on her neck, her hands in his hair, his dick in her—
You pounded your palms against the side of head. No, stop.
“Not thinking about it, not thinking about it,” You muttered to yourself.
Finally you took a deep breath and squeezed your eyes shut before yanking the door open, preparing for Jungkook to still be on the other side. But when you opened your eyes, there was no one. You walked slowly through the apartment, almost like a timid animal making sure there wasn’t a larger, more vicious creature lurking somewhere you couldn’t see.
You walked through the kitchen, and then made your way down the hall where you assumed Jungkook’s bedroom was. The door was wide open. You felt your heart rate kick up a notch as you slowly made your way towards it, expecting to find him there still irate with you. You sucked in a large breath before walking quickly down the hall and stopping in front of his room.
You had already decided you were going to apologize for the situation, so the word “sorry” was already halfway out of your mouth as you stopped in front of the open door, only for it to be empty. You glanced around, not seeing him anywhere. It looked like he left while you were having your mini-breakdown earlier. You let out a sigh of relief at now having to deal with the situation right at that very moment.
You took a moment to glance around Jungkook’s room. It looked how it did in high school and in the beginning of college when you were still together. He’d always been neat. His room perfectly kept. There was still the same style you remembered. Black sheets, curtains, lamps. He still even had some of the same posters from years ago.
You didn’t realize you had started smiling at some point, but the reminiscing eventually turned sour. That slight squeeze of your chest that you had gotten used to over the years began to wail loudly. You cleared your through with a slight shake of your head before returning to the living room to gather your things. You dragged everything into your room, and robotically started to put all of your things away. You wanted to just focus on something that wasn’t him, so you put all your thoughts into organizing for a bit. Once you managed put all your clothes away, organize the connecting bathroom to your room, and get your comforter and fitted sheets around the mattress, you finally let yourself collapse on your bed, face first.
You pulled your phone out of your back pocket. You had turned off the vibration, not wanting a text from Jungkook to ruin your mood while your were getting your room in order. But when you pulled it out there wasn’t anything from him, thankfully. Instead there was a text from Sana, asking how things had gone. You couldn’t help but laugh as you opted to call her instead, knowing you wouldn’t be able to describe the levels of insanity that had actually ensued.
“Hello,” She chirped on the other line once she picked up. “So, how’s life with the fake boyfriend going?”
“Well…” You let yourself think for a moment, not even sure how to say it. “It has certainly been interesting.”
There was a pause before she went into a half-screech. “Wait, you guys didn’t have sex already, did you?!”
You laughed, having to let yourself fall into the ridiculousness of the situation. “Well, I did see his dick for the first time in three years, but it was buried inside of another girl, so yeah.”
“WHAT?!” She screamed. “You’re joking, right? You have to be joking?”
“One-hundred percent serious, unfortunately.”
“Okay, so tell me everything. What exactly happened?”
You relayed the story of you walking in on them, and how instead of leaving you decided to stand your ground. You relayed the back and forth that the two of you had, and what was said to the best of your memory, and how he was gone when you came out of your room.
“That’s crazy, but I mean… are you okay, like after seeing that?” Sana asked, her voice turning softer after the excitement of the story wore off and realizing what I had actually witnessed.
You thought for a second, not really sure how to describe what you were feeling. You were upset obviously about seeing the actual act, but you also felt bad about your reaction, even if in the moment it had felt good to hurl insults. And that was the main problem between you and Jungkook. There was always a battle. Always flinging barbs at one another, only to feel like shit afterwards. At least on your end, you never had any idea what Jungkook was thinking—not anymore.
“I don’t know,” You finally answered. “Obviously seeing it wasn’t great, but at the end of the day, he really helped me out with this living situation thing. I feel like a bitch, honestly. I just shouldn’t have reacted how I did. I mean he wasn’t lying. What right do I have to make comments about his sex life?”
You rolled over, groaning into your pillow, with your phone still pressed to your ear. This entire situation had my feelings completely at odds.
“Well, that’s true that he helped you out,” Sana started, cutting through your mental warfare. “But, this is also a crazy situation, that no one would know how to deal with. And he should know that. So, when you see him again, just try to have a civil conversation and explain your feelings.”
You grimaced at the idea. “I know, but I hate talking to him about my feelings. It makes me feel… I don’t know, weak? Pathetic? After all these years.”
“I know, but you have to if you guys want this to work.”
You knew Sana was right. You had to do this, if there was even a slight chance of this working out. You opened your mouth to tell her that you agreed, when you heard the door close to the front door of the apartment. You shot up in bed, your pulse pounding.
“Oh my god, I think he’s back,” You whispered into the phone. “I have to go.”
“Okay, okay. Just breathe. And remember, civil conversation. Oh, and don’t forget about Yoongi’s party tonight.”
You nodded your head, more to yourself than anything. “Civil. Yeah, got it. And yes, I’ll be there. Trust me, something tells me I’ll need a drink. Talk to you later.”
“Okay, love you. Good luck, bye.”
The call ended, and you were left with just your thoughts of how wrong this could all go. But there was no point in waiting, this had to be done. You lifted yourself off the bed, taking small steps towards the door. You could hear cabinets opening and closing on the other side, it sounded like it was coming from the kitchen area. You took a deep breath, shaking your hands out to try and rid yourself of the nerves right before you grabbed the handle and slowly opened the door.
You stepped out into the living room, looking to your left towards the kitchen. Your heart stuttered as you stared at Jungkook’s back. Images of him and that girl flooding back into your mind. The look on his face as he stared down at you with such annoyance at the way you’d chastised him.
You pushed the thoughts away. None of that mattered right now.
He still hadn’t noticed your presence. He was still just pulling groceries out of bags and putting them away. You took a few seconds to just watch him, not knowing if this conversation would turn out like the last. But finally, you took a couple of steps closer.
“Jungkook?” You called his name, barely louder than a whisper.
He stiffened, the action making you flinch. You didn’t want to be something that caused that sort of reaction out of him. But eventually, he took a deep breath before turning around to face you.
You locked eyes for a couple of seconds before his gaze dropped towards the counters, looking like he was trying to come up with something to say.
“I’m sorry,” You blurted out before he could go first, hands fisting at your sides.
Jungkook looked up at you, surprise lacing his features. “You’re… sorry?”
You nodded, walking closer, pulling out one of the bar stools that sat across from the counter where he was standing in the kitchen.
“I shouldn’t have reacted that way.” You bit your lip, avoiding eye contact while you spoke. “I was shocked at what I saw, and… I don’t know what came over me. You were right. I should’ve just dropped my stuff and left. I appreciate what you’re doing, letting me stay here, and I acted like a brat when you really helped me out.” You paused again, nails making small scratches at the counter as you said the next part. “And yes, your sex life is none of my business. So, just never put me in a position where I have to see you having sex again, and I promise you’ll never hear a word from me about it. And again, I’m sorry.”
With the admission finally out in the open, you quickly went to turn to slide off the chair to retreat back in your room, but before you could stand entirely you felt a hand wrap around your arm, forcing you to stay in place. You twisted your head to look down at Jungkook reaching across the counter where his hand had slipped down to your wrist.
“Look at me,” He whispered.
You turned back towards him, slowly looking up until you reached his face. Your breath caught in your throat as you waited for him to continue.
Jungkook stared at your for a moment, his hand squeezing slightly before he spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Your brows furrowed. “You’re sorry?”
He finally dropped your wrist, thankfully letting you gather some semblance of your sanity back.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t react how I should’ve either. You didn’t know, and then I acted like jackass when you walked in on something that…” He trailed off, a hand sliding down his face. “I wouldn’t have wanted to see if the roles were reversed. And I don’t know if I would’ve handled it much better.”
You were a little stunned by the admission, but you tried to keep your face neutral.
“Well, I’m glad we understand each other. So… truce?” You asked, reaching your hand across the counter for a handshake.
He stared down at your hand for a moment before finally grabbing it. “Truce.”
You felt a little lighter now that you knew everything was going to be okay, and he wasn’t still pissed at you.
“So you went grocery shopping?” You asked, changing the conversation to something less heavy.
“Yeah, uhm, I was gonna make us dinner actually.” He scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Dinner?” You asked, surprised. “But you suck at cooking.”
Jungkook laughed, a real laugh that made you smile. “I used to suck at cooking. I’ve picked up some skills in the past few years that you don’t know about.”
