you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
Reader who is Rhaenyra's Daughter time travels with her dragon to a different era...
Traveling to another time had never been something you imagined, least of all a time, forward, into a future where dark-haired Targaryens are more common and dragons were the stuff of dusty songs.
So when one appeared in the skies above Ashford Meadow, living and furious and real, with a young woman astride its neck, the world below went very still.
You didn't understand it yourself. One moment you had been locked in battle above Honeyywine River, fire and smoke and your uncle Daeron's dragon screaming through salt-heavy winds. Then the sky twisted, and everything familiar was gone.
Now there was green country beneath you. Rolling hills. Pavilions stitched with colour. A tourney ground.
You circled once, then twice, your heart hammering against your ribs. The people below were no bigger than insects, but you could see them pointing, stumbling backward, shielding their eyes against the sun to stare up at you. Knights in gleaming plate stood frozen mid-stride. Horses reared and screamed in their paddocks.
You were afraid to land.
For a long while you simply hovered, your dragon's wings beating slow and thunderous, casting a shadow across the field like a storm cloud. Your gaze swept over the encampment below, banners snapping in the wind, hundreds of them, houses you recognized and houses you did not.
Then your breath caught.
Among the sea of colour, one sigil leapt out at you. The three-headed dragon. Red on black.
Your house.
The decision was made before you fully thought it through. You leaned forward, pressed your palm against the scaled neck beneath you, and whispered the command.
Your dragon descended in a slow, deliberate spiral, the downdraft flattening the grass in great rippling waves, scattering loose pennants and sending squires diving behind barrels.
The beast touched down at the edge of the tourney ground with a shuddering impact that you felt in your teeth.
Dust billowed outward. As your dragon folded its wings with a leathery crack and swung its horned head from side to side, surveying the gaping crowd with amber, slitted eyes.
You dismounted, your boots hit solid earth, and the silence that greeted you was deafening.
In the stands, the smallfolk had erupted, some screaming, some weeping, and some shoving past one another in a blind rush to flee. Others stood rooted, mouths agape, unable to reconcile what their eyes were showing them.
A girl in a fine gown, the Lady who is the tournament is held for, you guessed from the seat of honour she occupied, had risen to her feet with both hands pressed over her mouth, her face drained of all colour.
You straightened, and brushed the windswept hair from your face, before swallowing hard.
"Greetings... um..."
Your voice died in your throat.
Before you stood a cluster of knights, several of whom had begun removing their helms. And what you saw beneath those helms made the ground feel unsteady under your feet.
Silver hair. More of a Targaryen silver hair, on an older man with deep-set, weary eyes, and on a boy who looked no older than you, slim and almost pretty.
Beside them stood a broader man, dark-haired and strong-jawed, whose mismatched eyes, one dark, one blue, studied you with an unsettling calm.
Three-headed dragons adorned their armour.
"Are you a Targaryen!"
The shout came from behind you, high and eager and utterly fearless. You spun to find a small bald-headed boy practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes wide as saucers, apparently unbothered by the fact that a living dragon sat steaming not twenty feet away.
Despite the terror and the confusion and the creeping certainty that something had gone horribly, impossibly wrong, you almost smiled.
"Partially," you said. You clasped your hands in front of you to keep them from trembling. "Yes. My mother is the rightful Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen. And my father is..." A familiar tightness crept into your chest. You forced the words out, quieter now. "Laenor Velaryon."
The silence that followed was different from the first. Heavier. You braced yourself for the looks , the knowing glances, the curled lips, the barely concealed contempt. The same looks you had endured your entire life.
Baseborn. Strong. Not a true dragon.
"Are you aware of what you're saying?" The handsome young Targaryen, the silver-haired one near your age, stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "That's impossible. Rhaenyra Targaryen has been dead for over a hundred years."
The words hit you like cold water.
Your eyes widens.
Now that explains why everyone and everything is different.
"...A hundred years," you repeated, barely above a whisper.
"Why is it impossible?" you managed, though your voice had gone thin and strange. "Who are you people?"
The dark-haired man with the mismatched eyes stepped forward then. He moved with the easy authority of someone accustomed to command, but there was a gentleness in his bearing, something measured and patient in the way he regarded you, that loosened the knot in your chest by a fraction.
He reminded you, painfully and without warning, of your mother, his aura even matches hers in a way.
"I believe it would be better to have this conversation in private," he said. His voice was low, steady, careful as if he were approaching a wounded animal. "Don't you think so, my lady?"
You held his gaze for a moment. Then you nodded.
"Yes. Of course." You glanced back over your shoulder at your dragon, who had lowered its great head to the ground and was watching the scattered crowd with predatory disinterest.
"But I need someone to watch over my dragon while I'm gone. She doesn't take kindly to strangers, and I won't have her harmed or harming anyone."
Your eyes swept the assembled knights. Most of them looked as though they would rather face a charging destrier blindfolded than stand within a hundred yards of the beast.
Then your gaze landed on one man, and stopped.
He was enormous, as he stood a full head above every other knight on the field, perhaps more broad-shouldered and thick-armed, with a plain, honest face that was somehow all the more striking for its lack of refinement.
He wasn't beautiful the way the silver-haired prince was beautiful. He was something else entirely. Something solid and real, like a castle wall you could lean against and know it would hold.
Ser Duncan is every maiden's dream in your time.
Heat crept unbidden into your cheeks.
You lifted your chin and pointed directly at him.
"You, Ser. You'll look after my dragon."
Duncan stared at you.
Then he stared at the dragon.
Then back at you.
"My lady," He faltered, and you watched the exact moment his sense of duty collided with his sense of self-preservation. He swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing above the collar of his worn armour.
"I would be honoured, truly, but there is... a matter. A rather pressing matter."
"More pressing than a dragon?"
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, strained, exhausted, and edged with the particular despair of a man whose day had already gone badly before a mythical creature descended from the sky.
"My lady, I am to stand trial. A trial of seven." He gestured vaguely behind him, as though the entire catastrophe could be summed up with a wave of his hand.
"Prince Aerion has accused me of attacking his royal person, and the matter is to be settled by combat. Seven against seven. I have been trying to find men willing to fight for me, and-" He broke off, glancing at the dragon again.
"Well. It has not gone well."
You blinked in confusion.
"A trial of seven," you repeated slowly. "Over what?"