“Oh, trust me, I saw that earlier.” You immediately slapped your hand over your mouth, face burning. “I’m so sorry! That came out before I even had a chance to think.”
You were mentally hitting yourself. Did you not just promise him less than five minutes ago that you would not make comments about his sex life? God, what the hell was wrong with you. You brought your eyes back to his, expecting to see a look of annoyance, but instead it’s something completely different. Curiosity, maybe?
“Are you implying that I was bad at sex when we were together?” His head was cocked to the side, tongue licking across the front of his teeth.
Your eyes widened at the question. That certainly wasn’t what you were expecting to come out of his mouth. You scratched your head awkwardly, not sure how to respond. You certainly knew your answer in your head. He had looked confident and dominating with that girl from earlier. Not that he was bad when you were together, but he had just seemed much more experienced.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. It just… looked different than with us.” You shrugged, trying to seem casual about this conversation that was actually making your skin feel like it was on fire.
“Different how?” He asked, a playful gleam tugging at his lips as he leaned closer.
You scoffed, not believing he was actually trying to talk about this. “Did I not just promise you I was not discussing your sex life anymore?”
“This is our sex life, that doesn’t count.”
You clicked your tongue. “Comparing our past sex life to your current sex life, does in fact count.” You shot him an incredulous look. “I’m too sober for this.”
Jungkook immediately turned around and grabbed a bottle of wine, a wide grin on his face.
“No,” You said, but you couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re just asking because you want me to boost your ego. We had only ever slept with each other back then, so I know you know you’re… different.”
He tried to speak again, but you immediately threw your palm up. “End of conversation, Kook.”
“For now.” He smirked, turning around to continue putting away the various food items he bought for tonight. Which reminded you about the plans you already had for Yoongi’s party. You were sure Jungkook had also been invited.
“Hey, about dinner. I already have plans. Yoongi’s party is tonight, remember?”
“Oh, fuck.” Jungkook snapped his fingers, obviously remembering. “I totally forgot that was tonight… Had a lot on mind earlier. Guess I’ll have to show you my much improved cooking skills another time.”
“Can’t wait.” You tried smiling, but you were suddenly hit with a wave of anxiety. “And I assume people will expect us to go to the party together… And act like we’re together.”
You could see his tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek. “I assume so, yes.”
You were both silent for a second, because there was one very important conversation the two of you had not had yet.
“Uhm, we haven’t talked about this, but how exactly are we supposed to… act with each other at things like this?”
Jungkook tapped his fingers against the counter, biting at his lip. “Well, what’re you comfortable with?”
You knew there would have to be a little bit of public affection for this thing to work. If the two of you just showed up and then immediately parted for the entire time, it would seem strange.
“I mean holding hands and small amounts of kissing seems reasonable. I don’t think we’ll have to do a full blown makeout in front of everyone like last time. But those things seem convincing enough.”
He nodded, seeming to agree. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.”
Your stomach felt like it was in a giant knot, however. Because as much as you hated to admit it, you wanted to do so much more than just kiss him and hold his hand. Seeing him with that girl earlier, had caused a reignited interest. Of course for the past few years you had missed the relationship part, but you had been able to fill the sexual needs elsewhere. But now you couldn’t stop thinking about it with Jungkook specifically. And you were going to have to get those thoughts out of your head sooner rather than later. Which meant you needed to get laid. Which therein lied the other issue of this arrangement.
“So, I know this is awkward, but uhm what should the deal be with…” You trailed off, not knowing how to say it without sounding so crass.
“Deal with what?” He asked, interest piquing on his face.
“Like, with hookups?” You grimaced at just asking the question out loud.
Jungkook’s head dropped to look at the floor, his hair falling in his eyes when he decided to look back up at you. “Well, no sex in the living room obviously.”
You laughed. “Obviously.”
“But in all seriousness I mean just common sense rules. Just being respectful of the situation. Try our best to… limit noise.” He stopped, rubbing at his eyes vigorously. “Goddammit, this is so fucking weird to talk about with you.”
“Yeah, definitely.” You stood up and started to walk back to your room, not being able to deal with the strange tension anymore. “But yeah, common sense. Got it. I’m gonna go get ready for the party, and then we’ll head out.”
Jungkook cleared his throat, running his hands through his hair before turning his back to me. “Yeah, cool.”
Your bedroom door closed behind you, a sigh of relief passing your lips at being able to process what the fuck just happened.
---
Jungkook
He sat there on the couch, fingers nervously picking at the threads on his gym shorts. He could hear the shower turning off from the bathroom in your room, meaning you were almost ready to leave for Yoongi’s party. A party were the two of you were going to have to act as if the two of you were a happy, prefect couple, basking in your new rekindling.
Jungkook was still trying to wrap his head around the entire situation itself, not to mention the unfortunate circumstances that had transpired earlier today. One second he was having sex, and then the next he was locking eyes with the girl whose heart he broke. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Your eyes wide with horror, a slight tremble in your hand. It was something he didn’t think he’d ever forget. And the things he said… he didn’t know why he had said the things he did. You were being snarky, as usual, but he couldn’t blame you given what you had just witnessed. But that had been the norm between the two of you for the last couple of years. Just an endless cycle of barbs being thrown at one another, but it was a cycle he so desperately wanted to end.
He was still lost in his head when you finally emerged from your room, a flowy dress covering the swim suit he could see tied around your neck. He took a second to just look at you. Hair wet, typing on your phone, in his apartment, like this was all just normal. And if he let himself just sit back for a second, it all seemed so… normal? As if the two of you had suddenly been transported back to all those years ago, and none of the stuff in between had ever happened. Not the break up, not the war between your houses, and certainly not the terrible words that had been spoken aloud throughout that time.
“What’re you staring at?” You asked, and the spell was broken.
Because it didn’t matter if it seemed normal in the moment. All of those things had in fact happened, and there was no taking them back.
“Uh, nothing. Just zoned out, sorry.” He lifted himself from the couch and made his way towards the door. “Jimin is actually gonna pick us up and bring us back later. He has a test tomorrow, so he’s not drinking.”
“And we’re sure Jimin won’t succumb to peer pressure?” You asked.
Jungkook laughed, because he used to think the same thing. “Jimin loves to party, but he actually takes school very seriously.”
“Interesting. Never would’ve guessed.”
“Well, people can surprise you when you let them,” He said as he opened the door, but not before you saw the look of confusion cross your face.
Jungkook did want to surprise you. He knew what you thought of him, and he wanted to show you that this could work. That the two of you, even with all the issues and emotions, could make this work.
And that was the mantra that Jungkook repeated in his head as the two of you went down the steps of the apartment, where you could already see Jimin waiting outside of his truck: We could make this work, we could make this work—we had to make this work.
“Oh, the love birds have risen from their nest.” Jimin jogged towards Jungkook, a wide smile on his face as he threw an arm around his neck. “So how is dating life going, guys?”
Jungkook cleared his throat, he hadn’t told Jimin about you walking in on him earlier during sex. He knew he’d never hear the end of it. But just as he was about to say something along the lines of ‘fine,’ your voice came cutting through.
“Besides me walking in on him balls deep in a girl on the couch. Totally great.” You shrugged, a forced grin on your face as you slid into the front passengers seat.
Fuck.
Jungkook hesitantly turned to Jimin. He was slack-jawed, but with slightly curved lips that showed how incredibly amusing he found the situation.
“Oh, you’re so driving there. I wanna observe.” He was laughing hysterically as he handed the keys to Jungkook and jumped into one of the backseats before he could tell him no.
Jungkook let his eyes fall shut as he took a deep breath through his nose. He could see through the tented windows that you and Jimin were already in an animated conversation not even ten seconds into being in the car together. Which surprised him, considering there wasn’t exactly any love there since the whole conflict between the Lambdas and Tri Delts started. He immediately ripped the driver’s side door open, knowing his friend loved to say off the wall shit, but it seemed it was too late, because as soon as he sat on the seat Jimin’s voice rang through the car.
“Was he wearing a condom at least?”
Jungkook blanched, whipping his head so fast he felt like it would snap off. “Jimin, what in the actual fuck—”
“Not sure, actually.” You cut him off, and you sounded surprisingly amused. “There was a lot of body parts and movement going on.”
“I was wearing one—wait why the fuck am I even entertaining this shit.” He could not believe that this is what the conversation had devolved into. “We’re not talking about my dick right now.”
“What? I can’t make sure my dear friend is practicing safe sex?” Jimin asked, clutching his chest like he was offended.
“You can ask me that in fucking private.” Jungkook fumed.
“I was asking in front of your girlfriend. Just seemed like something she should know,” Jimin responded, throwing his hands in the air.
“Fake girlfriend!” You and Jungkook said at the same time before locking eyes. The word without the disclaimer of it all being pretend seeming to send a ripple between you.
Jimin laughed, grabbing at the back of the drivers seat as Jungkook finally pulled out of the parking lot and down the road towards Yoongi’s.
“Oh, come on. You guys are living together. Don’t pretend like nothing’s gonna happen.” Jimin pinched jungkook’s ear playfully.
He smacked it away. “Nothing’s gonna happen.”
Jungkook knew it was going to be a complicated situation. Living with your ex-girlfriend while pretending to be back together wasn’t exactly something you could prepare for. Obviously there were still feelings there, but mostly negative, unfortunately.
“But what about you, Y/N?” Jimin asked, cutting off Jungkook’s thoughts. “Is nothing gonna happen?”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. You would probably rather get run over than let him touch you again. And he didn’t blame you for that considering the way everything happened. But as he waited for whatever analogy you were going to use to show just how much that scenario disgusted you, there was just… silence.
Jungkook turned to look at you sitting in your quiet thoughts. His brows furrowed. Wait, did you want something to happen between the two you of? He couldn’t help it, he felt the immediate kick at his lower stomach at just the thought.
He would be lying if he said he had never thought about it in the past couple of years. Even though he was the one that ended it, and even with all the shit you had put each other through, you were still someone he had dated for a long time. Someone he was obviously attracted to. And someone who, under everything, he would always have emotions for; albeit confusing emotions.
Jungkook was lost in those thoughts as he lifted himself from the seat to adjust his shorts. They weren’t doing a great job at hiding what he was thinking about right now. Once he was done, he snuck a glance at you, because you still hadn’t answered Jimin’s question. But when he locked eyes with you, a smirk covering your face, he realized this was the exact reaction you had been looking for.
“Nothing,” You started, eyes flitted towards his starting erection that was now tucked away before looking at him again. “Is gonna happen between us.”
Jungkook’s tongue curled around his teeth, and he couldn’t help but grin. You got him back for this morning for sure.
For the rest of the car ride to Yoonig’s, thankfully Jimin dropped the interrogation. Instead the two of them discussed upcoming frat events, with you chiming in occasionally to say that the Tri Delts would also be participating. And with their respective houses seemingly in a truce, things should go smoothly.
Finally you pulled into Yoongi’s house. There were already cars covering almost the entirety of the lawn, and that was saying something considering his house was massive. Yoonig’s parents made pretty decent money, so he was living the high life while he was away at college. Jungkook was sure he would’ve offered you a place to stay if he didn’t already have roommates in all of the spare rooms here. It wasn’t that he really needed them to help pay rent, he just enjoyed the company and never ending partying.
Once Jungkook managed to find a spot that he thought would be easy enough for Jimin to get out of later he parked. He ran a hand through his hair. Now that they were actually here, the anxiety seemed to kick in. This was the first time he and you would be somewhere from start to finish with the expectation that you were a couple. And even though you had discussed what things the two of you were comfortable with, the actual act of pulling off this ruse was daunting. Jungkook was still playing over the possible scenarios between the two of you, when you reached over and fluffed his hair back onto his forehead.
“You ready, Kook?” You asked, leaning over the middle console, a soft smile playing on your face.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He shrugged, unconsciously leaning over the console to meet you.
“Good,” You said simply, before reaching across the short space, grabbing his jaw and kissing him.
Jungkook couldn’t help it. He felt his eyes flutter shut as he inhaled sharply through his nose. His hand was already lifted halfway to tangle into your hair when you suddenly broke away.
“See you inside, boyfriend.”
You wore a devious smile as you threw the car door open, leaving him to bask in whatever the hell just happened. Jungkook brought his thumb to his lips, running it over the seam of his mouth like he could somehow force the sensation of your mouth on his to stay.
“What the hell?” He scoffed.
“Oh, my brother,” Jimin started, reminding Jungkook that he wasn’t actually alone in the car.
Jungkook apprehensively turned to face him, breathing heavier than he should’ve been from a simple kiss.
“What?” He snapped, hating the delighted expression on his friend’s face.
Jimin leaned in from the backseat, and before he could stop him he smacked Jungkook’s thigh, jostling his cock inside of his pants. Jungkook hissed, reaching out to smash Jimin’s head against the seat. But he was quick, practically rolling onto the grass as he opened the door.
Jimin was still laughing as he stared at Jungkook through the rolled up window. Then he brought his hands around his mouth, creating a funnel, as he yelled “You are so fucked, friend.”
Jungkook watched as Jimin made his way inside. Head still tipped back in laughter. He tried to stay annoyed, but the thing is… Jimin was right.
If his racing heart and rock-hard dick were any indicators: he was beyond fucked.
But he was so going to get you back for that.
----
You weren’t sure why exactly you had decided to kiss Jungkook like that. Maybe it was because you had seen how easy it was to rile him up when you hadn’t answered Jimin’s question about whether or not something would happen between the two of you. You weren’t really sure, but the look on his face had been satisfying enough. Though, it seemed to have backfired partially, because as you sat here with Sana, Jennie and some other members from Tri Delt, you were still thinking about his damn mouth. His lips flushed against yours, and what it would’ve felt like if maybe his tongue had slipped—
“Hey, Earth to Y/N.” Sana waved her hands in front of your face, clearly trying to get your attention for a minute now.
“Oh, sorry. Zoned out.” You faked a smile, taking a sip of the mixed drink in your cup.
“Clearly.” She raised a brow, narrowing her eyes, seeming to know exactly what you had just been thinking about.
You hadn’t told Sana or Jennie about spontaneously kissing Jungkook earlier, not because you were hiding it, but because you were in a big group of girls who weren’t privy to the details of your fake dating escapade. But still, even without being told what happened, Sana seemed to be keying in that your thoughts were, at least in some capacity, about Jungkook.
“Later.” You mouthed to her before taking another sip of your drink.
Her eyes widened, giving you a clear, tell me now, vibe. But it would have to wait until this party had thinned out some, because right now it was absolute insanity. You would think that a party in the middle of the week wouldn’t garner much traffic, but that would be underestimating college kids goal of finding any excuse to drink.
You and your group of friends were currently sitting out by the pool in your bathing suits. There were about a couple dozen people out here with you, but there was no less than fifty inside. There wasn’t really anywhere to talk privately, so for now, your confession to Sana and Jennie would have to wait.
You continued to sip at your drink, pretending to listen in on the conversations going on around you. It had been maybe half an hour since you had gotten here, but it felt much longer. You couldn’t help the nagging feeling that there was some sort of performance you and Jungkook were supposed to be putting on, but you hadn’t even spoken since going into the house. That didn’t exactly scream rekindled love to all of the members of your houses whose stares you could feel occasionally. Their eyes silently asking, so if you guys are back together, why are you avoiding one another? You had begun to gnaw at the rim of your plastic cup, when you felt a hand gently squeeze your shoulder.
“Sorry, ladies.” Jungkook was standing over you, shirt off, and god if that didn’t piss you off. But you had to hide the annoyance that wanted to crawl its way out. “Could I borrow my girlfriend for a moment?”
“Of course,” Jennie said, but you could see the tightness lining her features, indicating that she really wanted to hell to him to fuck off.
You had been on the phone with Jennie earlier while getting ready, filling her in on Jungkook’s little sexual escapade this morning, so that her and Sana could be on same page of what you were walking into today. And let’s just say, she had some choice words she wished to say to him.
“Great!” He clapped his hands, before bringing one arm under your knees and the other under your back before swiftly lifting you in the air.
“What the fuck!” You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck to balance yourself.
He had already started to walk towards the steps of the pool, and once you were out of earshot you leaned in. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Going for a swim with my girlfriend.” He shrugged, still having you pressed against his body.
You had to clamp your teeth down hard on your cheek not to react to the feeling of his warm skin pressed against your ribs. But the feeling was short lived as Jungkook walked down the steps, lowering the two of you down into the water, his hands still clutching you against his body.
“I wasn’t really ready to go for a swim yet, you know?” You pouted your lips as he finally released you, letting you both stand in the shallow end.