Ser Duncan's jaw tightened. Even in his obvious distress, there was something deeply admirable about the way he held himself, straight-backed, unyielding, like an oak that refused to bend even as the storm stripped it bare. You had to tilt your head back to look at him properly.
"He was hurting a girl," Duncan said, simply and without embellishment. "A puppeteer. I stopped him."
"You stopped a prince from hurting a girl and you're the one on trial?"
"That is the shape of it, my lady, yes."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you turned on your heel and marched directly toward the cluster of Targaryen knights with a sudden, sharp purpose that made several squires throw themselves out of your path.
"Which one of you is Aerion?"
The silver-haired prince, the one near your age, the one who had called Rhaenyra's death impossible with the casual ease of reciting a lesson, stepped forward.
Up close, he was even more striking than you had initially registered. Sharp-featured and elegant, with the kind of face that belonged on a coin or a statue.
He looked you over with open interest. Or more than interest. Appraisal. The kind of look that said he was deciding whether you were worthy of his attention and had, for the moment, concluded that you were.
"I am Prince Aerion Targaryen," he said, and the title rolled off his tongue like honey over a knife's edge. "Called Brightflame."
Brightflame. Of course he had a self-given epithet. You knew the type.
You'd grown up surrounded by men who named their swords and expected the world to kneel for the privilege of being cut by them.
But you needed something from this one, and you had not survived the politics of your mother's court without learning when to wield steel and when to wield something softer.
You clasped your hands in front of you. Softened your expression.
Let your eyes go wide, not falsely so, but with the particular earnestness that came naturally to you when you allowed it, the same look that had once convinced your mother to let you ride your dragon over Dragonstone unsupervised at the age of twelve.
"Prince Aerion," you said, and you pitched your voice low and warm, like you were sharing a secret with him. "I find myself in a very strange and frightening situation, as you can imagine. I am far from everything I know, surrounded by strangers, and I am in desperate need of counsel from my own blood."
You stepped closer, just close enough that he could see the way the afternoon light caught in your eyes.
"But I'm told there's a trial that must take place first, and that it would occupy the very people I need to speak with." You let a breath of helplessness creep into your tone. "Ser Duncan explained what happened. That you were..." You paused, as though searching for the most diplomatic phrasing. "...that there was an altercation with a girl?"
Aerion's expression flickered, not with guilt, certainly not, but with the faintest surprise that you had addressed it so directly, and so gently.
"The hedge knight laid hands on a prince of the blood," he said, though there was a fraction less venom in it than there ought to have been. His eyes had not left yours. "The law is clear."
"Oh, I'm sure it is," you agreed, nodding in false agreement.
"And I'm sure you are entirely within your rights, my prince. Only—" You bit your lip. Looked down, then back up through your lashes. "I would consider it a tremendous personal kindness if you might see your way to setting the matter aside? Just this once?"
Silence.
Aerion stared at you.
You held his gaze and did not blink. You let every ounce of sweetness you possess radiate outward like warmth from a hearth.
Tilting your head slightly to the left, because your mother had once told you that you looked particularly appealing when you did that, and you were not above using every weapon in your arsenal.
You always got what you wanted from anyone when you did that thing with your eyes and expression especially from your brother, Jacaerys.
"It would mean so much to me," you added, softly. "Truly."
Aerion's mouth opened. His brow creased. Something was happening behind his eyes a war, brief and vicious, between his cruelty and his vanity, and for one terrible moment you thought cruelty would win.
Then he straightened. Waved a hand with a carelessness so studied it could only be deliberate.
"The hedge knight's crimes are forgiven," he announced, in the tone of a man granting a pardon from the Iron Throne itself. "I declare the matter settled. He is innocent of all charges."
The silence that followed was not the stunned silence of a dragon's arrival. It was the bewildered, slack-jawed silence of two hundred people who had just watched the most notoriously vicious prince in the Seven Kingdoms fold like a wet napkin because a girl looked at him nicely.
Ser Duncan, behind you, made a sound like he'd been punched in the stomach.
Maekar, who did everything in his powers to have his son change his mind the night before, is now trying not to pop a vein that a girl just got his son wrapped around her finger.
But it was the small bald boy, Aegon, whose reaction you would remember for the rest of your life, however long or short or temporally displaced that life turned out to be.
He was now standing to Duncan's left. His mouth was open so wide you could have fit an apple in it. He looked from Aerion to you, then back to Aerion, then back to you, then at Aerion again.
"What," said Egg.
No one answered him.
"WHAT?"
Aerion ignored him with the practised ease of an older brother who had been ignoring his youngest sibling since birth.
"He threw my cat down a well!" Egg sputtered, pointing at Aerion with the desperate energy of a man trying to explain to a maester that yes, the wound really was that bad.
"He... you —" He turned to Ser Duncan, arms spread wide. "He broke Tanselle's fingers! He was going to hurt her! You saw it! Everyone saw it! And now he just — because she —" He gestured wildly at you. "Because she looked at him?!"
"Aegon," said the dark-haired prince, Baelor, in a tone of measured calm that suggested he, too, could not quite believe what had just happened but had decided to accept it before Aerion changed his mind. "Perhaps we should not question the outcome."
"But—"
"Aegon."
Egg's mouth snapped shut. But his eyes, those wide, outraged, magnificently indignant eyes, continued to scream.
You turned back to Aerion and gifted him with your most radiant smile. The kind of smile that could launch ships. Or, apparently, overturn judicial proceedings.
"Thank you, Prince Aerion," you said, and you meant it, mostly. You reached out and touched his arm, briefly, barely a brush of fingers against his vambrace. "That was truly noble of you. I won't forget this kindness."
Aerion's ears turned pink.
The most feared young prince in Westeros, the boy who tortured people for sport and set cats on fire for entertainment, was blushing to the tips of his ears like a squire who had just received his first favour from a lady at a tourney.
"It was nothing," he said, in a voice that cracked on the second word, before clearing his throat and adding, with an admirable if unconvincing attempt at his usual drawl, "I am generous by nature."
Egg looked at him in disbelief.
"Thank you, my lady." Duncan says, nodding his head in gratitude.
Now, you are the one blushing.
You were about to suggest that the promised private conversation could now take place, your mind was already spinning with questions, each more terrifying than the last , when you noticed something on the ground behind the cluster of Targaryen men.
Specifically, you noticed a person on the ground.
He was lying flat on his back in the dirt, arms at his sides, eyes closed, with the serene and deliberate stillness of a man who had made a conscious decision to be elsewhere in spirit even if his body had not yet received the message.
His gold hair fanned out around his head like a halo. His mouth was set in a firm, purposeful line. He was breathing, but only barely, as though even that concession to the living world was being made under protest.
He looked, for all intents and purposes, like a very clean, very well-dressed corpse.
You stared.
"Is he..." You pointed. "Is that man alright?"
Maekar glanced down. His unamused expression did not change, which told you everything you needed to know about how frequently this occurred.
"He's pretending to be dead so he doesn't fight." Aegon explains.
"Understandable."
You then turn to Baelor, before walking over to him and linking your arm with his.
"Now, my kind prince, can we kindly have our private conversation?"
“ in which you teach mature!michael how to make your famous cookies. ”
ᝰ word count: 2.2k
.ᐟ warnings & disclaimers: sweet fluff, you are a pastry chef, you and michael are invited to a japanese cooking show, the show has a live audience, starstruck reader, mutual crushing, mild flirting, he wears his reading glasses, he is showered in praise and validation
✐ a/n: and when it comes to distributing cookies…i teared up writing this im on my period.
it was a sunny saturday in tokyo, and the saturated, wonky studio set of mogu! mogu! kitchen gogo! was decorated and structured in a way that you never experienced in your professional career. it was a cuter and more whimsical version of a family pizzeria that meets the global village coffeehouse aesthetic.
the concept of this silly japanese variety show was simple: invite a foreign guest chef to cook or bake alongside a rotating cast of comedians and major stars, interspersed with loud sound effects, colorful popping text overlays, and a live studio audience that was encouraged to react to every single movement. as a young chef only four years into your career, you were nervous when the network flew you out to tokyo to showcase your famous chocolate chip lava cookies.
but you had no idea who the celebrity guest was until five minutes before the cameras started rolling.
"introducing... the biggest star in the entire universe! michael jackson!" the energetic host in his monochromatic suit, kenji, screamed into his microphone, leaping into the air as the studio lights shifted into a dramatic, flashing purple sequence.
your heart fell to your toes. the camera panned to your candid reaction.
the wall behind the kitchen island slid open, and michael walked out onto the stage. the live audience erupted into squeals of cheers, screams, and a wave of collective "ooo's" and "ahh’s." a glittery and dreamy sound effect played as he continued sauntering out. kenji bowed at an angle in awe. his hair was jet black and layered into a bob that beautifully framed his sharp face. he wore a fitted all-black outfit—a tailored silk button-down shirt tucked into sharp trousers with a small square outline in his pocket. the outline was a stick-figure picture paris drew of michael making ‘daddy toast’ as a good luck charm.
his look was completed by black sunglasses that hid his eyes. he looked cool and mysterious with his pale skin contrasting against the shades of black, but the coolness morphed into affection as he quietly giggled at the endearing way the host pronounced his name. he loved hearing how his name was pronounced internationally. despite his global stature, the volume and flushed faces of the love in the room made him shrink inward. michael felt sixteen again even though he’ll be forty seven next month. he offered a tiny wave, an angelic smile plastering upon his face as he walked toward the kitchen set.
"michael-san! the audience is completely crazy for you!" kenji shouted, gesturing wildly to the eclectic crowd of fans who were holding up their flip phones—trying to snap a photo of his entrance.
"they are all calling you kawaii! do you know what this means?"
michael paused, glancing at you who was standing behind the counter, his lips parted slightly at your stunning visuals as he cleared his throat. his eyes scanned the way your white chef’s uniform fit you like a glove, especially the apron that accentuated your hip to waist ratio. he lowered his sunglasses just a fraction with his index finger, peering over the frames with his big brown eyes.
"oh, i’m afraid not... what does it mean?" he asked shyly, his hands behind his back as the host shamelessly gawked at him in awe.
this was the first time he spoke on set which caused a secondary wave of swooning from the crowd.
"it means you are totally cute! adorable!" kenji beamed.
michael giggled, covering his mouth with a large hand, his shoulders shaking as the two walked over to the counter where you were standing. your pulse quickened.
"oh, boy... thank you. that's so sweet. thank you so much." he nodded his head doing the praying pose with his hands.
you were standing right beside him, completely starstruck. your hands held the metal mixing bowl tightly. you were supposed to teach your beloved idol how to bake a recipe you perfected in your apartment kitchen. how the hell were you gonna do that when he was looking too fine?
as michael finally settled his sunglasses completely into his shirt pocket earning a reaction from the audience, his gaze drifted over to you. his eyes widened slightly. during the flight over, his management informed him he would be baking with a pastry chef, and he naturally assumed he would be standing next to an older, matronly woman or a pretentious french guy. he certainly didn't expect a pretty young thing.
in his head, a phrase he loved to use with his close friends echoed: now that’s some good fish.
"hi," he murmured softly, turning his full attention to you, completely ignoring the noise.
"i'm michael." as if you didn’t know.
"i'm y/n," you stammered, offering a nervous smile. he mumbled to himself nodding as he repeated your name. it was pretty like you.
"it's... it's an absolute honor to meet you, michael."
"the honor is all mine, y/n," he said, his twinkly eyes incredibly soft as he looked at your gorgeous face, bringing a hand up to his chest in adoration. a staff member brought over a matching chef’s uniform for michael and helped him into it.
"i’ve heard great things. i can't wait to learn." he replied looking into your eyes as the staff member adjusts the chef hat onto his head.
as the host explained the recipe and the rules, a fan suddenly blurted out:
“michael, i love you!” with tears in his eyes causing michael to respond with a classic i love you more! followed by an air kiss causing the fan to wail into his hands and for everyone else to scream. the security immediately went over to escort the hysterical fan out. you used the commotion as an opportunity to mentally gather yourself while michael was amused by the rambunctious crowd.
pushing your nerves aside, you forced your professional chef attitude to take over. you lined up the earth toned bowls of dark brown sugar, cubes of softened butter, and the massive disks of premium dark chocolate.
"alright, first we need to cream the butter and the sugar together," you explained, reaching for the large wooden spoon as playful background music began playing. the set lit up a warm orange as the host eagerly explained what you were doing to the camera.
michael suddenly turned to you and saluted you causing you let out a stifled giggle at his silliness.