“Well, I figured we should at least be seen hanging at some point, since you ditched me at the door after kissing me like that.” He looked down at you, a glint in his eyes that said he was not going to let that go.
“It was a practice kiss,” You whispered, lying. “You know, to get the nerves out or whatever.”
Jungkook pursed his lips, nodding, and clearly not believing you.
“So did it work?” He asked, suddenly a hand pressing to your stomach as he cornered you into the wall of the pool. You had to hold back the gasp at feeling his bare touch so low. “Are you ready to kiss me again?”
Oh, so that was what he was doing. Trying to get back at me. Well, two could play at that game.
You placed both hands on his large shoulders before bringing your legs up to wrap around his waist. You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched as his arms circled your back instinctively to keep you from falling back into the water.
Your faces were only an inch or so apart as you whispered, “And why do you wanna kiss me, Jungkook?”
He smirked, leaning in so his lips were grazing your cheek. “I imagine for the same reason you did earlier.”
“And what reason is that?” You asked, stifling the shudder that wanted to ripple across your skin.
Jungkook softly grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him again, his eyes dropping to your mouth. “Because you wanted to. Because I want to.”
Your lips parted at the confession, heart racing steadily in your chest. Because, yes, as much as you wanted to admit that you had kissed him for other reasons, there was a small part of you that maybe had just wanted to be spontaneous in your primal desires. Even if your ego wanted to refute it. But even so, you would never admit that to him.
“Oh, so you wanna kiss me just because?” You asked, putting on your best expression of confidence. “Not because it’s what everyone needs to see for this to be believable?”
He bit down on his bottom lip, looking off to the side, like he was thinking about whether or not he should say something. From the way he shook his head before staring at you again it made you assume he decided not to.
He shrugged. “Yes, I want to kiss you just because I want to.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, you can’t.” Shrugging right back at him.
“And why’s that?” He asked. His eyes were burrowing into you, tension and want curled into them. “You did it when there wasn’t even a reason to.”
You couldn’t deny that he was right. Kissing him earlier was spontaneous and stupid, and now you were paying the consequences. But you weren’t going to let him get you that easily.
“Well, the difference is that mine was a playful peck.” You wrapped one of your arms around his neck, while taking the other and pinching his cheek. “And you look like you want to eat me right now.”
He tensed at your words. Eyes searing into you now. “Then let me.”
You stilled at his words. You couldn’t believe this was happening right now. More so, you couldn’t believe you were considering this right now. You saw him having sex with another girl just a couple of hours ago. There was no way you could let yourself do this.
But instead of simply pushing him away, you leaned in closer, forehead touching his. You noticed the way his breath hitched in anticipation. You smiled, letting your mouth brush his before leaning in and lightly biting his bottom lip. You watched the way his eyes widened, and you heard the deep groan that rattled from the back of his throat—But the pleasure was short lived.
“Go fuck yourself,” You whispered before swimming beneath his arm and quickly making your way up the steps of the pool.
You didn’t look back at Jungkook’s reaction as you went straight for the bin of towels outside the sliding glass door before heading inside. You passed dozens of Lambdas, all of them giving you a respectful nod instead of the common sneers of the past couple of years. It seemed the ploy was actually working. But even though it working, you couldn’t help the pang in your chest at this very moment.
This was supposed to be simple. Pretend to date and be nothing more than roommates. So how in not even one of day of living together had it turned into this contest between you and Jungkook? It was fun at first, but now you felt… pathetic? You weren’t even sure of how you felt. Playing with him like this seemed like you would always be on the losing end no matter what. You were circling in these thoughts as you grabbed another drink and passed through the living room, Yoongi catching your eye by the staircase.
“You good, Y/N?” He asked, billowing smoke as he took the joint from his mouth.
“Uhm, yeah, just needed a minute.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, anxiousness overtaking you despite your words.
Yoongi narrowed his eyes, approaching you as he placed a hand on your back to lead you upstairs. “Go sit out on the balcony in my room.”
You felt your breathing ease at just the idea. You gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Yoongi.”
“Never have to thank me,” He waved his hand in the air like it was no big deal, but it meant everything to you in that moment. You needed a lifeline.
You hurried upstairs, turning left down the hall all the way to the very end where Yoongi’s room was. You sighed in relief as you closed the door behind you, rushing to the balcony to swing it open. You practically collapsed on one of the chairs, knees immediately coming up so you could bury your face between them.
Why couldn’t this be easier? This shouldn’t affect you the way it was after so long. It’d been years, and yet here you were, still hung up on someone who had broken up with you. The tension between the two of you should be gone, but instead every touch was like a wildfire, still igniting every nerve it your body. God, how fucking pathetic.
You stayed like that for a while. You crossed your arms, head leaning on them to stare out over the lake behind Yoongi’s house. Just lost in the thoughts of what you had gotten yourself into. What an idiot. How did you ever think you would manage this? How did you ever think you could live with Jungkook? Pretend to date jungkook? When you still—
You groaned, grabbing at your hair, pulling the strands to try and yank some sense into you. But it didn’t matter how hard you tried, the slight hollowness remained in your chest, ever present and relenting. You were about to get up to go to the shower in Yoongi’s room to try and distract from the thoughts, when you suddenly heard the door open. You turned to look, and of course, it was the devil currently ravaging your thoughts standing at the threshold.
“Not in the mood for games right now,” You said, turning to look back towards the lake. But when the door closed you could hear his steady footsteps approaching before taking the seat next to you on the balcony.
He didn’t say anything. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your face. The tension you had managed to dull somewhat began blossom once more.
“What?” You finally snapped when he continued with his silence.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” He said softly.
His tone made your annoyance wither slightly. “I’m fine. I just needed a minute alone.”
“Listen.” You watched from the corner of your eye as he brought both of his hands to his face, rubbing at his temples. “I’m sorry about downstairs. I pushed it too far. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
You laughed sarcastically. “Yeah, well I guess that’s my fault for kissing you in the first place.”
“I’m serious. I don’t want you to be upset with me. I’m sorry if I crossed the line.”
You weren’t sure why, maybe it was the alcohol, but the pent up emotions you had been thinking about out here suddenly came rushing out.
“That’s all it is for you, isn’t it? You crossed a line in a fun game of sexual tension with your ex-girlfriend. And yes, I admit I started it, but it’s not as easy for me as it is for you to deal with.” You could feel your eyes starting to burn, and you told Jungkook you had promised to never cry in front of him again, but you were close to breaking that. “You don’t get it. This whole fake dating thing is easier for you than it is for me.”
You nestled your head between your knees again, not standing the idea of looking at him while you admitted this.
“It isn’t easy for me either—” He started, but you didn’t let him finish.
“You. Left. Me!” You snarled, whipping your head up to face him, finally not caring about the tears running down your face.
His head dropped, mouth going thin at your words. He looked guilty. That wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want him to feel guilty. He made his choice back then, but you wanted him to know what this situation the two of you had gotten yourself into entailed for you specifically.
“You probably think this is entertaining. Seeing if you can get me to sleep with you again. But that’s not how it is for me. I have to look at you, kiss you, pretend everything is okay, when you were someone I fucking loved that just broke up with me out of the blue. Do you think that’s easy for me? To look at the person I loved so much try to fuck me like I’m just one of however many girls he’s fucked since breaking up with me? I mean I literally saw you fucking a girl this morning for Christ’s sake.” You paused, taking a breath, wiping the tears from your face.
You didn’t know why you were reacting like this. It had been all playful at first, and it had suddenly turned into rehashing all of your feelings. Jungkook didn’t respond yet, he was waiting to see if you had finished. And emotionally you weren’t done. You could say a million things to Jungkook, but you knew in the end it wouldn’t matter, so when you spoke again it was in a soft whisper.
“I don’t want anymore stupid antics between us. No kissing, no touching, other than what’s necessary. And again, I’m the one that started it, so I apologize. But I just need you to know that nothing can happen between us.” You paused, looking at him directly so he understood this part. “It means something different for me than it does to you. To you it’s a fun thrill to see if you can fuck me. For me it’s hating myself for giving in to someone that didn’t want me. So please, no more, Jungkook. Please.”
Jungkook’s eyes were glistening, hand covering his mouth. You knew he wasn’t heartless. You knew it was hurting him for you to say these types of things, but he needed to hear them. But when he finally spoke, he said things you were never expecting.