“i’m ready, chef!” he giggles breathlessly.
michael pulled out his silver reading glasses to help him concentrate and see better as he slid them on. the audience went ooooh, causing him to sheepishly look down and smile. you gulped at how sexy he looked.
“ah, these make me look old.” he muttered to you, shaking his head in embarrassment as he pushed the frames up on his nose.
bullshit. you thought to yourself. it was now your turn to shake your head as you swiped the tip of your tongue across your bottom lip at the older man before redirecting your focus.
as you went to grab the handle, michael’s hand moved at the exact same time. your fingers accidentally brushed against his, his skin feeling remarkably smooth against yours. you suddenly felt weak in the knees. a visual effect of red lines of blush was edited over both of you and michael’s cheeks. you both flinched, pulling your hands back instantly, which earned a loud, collective "eeeeh?!" from the delighted live audience.
michael let out a soft laugh, his dimples half-mooning deeply into his cheeks as he caught your eye.
"oh, ‘m sorry. you go first, chef. i don't want to get in the way of the master." he chuckled and flicked a strand of hair back, waving his hand.
"no, it's okay," you blushed, your chest heaving as you handed him the spoon. "you can stir it. you have to use a lot of muscle to make it smooth."
michael gripped the spoon making his veins prominent. he began to stir the thick butter with an exaggerated, dramatic intensity, huffing and puffing for the cameras.
"wow, y/n, this is heavy work," he panted playfully, leaning in just a bit closer to your side. "are you tryna make me workout on national television?"
the audience burst into happy giggles at his smooth flirting. you shook your head, laughing genuinely as you stepped closer to guide him.
"no, michael, you're doing great. here- let me help you."
without thinking, you placed your palm directly over his hand on the spoon to show him the proper motion. the camera zoomed in. michael didn't pull away; instead, he slowed his movements down, his large hand shifting beneath yours so his thumb could lightly stroke the back of your fingers. he looked down at you with his framed eyes, his lips parting into a sweet smile.
"everything is better when we work together, right?" he asks with a smirk.
the crowd beamed with joy as several people cheered at the flirty sight.
kenji, the host, practically bounced on his heels, pointing a spare wooden spatula at the two of you.
"wow! look at them! y/n-san and michael-san look like a beautiful couple baking in their own home! audience, do you agree?!"
the studio exploded into a roar of confirmation, people cheering and nodding their heads quickly. michael completely unraveled at the praise, hid his rosy cheeks against your shoulder for a brief second with his soft strands brushing against your neck before he stood back up, laughing his beautiful laugh. your spine tingled at how close he was to the sensitive part of your neck. and man, did he smell amazing.
throughout the entire segment, michael received wave after wave of positive affirmations and praise. after several difficult years of intense public scrutiny back home, the pure and genuine love from the japanese audience, you, and the host was the much needed ointment for michael’s worn soul. every time he successfully rolled a ball of cookie dough or correctly tucked the chocolate ganache into the center, the crowd reacted as if he had just performed billie jean.
“go michael-san go!” kenji cheered.
you kept offering him warm compliments, reassuring him that his technique was perfect. he was ecstatic; his posture completely relaxed as he soaked in the joy of the room.
when the final batch was pulled from the studio oven, the chocolate core was perfectly molten, oozing out like sweet lava when broken apart. michael took a bite of his shared creation with his eyes turning massive in pure delight.
“oh, my god. this is incredible. y/n, you are a genius, truly!”
as the cameras began to wrap up the show, michael carefully gathered a few of the extra cookies, placing them neatly into a small souvenir box.
"i have to take these home to my children," he said softly to the host, his eyes shining with fatherly love as he pushed his frames up on his nose bridge.
"prince, paris, and blanket are going to absolutely love these. y’know... i always say that cookies show a child’s real personality. if you make them with love and sweetness, that's exactly what you get back."
cue to a flashback of prince previously throwing a tantrum because he couldn’t get a cookie with a tired michael covered in stains staring down at him.
as he looked down, somehow a stain was on his uniform’s sleeve. he swears this phenomenon happens whenever his children are near or when he thinks about them.
he turned back to you offering you a hug as the credits began to scroll across the monitors. you leaned in immediately as he warmly and fully embraced you to his chest. the audience swooned again. you caught notes of a spiced vanilla, bergamot, and oranges.
“these cookies are the sweetest thing i've ever tasted. you’re really beautiful and talented." he whispered into the crown of your hair as he gently rubbed your back.
your shoulders scrunched slightly from how tickly his voice sounded, and at how good his fingertips felt as he cradled the back of your head. you felt like you went to heaven by now.
as you two pulled back, the show’s mascot, a cute, yellow jazz-themed wolf named woofi, walked out with two massive, maximalist bouquets as the audience and host clapped for him. michael’s bouquet was adorned with peter pan, spiderman, and charlie chaplin paraphernalia. woofi wore a sparkly glove specifically for today as michael laughed gleefully once he noticed, pointing at the glove. he also smiled brightly at the fact that the staff knew about his personal interests. he felt like he could cry.
he was touched at the thoughtful gesture as you both accepted the bouquets graciously. woofi jumped up and down, flapping his hands, which earned another genuine laugh from michael. then the giant mascot gave him a bear hug. as he watched woofi attempt the moonwalk, you watched michael admirably; his scent still lingered on your uniform.
there was no way he was leaving without your number or vice versa. you will gladly be the mama that stepped up for this fine, single tuscan father of three.
★ Rudo had never known a mother's affection—there had never been a feminine presence in his life. He was raised solely by his adoptive father, and after losing him, he was cast out into the surface world. You, Enjin's girlfriend and a Giver, were on patrol with him when you spotted the boy amidst the rubble. You never expected your feelings for him to grow so strong once you started supervising him.
"Can we keep him?"
"He'll have to join the Cleaners soon. The kid's got talent." Enjin replied, leaning his arms on the balcony railing before bringing the cigarette to his lips.
"No... not like that."
"I'm not following you, woman." he said, raising an eyebrow. "You wanna adopt him, is that it?"
You didn't answer, but somehow, Enjin already knew. He just sighed. "My God."
★ Rudo was mesmerized the first time you ruffled his hair. His eyes widened, and he stood completely still for a moment, his stern expression slowly softening. Rudo closed his eyes and hugged you cautiously, still half-expecting rejection. When you didn't pull away, he stayed there, burying his face in your chest.
"Hey, love, have you seen—" Enjin's voice echoed through the room, but you quickly cut him off, raising a finger to your lips in a silent request. The blond stopped, a small smile forming as he saw Rudo nestled in your arms. "I'll come back later." he whispered before leaving the room.
★ The first time he called you "mom" was an accident. You were tucking him into bed, and he was already half-asleep. The word just slipped out. A heavy silence filled the room, followed by Rudo's deep embarrassment. But you just smiled, stroked his cheek, and said, "It's okay. You can call me that if you want."
He never said it again, and his cheeks still burned with shame whenever he remembered it.
★ Rudo became your "shadow." He didn't just watch you—he internalized a fierce instinct to protect you. On missions, he was always one step ahead, scanning the surroundings even though, as your apprentice, he should've stayed behind. If anyone dared raise their voice at you, Rudo would appear instantly at your side, hurling insults like a rabid dog. He didn't care what others thought of him; all that mattered was defending you.
"Say that about her again and I'll smash every one of your teeth, you bastard!" You held the boy back before he could lunge at the person, watching his arms and short feathers flail wildly. "Let me kill him!"
"Calm down, Rudo. It's alright." You then kissed the top of his head, and he stopped immediately. Rudo fell silent, drawing surprised glances from the others.
★ Rudo was still haunted by nightmares. Some nights, he'd appear silently at your bedroom door, wrapped in a teddy bear blanket, unable to sleep. You never said a word, just made space for him to lie down beside you. Enjin would grumble, cracking his eyes open as Rudo settled between the two of you. He'd raise a sleepy eyebrow, blinking slowly. You'd pull Rudo close, holding him snugly against your chest. Enjin said nothing and went back to sleep, too tired to fight his girlfriend for attention against that brat.
★ Rudo was used to having nothing, so when you gave him simple things—a warm meal, a clean shirt, or something old for him to restore—he'd freeze, unsure how to react. Little by little, you taught him that it was okay to accept kindness. He began treasuring those gifts with almost religious care, like priceless relics.
★ Rudo grew deeply worried whenever you got hurt. If you were attacked in front of him, he'd likely lose his mind and act completely irrationally. Later, in the infirmary, he'd sit in the chair beside your bed, his scarlet eyes filled with anguish and concern. He'd touch your hand, his face full of sorrow.
"Get better soon..." he'd murmur, small tears beginning to burn in the corners of his eyes.
★ Rudo misses you whenever you don't go on missions together. When he returns, he makes sure to tell you everything in detail, every little thing he experienced. He's still learning how to express himself, and for some reason, he finds it easier with you. Maybe it's your patience, or the fact that you never judge him, unlike some of the others. With you, he feels truly safe.
★ Rudo always smiles when you praise him. He gets all flustered, his cheeks tinted with a soft blush. One of his biggest goals was to make friends, and having you as his first friend felt like a huge achievement.
"Will we stay together forever?" he asked, his eyes shining with hope.
"Yes, forever," you replied, laughing softly as you tapped his hands.
Since he fell from the sky, he had never felt so whole. You made him feel welcomed, cherished. And deep in his heart, Rudo hoped to repay your kindness one day.
Confessions? Concussions
Ancestry results
Fortress of hornytude
White noise but make it gotham
Front paige and drumrolls
The bald conspiracy
My current boyfriend
Superclark
New bikini
Would you still love me if I was a worm
Boobs & Blinding part 1 royalties part 2
Clark Kent Is Dating an Influencer (And Other Lies Lois Refuses to Believe)
Hard Launch soft boyfriend
Dimples? Dimple
What if
I feel like you could have been nicer to me today
Kiss interruptions
Stranger danger
The Emma accident
National Kiss Your Boyfriend day
The Replacement
The beard of betrayal
Valarr targaryen
Olenna Tyrell's Handbook for Avoiding Disastrous Husbands
A Tale Of Forbidden Desires
Were you silent or were you SILENCED
The Perils of Betrothal to a Man So Pretty He Must Be Gay
Love and death
How Not to Escape a Prince
The heir within
The crown's fool
The dragon's secret The Dragon's secret part two
Mutual Hatred and Other Courtly Traditions
A love written in secret
Married at first sight modern au drabble part two
The Tetanus Shot That Started It All, crack
SERIES:
I THINK I MISS MY WIFE AU:
The first meeting (ITIMMW AU)
I think i miss my wife
I think i miss my wife part 2
Cut Short by Cruel Gods and a Runny Nose
I miss my wife universe: the reader gets hurt edition
"Your HoneyPot Is Bare"
Valarr Targaryen Will Not Tolerate Head-Shaming
No Aelias, your mother is NOT trapped inside that locket
BASTARDS, DRAGONS AND ROYALS
Bastards, Dragons and Royals 1
Batards, Dragons and Royals; The Prince and the Dragon Girl 2
Bastards, Dragons and Royals: Intermediate, Part 2.5
Bastards, Dragons And Royals: The Cave 3
Bastards, Dragons And Royals: The Island 4
Bastards, Dragons and Royals: Home 5
Fan art:
Moonfyre 2n art
Y/N 2
Various characters: valarr, aerion, daeron, maekar, baelor, dunk, lyonel, teleporting in the real world. (DISCONTINUED, i'm sorry i don't enjoy writing these😭)
Them reacting to WAP
Them reacting to godzilla after you told them it was a real story
Them reacting to roller coasters/theme parks
Aerion Targaryen
I think i miss my wife, aerion's version part 2
'Aww So Cute!' 'Get The Fuck Away From Me'
The Belt
HOTD!Reader in akotsk:
HOTD!Reader is a DILF fucker
Aerion and silverwing
Brownhairphobic reader
In the works:
Bastards, dragons and royals part six
Forbidden desires 2
Maekarling reader is kidnapped and raised as a blackfyre
Fourth valyrian dragonriding family
Valarr's neglected wife isekai
time travel au daughter of jaehaerys and alysanne ends up in akotsk
baelor/maekar/daeron i think i miss my wife au
aerion 'itimmw' first meeting
bdr Bastard!Reader alternate ending where she runs away forever but valarr gives up everything for her and follows her
'ITIMMW' AU baelor catching valarr and yn in the library
ITIMMW!Valarr waking up in the body of BDR!Valarr
baelor survives the trial of the seven bc valarr's wife is fucking valarr while he's wearing his armor so he's forced to use an armor that actually fits
valarr x dreamer/dreamwalker reader
Jacaerys i think i miss my wife version
Jacaerys x reader, reader coming back after being kidnapped from the greens
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Undercover!Soldier!Reader
Genre: disguise, SLOW burn, eventual smut, very slow
Description: You took your father's place in the army, bound your chest, cut your hair, and became Davos Stokeworth. You survived the latrines, the drills, and Ser Mace's cock. You even survived catching Prince Valarr's attention with your archery, but, when an arrow meant for Blackfyre's scouts hits you instead, your secret gets cut away with your tunic—and the Crown Prince discovers his best new archer is a woman who committed treason to save her father's life.