“I understand. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m so sorry for everything.” He reached out, cupping your cheek with the barest of touches, like he was afraid you would run away. “I never meant to make you feel like this was just me trying to see if I could get you to sleep with me. That’s not what it was at all. I see how it would look like that, especially after this morning and everything you saw. But that’s not it. I wouldn’t mess with you like that. I hate that I made you question yourself. I genuinely hate that, Y/N.” He withdrew his hand and ran it down his own face, resting it in the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry. I understand that this is more difficult for you after what I put you through. But please know I’d never mess with your feelings like that on purpose . I’m confused too. Being this close with you again… It’s so fucking confusing.”
You took everything he said in, nodding to show him you were actually listening. It was the most honest conversation you’d had in years, and your heart couldn’t help but strain at his words. But eventually, you cleared your throat, trying to bring everything back to reality.
“Good, I’m glad you understand.” You wiped the last remnants of tears away before standing up and holding your hand out. “Now, let’s go back downstairs and act the best we can. No games.”
Jungkook stood up beside you. He was quiet for a moment, like there was more he wanted to say. But in the end he reached down and intertwined his fingers with yours.
“No games.” He nodded, but he couldn’t meet your eyes when he said it.
The two of you walked hand in hand back down to the party. The perfect pretend couple crumbling beneath their thoughts.
𓄲 The glass has just about brushed his bottom lip when you stop him. Fingers covering the drink he'd been distracting himself with ever since you walked into the room. Jungkook finally lifts his eyes, confusion swirling within their bottomless depths. "You don't get to decide that."
전정국 x f!reader ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ ‹— cw dilf!jungkook single dad jungkook nanny!reader 1980s au slowburn fluff angst (eventual) explicit content age gap (jungkook is 30, reader is 20) oc!cassian/oc!rayne (jk's children) crying drinking kissing (on the mouth!!) suggestive (?)
⧽ word count ⋮ 7k
average reading time ⋮ 40 minutes
── [ ✉️ ] You ladies have been waiting for this one. Okay so, they touch tongues, woah. They touch more than just tongues but I won't get into that. Anyway, things will be escalating from here (naturally) but I'll be doing it my way, so there's no point in theorising a smut scene in the next chapter. Anyway, go read read, I love you ladies <3 Feedback in the comments/reblogs and asks are much appriciated <3
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chapter 10 — "whiskey tears"
The crying had been going on for at least half an hour. If crying was even the right word to use. Cassian's wails sounded more like helpless screams as they tore their way from his throat. He gasps for air between the loud sobs, his pleas getting lost somewhere in the endless sea of his tears.
Through the closed bedroom door you listened to the hushed murmur of Jungkook's voice. He'd been in there for a good while now — trying and failing to calm his son down as the little boy continues to hysterically cry.
You don't know where it had come from, what could have possibly triggered such a violent reaction from the normally sweet and agreeable Cassian. Jungkook, who had come home a couple of hours earlier, had been putting the children to bed as you cleaned up after dinner when the first shrilling scream pierced the air.
Dishes abandoned, you rushed up the stairs to find Rayne lingering just short of her brother's closed bedroom door. She wore a solemn look, tiny brows furrowed together and her arms folded across her chest where she stood in only her pajamas. She did not seem surprised by Cassian's sudden outburst when she turned to you.
"He'll calm down eventually," Her voice was even — betraying none of her true feelings. Then she had thrown a final glance over her shoulder, "Goodnight," She hummed before disappearing into her own room, the door falling shut with a simple click behind her.
Pacing the long hall back and forth — you listen to Cassian's continued cries as he yells what appeared to be incoherent nonsense,for the most part — though you thought you caught a certain word between the broken sobs.
"You know I can't do that," Jungkook murmurs shortly after. He sounds exhausted, clearly worn out from trying to soothe a distressed Cassian. You wondered how much longer he would be able to keep this up. At this rate the young boy might as well be crying for the entire night.
He'd been quiet all afternoon — responding to your questions about his day with mumbled shrugs and brief nods. You had noted the behavior as uncharacteristic, thought that perhaps he'd had a rough time at school or that he'd simply just been tired. Even dinner had been a struggle for him, and Cassian usually ate without complaint.
While his sudden and unusual shift in mood did worry you — it never inclined you to believe that the night would end in you listening to his heartbroken sobs.
The floorboards groan in protest when you cross the hall, feet moving hesitantly over the floor as you approach the sealed bedroom door. You consider knocking, fist raised before you halt — through the wood you can hear the continued weeping, Cassian sounds to be choking on his own tears.
That was enough. Without giving yourself space to think, you twist the doorknob and step over the threshold.
The sight that greets you is nothing short of gut wrenching. Cast in looming shadows is the usually warm bedroom. Evidence of Cassian's tantrum lay scattered across the floor in the form of socks — carelessly ripped from tiny feet — his precious teddy bear thrown aside like it meant nothing.
Jungkook stands by the window, the moonlight casting a pale halo around him. In his arms, the source of your aching heart.
Cassian squirms in his father's embrace, legs kicking and arms flailing as he tries to free himself of the hold kept on him. "Let me go!" He screams, fresh, hot tears spilling down his puffy cheeks and you were sure he was experiencing a pounding headache by now.
Jungkook for his part, remains indifferent — if anything, his grip tightens on the small boy as he keeps him from fleeing. "Shh," He tries to soothe, his jaw is clenched tight and had it not been for the loud sobs spilling from his son's lips — you would have probably heard his teeth grind.
"Let me go—" Cassian continues to weep, his movements faltering due to the exertion, "I want mommy!"
You freeze in the doorway, one hand still wrapped around the knob. Your throat feels dry and you swallow back whatever meek attempt at consolation had waited on your tongue. Silently, you look on as Jungkook continues to try and calm his son down — it was impossible to tell wether he was hurt by Cassian's words or not.
"I cannot bring her here and you know that," Jungkook's tone grows sharp, not quite frustrated but teetering on the edge of hurt. His hand is splayed across the tiny boy's back, palm stroking his skin up and down through the fabric of his pajamas. The touch seems to do little in aiding his son through the emotions currently overwhelming him.
You creep forward, moving slow enough to not startle either of them. Not until you're within reach do you announce your presence with a clearing of your throat.
Jungkook turns just enough to send you a glance over his shoulder. His expression is torn between stoicism and something you don't think you'd ever seen on him before, something worn and beat.
Cassian has yet to notice you, or perhaps he was simply disregarding your presence all together. "Mommy— I want mommy!" He continues to weep, "I want her to come back!"
The crease between Jungkook's brows deepen at that, a strained exhale making its way through his nose when he averts his gaze. The pats he deliver to his son's back are robotic, like he was acting on autopilot.
"Give him to me," You don't know what unnamed force compels you to utter those words — nor can you understand why your hands are already reaching for the squirming boy when you should be turning to leave.
Jungkook hesitates, you can see the thoughts as they collide with one another inside his head. His eyes jump between you and Cassian, going back and forth a handful of times before he comes to a decision.
With an exhausted sigh he relents, turning fully as he transfers his crying son into your arms.
Cassian is heavier than you'd anticipated. His body is a warm, solid weight when he comes to rest against your chest. He struggles, head shaking and legs thrashing, "No! No I don't want—" He cuts himself off with another choked sob, tears streaming freely down his face.
But you refuse to let go, arms wrapping around him in a hug so tight you feared you might restrict his airways. A minute passes, then another. No one moves and eventually Cassian's cries morph into quick gasps as he exhaustion catches up with him.
Jungkook takes a step back, his hands limp by his sides. His eyes are dark, much darker than the night lingering just outside the window when he peers down at you. It looks as though he wants to say something — but when his son lets his head fall against your shoulder, he turns away — like the sight pained him.
He heaves a breath, fingers curling into fists before he gives a short nod. With a final brush through Cassian's hair, he takes his leave — shutting the door behind him with a barely audible thud.
You're left standing in the middle of the dark room with a small boy held in your arms. You remain silent, letting the sound of his sobs fill the thick air as Cassian continues to gasp and cry his heart out against your shoulder.
Salty tears soak their way into the cotton of your shirt but you don't mind. Your hand moves on its own accord, mimicking that of Jungkook's a few moments prior as you stroke his back. You can feel his tiny body heave for every breath he takes, each one just as strained as the last.