Notes: this chapter is very much a set-up, mulan-meets-kotsk, identity porn, forbidden attraction, he knows you're a girl now and he's fucked, you're fucked, everyone's fucked lmao, war is hell but the sexual tension is much worse i fear, the gender fuckery of it all, im warning you now victorian-level hand touching except it's after he finds out you have tits, cross-posted on ao3, updates will be on here as well tho , i wrote this bit on the plane (no shame)
Word Count: 9.5k (short im sorry), AO3 LINK
You were going to die.
Not in battle. Not with honor. No, you were going to die because you couldn’t figure out how to piss standing up without someone noticing you were doing it incorrectly.
The latrines were a communal sack of shit—just a ditch with a plank over it, no privacy with men lined up shoulder to shoulder like cattle in a field. You'd been holding your piss in for hours, long past the point of pain, but eventually instinct would win. You'd have to figure this out or your bladder would burst.
Think. There has to be a way, you dumb idiot.
“You sick, boy?”
You jumped. One of your tent mates—Ser Mace, a loud gloat with a broken nose and crooked teeth—was watching you with sparked amusement.
“No,” you retorted.
"Then why are you hovering round’ the toilet like you've never seen one before?" He grinned. "Unless you're shy? That it? Shy little Davos doesn't want the other boys to see his tiny cock?"
Heat flooded across your cheeks. Damn him.
“Fuck off, Mace.” Petyr—another tentmate, the one with the thick northern burr—spoke from somewhere to your left.
"Ain't nothing wrong with embarrassing the young ones," Mace said, grinning wider. Then, before you could turn away, the fat bastard shoved his breeches down and revealed the thickest—no, the first cock you'd ever seen.
Oh, Seven Hells.
Your stomach lurched and before you knew it, you were heaving, bent double at eye-level with Ser Mace's obscenely large, hairy, pale cock, vomiting the last of tonight's supper onto the ground.
"Seven hells, the boy's never seen a cock before! What, did your mother raise you in a sept?"
You spat, trying to clear the taste from your mouth, and didn't answer.
"Come on." Petyr's hand gripped your shoulder, hauling you upright before Mace had the chance to say anything else. "Let's get you away from this shit before you embarrass yourself further."
You didn't protest, and allowed Petyr to steer you away from the latrines, away from Mace's wheezing laughter and the stink of piss and vomit. Your boots dragged in the mud, and the taste of bile still coated your tongue.
"Boy's got a weak stomach," Petyr called back over his shoulder, loud enough for the others to hear. "Probably ate something that didn't agree with him. You know how it is."
A few men muttered in agreement, some laughed. But Petyr kept walking, kept his grip firm on your shoulder, until you were well away from the crowd. He stopped near the horse lines, far enough from the tents that no one would overhear. Then he let go and turned to face you. The dim light cut shadows across his face—you couldn't tell if he looked concerned or just tired.
"You all right?"
"Fine," you managed, your throat burned as you spoke. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to be sick again."
"I'm not,” You stopped and took a breath. "Thank you. For getting me out of there."
Petyr studied you for a long moment. He was older than you by at least a decade, with a weathered face and pale eyes that looked like they'd far more battle than most. Northern, definitely—you could hear it in his accent, the flat vowels and rolling r's.
"First time away from home?" he asked finally.
"Yes."
"Thought so." He crossed his arms. "Let me give you some advice, boy. Men like Mace, they can smell fear. Uncertainty. And they'll go after it like hounds on a blood trail. You want to survive this, you need to grow a thicker skin."
You swallowed hard and nodded.
"And for the love of the Seven," Petyr added, his tone softening slightly, "stay away from the latrines when Mace is around. Man's got no sense of decency."
Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Aye.”
"Good." Petyr clapped you once on the shoulder—lighter this time, almost friendly. "Now get yourself cleaned up. We've got drills at dawn, and if you show up looking like you've been dragged through the mud, Ser Alyn will have your head."
He started to walk away, then paused and glanced back.
"And Davos? Next time you need to piss, go at night. Find a tree that’s less crowded."
Then he was gone, leaving you standing alone in the dark.
For a moment, you just stood there, caught between shame and something close to gratitude. Petyr's kindness was strange and certainly unearned. You didn't deserve it—not when everything about you was a lie.
Your feet dragged through the mud as you made your way toward the treeline, away from the glow of cookfires and the noise of the camp. You found a sturdy oak set back from the others, glanced left, then right, and only when you were certain no one was watching did you shove your breeches down and squat.
Finally. The relief was immediate, almost painful.
You rested your forehead against the rough bark and let yourself breathe. Out here, alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of your own piss hitting the ground, the reality of what you'd done settled over you like a weight.
This was a mistake. A grave, monumental mistake.
You'd joined the army in your father's place, wearing his name, pretending to be a son who didn't exist. And for what? Your father had been a strong man once—a knight who'd fought at the Redgrass Field, who'd earned his scars defending the Crown. Now he was weak. Brittle. But at least he was honest.
You were neither strong nor honest. Just desperate and stupid enough to think you could pull this off. Oh Seven Hells, you prayed your parents would forgive you. For stealing your fathers armor, for lying, and above all, for saving him from what would be a certain death.
Dawn arrived too soon, dragging you from fitful sleep with all the gentleness of a boot to the ribs.
Actually, it was a boot to the ribs.
"Up, you lazy cunts!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the pre-dawn gloom like a blade. "Prince Valarr arrives within the hour, and if any of you look like the sorry sacks of shit you are, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a fortnight!"
You scrambled upright instantly, heart hammering against your ribs.
"Move!" Ser Alyn kicked at another prone form—Mace, who cursed and rolled over with a grunt. "Full kit, weapons sharp, armor polished. I want you lot looking like proper soldiers, not hedge knights that crawled out of a ditch."
The tent erupted into instantaneous madness. Men stumbling over each other in the dark, fumbling for boots and belts, cursing as someone stepped on someone else's hand. You pulled on your father's mail shirt—still too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves—and tried to ignore the way your hands shook.
A prince. Gods be good, a prince.
"Davos, you look green," Petyr muttered as he shouldered past you, already half-dressed. "Don't tell me you're going to puke again."
"I'm fine."
"You said that last night too."
You had no answer for Petyr. Your fingers fumbled with the buckles of your sword belt, and you had to start over twice before you got it right. Around you, the other men were doing the same—strapping on armor, checking blades, some of them grumbling about the early hour but most of them looked eager.
And why wouldn’t they be? This was a chance to impress a prince. The prince, to catch the eye of Valarr Targaryen himself, heir to the bloody throne was worth more than winning every fucking upcoming battle.
You, however, just wanted to survive the day without anyone noticing you were a girl.
The drill yard was a mud-churned mess by the time you assembled, boots squelching in the muck as Ser Alyn paced before the ragged line of soldiers. Fifty men, give or take. Some were knights, others common-born soldiers like you were pretending to be. All of them looked rough and tired, though a few had clearly made an effort—armor buffed to a dull shine, beards trimmed, tabards only mostly stained.
"Listen up!" Ser Alyn ordered. "Prince Valarr is inspecting the camp today. That means you stand straight, you keep your mouths shut unless spoken to, and you do not—I repeat, do not—embarrass me or yourselves. Understood?"
"Yes, ser!" The response was uneven, half-hearted.
Ser Alyn's face darkened. "I said, understood, you fucking lump of idiots?”
"YES, SER!"
Better. You shouted along with the rest of them, throat still raw from last night.
"Good. Now we're going to run drills. Formation work, nothing fancy. When the prince arrives, you'll be in the middle of a proper bloody exercise, not standing around with your thumbs up your arses. Got it?"
"Yes, ser!"
And so, the circus began.
Shield wall drills. Over and over, forming up in lines, shields overlapping, holding the formation as Ser Alyn walked the line and kicked at anyone whose stance was too wide or too narrow. Your shield was too heavy, the rim digging into your forearm, and your shoulder already ached from the weight of the mail. But you held on, you had to.
"Tighter!" Ser Alyn roared. "If a man can shove a dagger through that gap, Davos, you're a dead man! Closer!"
You adjusted, pressing your shield against Petyr's on your left. The man on your right—some grizzled old bastard whose name you didn't know—shoved back, and you nearly stumbled.
"Steady, boy," the old man muttered.
You gritted your teeth and held. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down your spine, soaking into the padded gambeson beneath the mail. Your arms burned. Your legs trembled. But you didn't break, you refused, especially not with a prince coming.
And then—
"COMPANY, HALT!"
The entire line went still, shields snapping up, breaths ragged.
Hoofbeats. From the edge of the yard, riders appeared. Three of them. No—four. The first was a Kingsguard knight, white cloak billowing behind him, armor brilliant even in the morning haze. Behind him came a pair of squires, both young and finely dressed.
Then, Prince Valarr.
You'd expected what exactly? A golden god? A dragon in human flesh?
What you saw instead was a man. Handsome, yes—dark-haired with that telltale streak of silver running through it, bright as a banner. He sat his horse, his armor black enameled steel chased with red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his breastplate. Younger than you'd imagined. No more than five and twenty, if even that.
He dismounted and handed his reins to one of the squires, and started toward the formation. You kept your eyes forward, focusing on the back of the man's head in front of you, on the mud, on anything except the prince walking closer. Around you, the other soldiers stood straighter, chests puffed out like roosters.
Valarr walked the line slowly, hands clasped behind his back. You could hear the soft clink of his armor, the squelch of his boots in the mud. He stopped here and there to exchange words with the men—asked their names, where they hailed from, how long they'd been in service. "You're all here because the realm needs you," Valarr said, raising his voice so the whole line could hear.
"Some of you are knights. Some are common-born. That doesn't matter. What matters is whether you can hold a line when steel is singing and men are dying around you. Whether you'll stand for your brothers, for the king, for the realm." He paused, letting the words settle. "Do that, and you'll have my respect. Fail..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the restless stamp of a horse's hoof and the distant clang of a smithy.
"Carry on, Ser Alyn," Valarr said, turning back toward his mount.
"Yes, Your Grace!" Ser Alyn's voice cracked like a whip. "You heard the prince! Back to it! Shield wall, reform!"
The line broke apart and began reassembling, and you moved with it, grateful for something to do with your hands. Your heart was still hammering, your palms slick with sweat inside your gloves. You'd been so certain he would see through you. That those pale blue eyes would land on you and know, somehow, that you didn't belong here. That you were a lie, but he hadn't even looked your way.
"Not so bad, eh?" Petyr muttered as he slotted into place beside you, shield raised. "Thought you were going to piss yourself when he started talking."
"Fuck off," you said, but there was no heat in it.
Petyr snorted. "There's the spirit. Now shut up and hold your shield higher. Ser Alyn's watching."
Supper was a grim affair.
Stew again—watery and flavorless, with chunks of something that might have been turnip or might have been boot leather. You ate it anyway, scooping it up with stale bread and trying not to think about the meals you'd had at home. Around you, the men were louder than usual, their voices carrying over the crackle of the cookfire.
"Three days," Garrett was saying, grinning wide enough to show the gap where he'd lost a tooth. "Heard it from one of the quartermasters. Supply train's coming in three days, and there's a whole wagon of whores with it."
"About fucking time," Mace said, shoving a hunk of bread into his mouth. "Been here two weeks and I haven't had a woman since we left King's Landing. I'm about ready to fuck a knothole in a tree."
Laughter rippled through the group. Even Petyr cracked a smile, though he didn't join in the commentary.
"You think they'll be pretty?" the young one—Benedict—asked. He couldn't have been more than six and ten, all gangly limbs.
"Pretty?" Tym snorted. "Boy, they're camp followers. They're not pretty, they're available. That's all that matters."
More laughter. You kept your eyes on your bowl, chewing mechanically.