You let your gaze drag across the room, from the books neatly stacked into their bookshelf — to the homework piled onto his desk. Everything is in perfect order, everything but the sobbing child wrapped in your embrace.
Minutes pass, minutes filled with nothing but his pain. You don't say anything, too afraid to break whatever trance he was in and somehow make it worsen all over again. So you wait him out, hand rubbing gentle circles onto his back as you hum quietly to yourself.
After a while his cries turn into sniffles. Cassian has yet to lift his face from where it remains buried against your shoulder. You feel his nose scrunch when he draws in a shaky breath. His tiny fingers had found their way to your sleeves, curling around the fabric tightly with no intent of letting go.
Sinking down onto the soft mattress of his bed, you manage to keep a firm hold on his trembling frame. Cassian allows you to maneuver him without protest, splaying his legs out across your lap, stilling clinging to you fiercely.
"You know… I think we're missing something," You murmur, fingers stroking through his dark curls absently. He finally lifts his head at that, a small frown plastered onto his face — accompanied with a pout. His cheeks are wet with the remnants of his tears, snot sliding down to kiss his cupids bow.
Nodding in the direction of his discarded teddy bear, you loosen your hold enough for him to free himself, if he should so wish.
Cassian follows your line of sight, his brows furrowing deeper. For a moment it looks as though he might just turn his head and forget about the abandoned plushie — but then he carefully shuffles from your lap, moving across the floor on unsteady, bare feet.
He clutches the teddy with a white-knuckled grip, turning it over in his hands like he was assessing it before making his way back over to the bed. He crawls up beside you, his smaller frame fitting against yours like the missing piece of a puzzle, body sagging when you wrap an arm around his shoulder.
"Are you ready to talk about what made you sad?"
Your words are barely above a whisper, yet they echo like church bells over the two of you. Cassian stiffens noticeably under the weight of your arm, thumbs digging into the stuffing of the teddy's stomach. "I already talked about it," He whines, clearly upset that you would ask further questions.
Pursing your lips, you ponder his short response. Suppose he had a point. "Alright," You hum, hand sliding down to rest against the pointy tip of his elbow, "Then let's talk about something that makes you happy."
There's a long pause after that where Cassian sits silently beside you. He's got his bottom lip trapped between two rows of teeth. Casting a sidelong glance in your direction, he peers at you through dark, wet lashes, "Something that makes me happy?"
"Mhm," You nod, giving his arm a squeeze, "You miss your mom, don't you? I miss my mom too."
"You do?"
"Yeah. All the time."
Cassian turns to look at you fully this time, his eyes wide and filled with something akin to curiosity. You can only offer, what you attempt to be, a warm smile in return.
Moving from home to pursue your studies — and a possible career — meant having to part ways with the woman who raised you. Often times would you find yourself missing the home cooked meals only she knew how to make, the scent of her perfume when she pulled you in for a hug or her consistent nagging on keeping your room clean.
Love was in the little things — and you realized far too late that you had taken them for granted.
"When I miss my mom—" Wrapping your arms around him a second time that night, you pull Cassian back onto your lap, "I like to think about the things that make me happy."
Cassian does not say anything for a while, fingers picking at the seams of his plushie, appearing to be deep in thought. The tears have dried fully on his cheeks, leaving pale tracks in their wake. He brings a hand up to wipe the snot from his nose with the back of his sleeve — seemingly uncaring of the mess, if only this once.
His shoulders slump when his hand finally drops again. "I don't know what makes me happy," He confesses, his voice hoarse from the endless screaming and crying.
Those words strike harder than you let yourself show, if not for the way you instinctively go to hug him a fraction tighter. "There must be something," A soft murmur, "Something that makes you happy." You pause, "Would you like me to go first?"
He nods, head moving just enough for you to feel the brush of his cheek against your chest.
Straightening up, you peer out into the shadows, the hand on his back resuming its gentle strokes up and down. "My mom's voice makes me happy. When I was little she would sing to me before bed."
The memory is savored in your mind and if you closed your eyes you could still remember the quiet hum of the lullabies she sang. Thunder scared you terribly as a child, the loud roars that rattled frail glass windows and the flash of lightning that followed. On those nights she would make sure to pull you into her arms, letting the simple melody overpower the mean storm raging outside as she rocked you back and forth.
Cassian huffs, his lips pushing themselves into a pout as he fiddles with the teddy. He scrunches his stuffed nose with visible discomfort, living evidence of his previous distress. "Mom is bad at singing," He doesn't sound actually upset when he shrugs, "She tried sometimes but it sounded really bad…"
You smile, patting his back slowly. "There must be something else she's really good at," You prompt, watching as the corner of Cassian's lip twitches.
"Yeah," He exhales, sinking further into your embrace, "Mommy made the best cookies. She put a lot of sprinkles on," He giggles, "But we had to promise not to tell daddy. It was our secret she said." His gaze lingers on the teddy bear, a content sigh slipping past his lips as he recalls the fond memory.
Arching a brow, you peer down at him. "Cookies with sprinkles, huh? That does sound really delicious."
"Yeah! They are the best!"
He's practically beaming by this point, rearranging the plushie in his own lap before getting comfortable himself. For a short moment he's silent — when he speaks again his voice is lower, though still holding onto something content. "Mommy used to brush my hair every morning. Now daddy does it, and that's good too. Sometimes he uses his special hair stuff on it, it smells really nice."
There's a brief pause before he adds, "But Rayne says daddy can't make her braids as pretty as mommy could…" Though you couldn't make out his expression clearly through the dim moonlight, you would guess that he was frowning — his grip on the teddy had gone completely limp.
You can't stop the image from surfacing in your mind. That of Jungkook struggling his way through making a simple braid, pink hair tie wrapped around his inked wrist and a brush in hand. You clearly envision the concentrated look across his features, the much characteristic clench of his jaw as he tries to be as gentle as he can with his daughter.
"I think your dad is trying his best," You say, fingers moving to brush through Cassian's dark locks.
"I suppose," He mumbles, though looks far from convinced with his father's hair-braiding abilities, "He's still not good at it."
All you can muster is a faint chuckle as you hug him a little tighter. It was hard not to love Cassian, he was like the sun on rainy days — and you hoped that his rays would forever continue to shine. Letting your chin rest atop his head, your hand moves to caress his arm instead.
Whatever had happened between Jungkook and their mother, you did not know. And for as much as you longed to find all the answers — tonight you would be content with seeing Cassian smile at least once before he fell asleep.
You turn your face just enough to let his soft hair brush against your cheek, feeling his body grow heavy in your lap. "Tell me another happy memory you have with your mom," You murmur, blinking slowly as you settle in to listen to more of his stories.
Cassian ends up falling asleep in your embrace twenty minutes later. His words began to slur as he recalled the things he'd done with his mother — sleepy yawns interrupting his sentences even as he did his best to fight them off. Eventually his head slumped against your shoulder, his grip on the teddy bear going lax as sleep pulled him under.
You sat there in silence for a while, happy to listen to the soft sound of his even breaths — no longer strained by the sobs that had been wracking through his body. Now he's completely still, his once tear streaked face relaxed and his lips parted slightly.
Carefully you shift, moving slowly to not jostle him as you place Cassian down against his pillow. He goes easily, making a content sound when you pull the thick blanket over his tiny frame.
Your hand brushes his cheek, feeling warm skin under your palm. His head lolls into your touch, eyes moving beneath closed lids as his lashes flutter. He never wakes, clearly exhausted after nearly an hour of crying his heart out.
And though he slept peacefully now — you knew that the reason for his tears had not vanished. But for tonight, he was sleeping soundly, suppose that was more than you could ask for. Leaning down, you let your lips brush against his forehead in a wordless goodnight.
The bed creaks under your weight when you rise to your feet. Once you're sure he won't startle himself from sleep, you slip out of the room — shutting the door behind you gently.
Outside the hallway runs long and silent, except it's not the stillness of night that surrounds you, but something far heavier. You glance toward the room you knew belonged to Jungkook, the one he inhabited rather than the locked door down the hall.
Pursing your lips, you had just considered approaching when the light, streaming through the crack beneath the door to his study, caught your attention. Of course, you hum, legs already moving in its direction.
You raise your fist, hovering it a breath from the wood as you will yourself to just knock. You were probably the last person whose face he wished to see right now but you cannot bring yourself to leave — not until you've made sure he's alright, or, decent at least.
The back of your hand taps against the door, once, twice. Then you wait. For a long moment nothing but silence follows, thick and suffocating in its intensity. Seconds pass before a low grunt can be heard on the other side of the barrier separating you, "Come in."
Twisting the handle, you let the door slide open with an audible creak — foot hesitating over the threshold before finally daring to enter.
You had been inside Jungkook's study only a handful of times. Usually you would poke your head in to announce that dinner was ready whenever he worked from home — on a rare occasion you'd stop by to inquire about one of the children's needs. Though it had never been like this, never when the rest of the house slept and the storm of Cassian's tears had just blown over.
The room is basked in shadows, save for the yellow glow radiating from the lamp on his desk — the desk which Jungkook is currently sat behind.
Despite having arrived home hours ago he's still dressed in work attire. The, for once light blue rather than black, button up sits tight over his chest — cufflinks undone to free his wrists, the fabric bunched around his elbows. The tie hugging his neck had been loosened, his collar uncharacteristically wrinkled.
He does not lift his gaze to meet yours, not even as the door closes behind you. There's a glass in his hand, a murky, amber-like liquid swirling within its depths. Your attention darts toward the opened bottle of whiskey sitting on the table — his choice of reprieve.
You were no stranger to the bottles within the glass cabinet, they had caught your eye the first time you had dared step foot inside his study and it had made you wonder just how often he turned to them for comfort.
Stopping just shy of his desk, you watch as he brings the glass to his lips and takes a small sip — his expression indifferent even as the liquor undoubtedly burns his throat.
"He asleep?"
Jungkook's voice had always held a rough edge, each syllable slightly strained when he spoke. Tonight that is all the more evident. He sounds worn — exhausted beyond the means of insufficient rest.
You nod, letting your gaze linger on the glass he nurses between his inked fingers. "Properly knocked out," Humming, you let your hand trace the edge of the table, "Don't think he'll wake during the night."
On the other side of the desk, Jungkook heaves a quiet breath that somehow rings loud in your ears. "That's good," Is all he says before reaching for the bottle and refilling his glass despite not having finished what it already held.
There's a moment where you think he might actually bring up what weighed so heavily between the two of you — that he might address the cause of his son's distress. But of course, he did not, instead opting for another sip of his drink.
The sound of your footsteps echo within his study as you round the table separating you. Jungkook makes no comment when you pause to re-arrange the papers on his desk, creating enough space for you to perch yourself atop the mahogany wood.
Only when you've settled into your new spot does he cock a brow in your direction, dark eyes finding yours over the rim of the glass pressed to his lips. You shrug, feigning indifference as your legs begin a slow, back and forth sway — careful to keep your feet from touching either one of his spread thighs.
"Does he cry for her like that often?" You did not have to specify who you were talking about, her name — though still unknown to you — lingered around you like a dark, heavy cloud.
Jungkook's jaw clenches, the glass hitting the table with a sharp thud when he sets it down. Then he leans back in his chair, eyes set on something behind you as his hands caress the armrests. "He's five," Jungkook states, his tone never rising above its low drawl, "It'd be concerning if he didn't."
You purse your lips, glancing down toward your legs where they swing. Part of you wants to argue that the way he cried was concerning enough — not to mention the fact that Jungkook had clearly struggled to calm the young boy.
"How long has it been?" You ask, trying to hide the curiosity that attempts to claw its way from your throat.
His response is short, "Little over a year."
A year. A year was a long time for a five-year-old, longer than any adult could comprehend. A year was also long enough for him to settle into a new routine and — with the help of his father — find stability again. This was the first time you'd seen either of the children cry like this and it worried you.
Jungkook is already reaching for the glass again and this time he doesn't lower it after taking a swig. "It was a lot worse in the beginning. Kid wouldn't sleep until he passed out from exhaustion," He grunts between sips. The alcohol seemed to have loosened his tongue — but the natural tension to his shoulders had yet to give way.
"He's confused," He then adds, regarding the whiskey in his glass like an intriguing artifact, "That's not his fault."
You lean forward, hands sliding from your lap to curl around the edges of the desk you sit on. In the act of doing so, you manage to nudge a discarded pencil out of place. It rolls across the mahogany surface, approaching the edge where it would tip and fall with rapid speed. You don't have time to reach out — but Jungkook does.
His fingers close around the pencil, catching it just as it threatens to tumble onto the floor. Fist closing around it, Jungkook holds it for a second before placing it back in its spot, that being the gap between your thigh and hand. He straightens the pen and you half expect him to remark on your clumsiness. He doesn't — and he doesn't move his hand back to the armrest either.
The warmth of his skin feels like an imposter where his fingers rest just inches from your own and you're forced to drag your gaze back to the expression of indifference he wears — like this did not make his heart race the way it did yours.
"Does he know what happened?" You murmur, shifting your attention back to the conversation you'd been having just a moment ago. Jungkook doesn't respond — it was enough to let you know that the answer was no. "You should tell him, it might help him cope."
Whatever may have happened between him and the children's mother it was enough to impact them to to this day. No matter his feelings on the matter you felt the kids had a right to know the truth about their own mother — even if it meant exposing something ugly.
Jungkook's grip on the glass tightens, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "They are not ready for that," He says, bringing the glass to his lips as he takes another sip. There was an edge of finality to his words as though he was drawing a line for the discussion to end right here.
But of course, you did not listen.
"So you plan on waiting until they're ready," You lean forward, unable to stop the frown that paints your face. "They might never be, how will you know when—"
"You," Jungkook's voice is sharper than it had been all night — reminding you of the one he would use whenever he scolded the kids. He interrupts you without shame, dark eyes shifting back to yours as he holds your gaze with piercing intensity.
"I won't deny that you've been good with the children, nor will I deny the fact that they've both grown fond of you, incredibly so." His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, the corner of his lip twitching into something that resembled a scowl, "But you have no business sticking your nose where it does not belong."
He averts his focus back to the whiskey, savoring another long sip like it could help drown out the noise of your conversation.
You swallow, throat suddenly feeling dry and for a split second you considered grabbing the abandoned bottle sitting beside you on the desk. Head tilting toward the floor, you regard the rhythmic sway of your legs, exhaling a quiet sigh through your nose. The last thing you want is for him to see just how badly his words affect you.
The silence that settles over the study imposes on you from every angle, gnawing at your bones as the night outside darkens by the minute. You thought you could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his attention making shivers crawl up your spine — but you did not dare steal a glance to confirm it.
Though you only had the children's well-being in mind — it was hard not to prod at the matter of their mother. Even then, you knew that there was a line of professionalism to not be crossed, and you had pushed further than you should tonight, a lot further — so why can't find it in you to stop?
"And you?" The question slips from your tongue a mere whisper. Jungkook hears it, how could he not when only silence accompanies you?
"What about me?" He murmurs over the rim of his glass and when you finally lift your gaze, you find him already watching you intently. There was a defined crease between his dark brows, a few strand of his once styled hair falling across his forehead — accentuating the late hour and the exhaustion that this evening had left within him.
Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and you shift on the spot before turning just enough to face him properly.
"Does it make you feel anything?" You pause, legs stilling mid-swing where they dangle from the edge of his desk. Fingers curling a little tighter around the mahogany wood, you gauge his expression before adding, "Her, I mean."
Jungkook exhales through his nose, his gaze fixed on the bend of your knee — inches from where his hand rests against the table's surface. Dark eyes flicker up to meet yours, his response is guarded and short — pinky nearly brushing the expanse of your thigh, "No."
His answer makes you frown. Regardless of his own personal feelings toward the woman, she was still the mother of his children. Even a man like Jungkook himself would be unable to deny said fact.
"You must feel something," You don't even realize that you're leaning forward, still holding onto the desk like it could save you from falling into territory you most definitely shouldn't be exploring.
Jungkook remains where he is, arching one single brow as he studies you closely — too close. "Why do you bother?" He grunts, his eyes boring through your own like he was searching for answers to your overflowing curiosity. He won't find them, you know he won't — for you haven't either.
Suppose the closest answer you would ever be able to give were the weird feelings you seemed to harbor for the man of indifference, sitting before you. They were complicated in the sense that you could not tell where they began and ended — Jungkook intrigues you just as much as he confuses you.
And perhaps it is the lines of exhaustion written into his features, the loneliness that clings to him like a second skin, that makes you feel. Was it sympathy? Pity? You did not think it was. Whatever you felt for Jungkook ran far deeper and you weren't quite sure you were ready to venture into those depths yet.
"I care."
Your heart beats a little faster when the admission leaves you — like shackles coming undone from your wrists. You inhale, hands releasing their hold on the desk as you draw them back to your lap, fingers intertwining with one another.
The chair creaks beneath his weight when Jungkook sits up a little straighter. He's not looking at you as he, too, pulls his hand back from the table. He runs it through his hair, a flicker of something conflicted shadowing his expression before vanishing just as quickly.
"You shouldn't," He scoffs bitterly, raising the glass for another sip.
His curt response doesn't sit well with your racing heart. You did not think you had ever felt frustrated with Jungkook, not like this at least. He may be the father of the children you were assigned to care for — and though you would not argue with him on how to raise his own kids as you kept within the bounds of professionalism — that line still worked both ways. He was not allowed to tell you what you should feel.
The glass has just about brushed his bottom lip when you stop him. Fingers covering the drink he'd been distracting himself with ever since you walked into the room. Jungkook finally lifts his eyes, confusion swirling within their bottomless depths.
"You don't get to decide that."
You barely recognize your own voice, it seems he doesn't either because he lets you rob him of the glass he'd been cradling so dearly. Your hand trembles but you ignore it as you down what was left of his drink. The alcohol burns when it slides down your throat, stoking the fire already flaming inside your chest, warming you from within.
Setting the glass down with an audible clink, you reach up to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand — not taking your eyes off of him as you do.
Jungkook regards you quietly. If he was upset he makes good work of not letting it show. Instead he allows his gaze to drag across your body in a way he never had before, like he was seeing something new, perhaps fixating on a detail he'd previously missed. You're not oblivious to the lingering glance he gives your legs.
"No?" His voice is gruff, almost strained. It's only when he pulls his attention from your thighs and over to your eyes that your close proximity dawns over the horizon. You hadn't realized just how much you'd leaned forward to snatch the drink from him — or that you hadn't straightened back up again.
You can't help the way your tongue sneaks out to swipe across your bottom lip, your body responding before you can. The subtle action is enough to redirect Jungkook's dark gaze and you follow his eyes as they drift toward your mouth.
"No," You whisper, swallowing when you felt your heart beat its way up your throat.
He doesn't say anything after that — and though Jungkook had always been a quiet man, you were almost inclined to believe that he was at a loss for words. His own lips, previously pressed into a thin line, were now parted as well. He lets a quiet exhale escape through them, his breath meeting yours in something unspoken.
A million thoughts race through your head, half of them screaming for you to flee before you end up doing something you would live to regret. The other half? They plead for something far more sinful — but it is not you who give in.
Jungkook has leaned closer, so close that the next breath you take might just be his. Those dark and intense eyes, half hidden behind his lashes, are all you see. They flutter when he exhales and you find your own doing the same.
You watch the temptation that strikes through his gaze, perfectly able to pinpoint to exact moment he comes to a decision — and a second later Jungkook presses his lips against yours.
He's warm. Gentle in a way that contradicts the sharp and jagged edges you had grown so accustomed to. His nose brushes the side of your own, foreheads close enough to touch. For a while it's just that — a quiet stillness where you remain locked together. Then he moves.
It's but a soft press of his mouth against your own before you feel his tongue trace your bottom lip with reverence. He's careful, like one wrong move would shatter the fragility of the moment.
You meet him halfway, lips parting in compliance. Only, Jungkook doesn't take it any further. Before you know it he's pulled back.
The air between you is still hot with the remnants of what had just transpired. You hold your breath — heart thundering in your chest as you regard him with a dumbfounded expression.
"I'm sorry," He's quick to apologize, trying to bury what he'd done like he was covering for a crime. His jaw is clenched tight, his gaze turned to a point over your shoulder, where he could escape the reality sitting in front of him.
Disappointment. That's the first feeling you're able to name. The next one? Longing.
You chase after him, hand sliding around the nape of his neck as you pull your faces back together. Breaths meeting a second time, your noses close enough to nudge against one another. "I'm not," You murmur, not giving either of you time to register the meaning behind those words as you seal his silence with another kiss.
This one is not careful, it's not the same soft press of lips locked together. It's rough, too rough for the tender emotions you want to convey. But when your lips part once more — Jungkook doesn't pull back.
His tongue is hot when it slides inside your waiting mouth. One of his hands has found its way to your face, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. The other claims your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you toward the edge of the desk.
You can taste the whiskey on him, that sweet almost tangy flavor that makes your head spin — or perhaps it was the way his teeth graze your top lip, like he wanted to bite down on it.
The hand you kept on his neck crept its way to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands you had been itching to feel for so long now. Jungkook sighs into your mouth when you give them an experimental tug, the soft sound threatening your body into arching toward him.
His head tips back enough to deepen the kiss, hand abandoning its place on your jaw in order to wrap around your hip as he gives it a squeeze. Every part of your body he touches sets your skin ablaze even through the layer of clothes separating you.
The chair creaks when he rises to his feet — never once breaking apart from the heated kiss. Your legs fall open without having to be told, easily accommodating him between them as Jungkook's chest brushes yours.
This was perhaps breaking every part of the professionalism you had worked so hard to keep since setting foot inside the Jeon house. It should scare you — perhaps it did. Perhaps the fear is what made your arms loop around his neck and pull him even closer, exhaling a soft breath that borders on a moan.
If anything, Jungkook was crossing the line he'd drawn himself — the one he'd been hellbent on never erasing. That made him just as bad as you, did it not?
But the way he kisses you now, letting his tongue brush against yours like nothing else mattered, you could almost believe it to be true. His hand on your thigh shifts, brushing along its expanse in a way that makes you wonder if this had been on his mind for just as long as it had yours.
The moment seems to last forever in the shadows of his study — with his children asleep down the hall. It feels forbidden but not wrong, no, it feels right.
Jungkook breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, his forehead coming to rest against yours. For a while, nothing but the sound of your soft breaths fill the hot air around you. Slowly peeling your eyes open, you find his dark ones staring back at you. He's so close that you can count each lash, they fall gently across the high of his cheek when he blinks.
Then he's gone — large hands disappearing from your body as he takes a quick step back, robbing you of his warmth. "Jesus," Jungkook groans, dragging a palm down his face roughly. His hair, once laying neat across his head, was now a mess from your fingers running through the strands and pulling on them.
You sit breathless on the edge of the table, trying to calm your racing heart as the reality of what you had just done dawned on you.
"I shouldn't have—" He begins but cuts himself short with another ragged inhale. Shoving a mean hand through the same hair you had just been toying with, Jungkook takes another step back, nearly hitting the window behind him.
Shifting on the desk, you chew on your bottom lip, "Maybe—"
"No," He interrupts, shaking his head as his fingers come to rub at his jaw. Frustration rolls off of him in waves, impossible to ignore even if you tried. His office suddenly feels small, the shadows darker and the gravity of your situation present.
"You should go," He doesn't look at you when he utters the words and you could see the way his hand balled into a tight fist. You knew that there was no use in objecting. Staying here for even a second longer would only do more harm than good.
Scooting off the table, you come to stand on legs that feel like jelly. Adrenaline still pumps through your veins, your heart hot and heavy in your chest when you turn to leave. Jungkook doesn't attempt to speak, would he end up saying something he didn't mean? Or worse — something he did.
When reaching the door, you pause. Fingers curled around the handle, you throw a glance over your shoulder, a mistake probably. Jungkook still isn't looking at you, he hasn't moved from his spot by the window and it doesn't seem like he has any plans to.
You swallow, forcing yourself to say something — anything that could change how this night would end. "This doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want for it to."
If you don't want to.
Why does a part of you wish he did?
You linger in the doorway a moment too long, waiting, hoping for him to respond. Jungkook doesn't, and he doesn't bid you goodnight either.
The door to his study shuts behind you a second later and you immediately slump against it. Head tipping back, you allow yourself to exhale the breath you had been holding in. You imagine him doing the same on the other side.
not me reheating this blog after 2? 3? years 😭 i made this acc back when i was a freshman in college. got busy for awhile so i became ia. it still feels surreal but i graduated a few months ago... and now im reading fics again lmao i don't think I'll be able to read enough to make recs tho cause life is harder and little busier now i guess (i hate adulting) but im really enjoying reading rn.
izzy806
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turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
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