"What about you, Davos?" Mace leaned across the fire, his grin turning sharp. "You ever had a woman? Or are you still a blushing maiden?"
Your face heated. "I've had women."
"Right." Mace laughed. "You probably pissed yourself the first time you saw a pair of tits, same as you did with my cock."
"I didn't piss myself.”
"Close enough!" Mace clapped his hands together, delighted. "The boy's a virgin. I'm calling it now. When those whores get here, we're all chipping in to buy Davos his first fuck."
"Leave him alone," Petyr said mildly, not looking up from his stew.
"C’mon Petyr, I'm not being cruel," Mace spread his hands in mock innocence. "Every boy needs his first. Might as well make it memorable."
You wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to throw your bowl at his smug face. Instead, you forced yourself to take another bite of bread and said nothing. The conversation moved on—speculation about which whores would be prettiest, arguments over pricing, Tym boasting about some woman he'd bedded in Flea Bottom who could allegedly do things with her mouth that defied the laws of gods and men. You let it wash over you, background noise, and focused on finishing your supper.
You were scraping the last of the stew from your bowl when a shadow fell over the fire.
"Davos Stokeworth."
You looked up to see Ser Alyn standing at the edge of the circle, his expression unreadable in the firelight.
Your stomach dropped. "Ser?"
"With me. Now."
The men around the fire went quiet, watching. You set down your bowl and stood, wiping your hands on your breeches. Petyr caught your eye, gave you a small nod—you'll be fine—but it did nothing to settle the dread coiling in your gut. You followed Ser Alyn away from the fire, into the shadows between the tents.
"You're serving wine tonight," he said without preamble. "The prince is hosting his officers for supper. They need someone to pour, and you're,” he looked you up and down, his lip curling slightly. “Well you’re small boy. We need someone who’s obtrusive. So, you'll do just fine.”
"Ser, but, I'm a soldier." You began to protest.
"You're a boy who can barely hold a shield," Ser Alyn cut you off. "This is where you're useful. Now stop arguing and get yourself to the quartermaster. He'll give you something clean to wear. You report to the prince's pavilion at sundown. If you spill so much as a drop on anyone important, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a month. Understood?"
Your jaw clenched. "Yes, ser."
"Good. Now go."
He turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the dark. Behind you, you could hear the men around the fire laughing again, their voices carrying on the night air. Talking about whores. About their women back home. About things you were supposed to want but couldn't even pretend to care about.
You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. Serving wine to the fucking prince of the realm nonetheless. To a pavilion full of officers who would be looking at you, studying you, waiting for you to make a mistake.
This was going to be a goddamn disaster.
The quartermaster's tent smelled like sweat, leather, and a mix of other shit. You ducked inside, blinking against the sudden brightness. Lanterns hung from the tent poles, casting flickering light over tables piled high with supplies—boots, belts, rolls of cloth, dented helmets waiting to be repaired. At the far end, hunched over a ledger, sat the quartermaster himself.
He was a wiry man, older, with ink-stained fingers eyes that squinted from too much close work. He didn't look up when you entered.
"Name," he said.
"Davos Stokeworth. Ser Alyn sent me. Said I need—"
"I know what you need." He set down his quill and stood, moving to one of the tables. "Serving the officers tonight, are you? Lucky boy."
He didn't sound like he thought you were lucky. The quartermaster pulled a tunic from one of the piles and held it up, and eyed you. "You're a small one. This should fit." He tossed it to you. "Put it on. Let's see."
You caught the tunic and hesitated. It was clean, at least—dark blue wool, simple but well-made. Better than anything you'd worn since arriving at camp.
"Well? I haven't got all night, boy."
You turned your back, fingers fumbling with the laces of your gambeson. The binding beneath was still tight, still holding, but your ribs ached with every breath. You pulled the gambeson over your head as quickly as you could, then shrugged into the tunic.
It fit. Barely. The shoulders were a bit wide, but it would do.
"Turn around."
You obeyed and the quartermaster circled you slowly, tugging at the fabric here and there, making small disapproving noises.
"You'll pass," he said finally. "Barely. Do you know how to serve wine, or am I going to have to explain that too?"
"I know how."
"Good. Because if you embarrass Ser Alyn, he'll take it out on me, and I'll take it out on you. Understood?"
"Yes, ser."
"I'm not a ser, I'm a quartermaster. Just call me Orys." He moved back to his ledger, already dismissing you. "The prince's pavilion is at the center of camp. Big one, you can't miss it. Be there before sundown, and for the love of the Seven, don't drop anything."
You nodded and turned to leave.
"And boy?"
You stopped, glanced back.
Orys was watching you with an odd expression—something like pity. "Keep your head down. Don't speak unless spoken to. The officers, they like their wine and they like their talk. You do not exist there remember that and you'll be fine."
"Aye," you said quietly.
Then you stepped back out into the evening air and started walking toward the center of camp.
The prince's pavilion was impossible to miss. It stood at the heart of the camp, twice the size of any other tent, pitch black with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying from the peak. Torches burned on either side of the entrance, and two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
You slowed as you approached, your mouth going dry. This was insane. You were about to walk into a tent full of knights and officers and pour their wine like some—like some servant. Like you weren't the daughter of a knight yourself, like you hadn't been raised with tutors and music lessons.
Stop it. You're not that person anymore. You're Davos. A soldier. A nobody.
"Davos Stokeworth," you said, pitching your voice low. "Ser Alyn sent me. I'm to serve tonight."
One of the guards—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek—looked you up and down. "You're late."
"I—"
"Get inside. They're already seated."
He jerked his head toward the entrance. You didn't wait to be told twice.
Inside, the pavilion was warm and bright, lit by what felt like a dozen lanterns hanging from the support beams. A long table dominated the center of the space, and around it sat perhaps a dozen men—knights, officers, all of them older and harder-looking than you'd expected. Their armor was piled near the tent walls, and they'd stripped down to tunics and leather jerkins, sleeves rolled up, looking almost human.
Almost.
At the head of the table sat Prince Valarr.
He was laughing at something one of the other men had said, his head tilted back, that streak of silver in his hair catching the lamplight. He looked different like this. Younger, less a prince and more just a man sharing a meal with his friends.
Then his eyes swept across the room and landed on you and the laughter died.
"Ah," he said, straightening. "You must be the cupbearer Ser Alyn mentioned."
Every head at the table turned to look at you.
Your throat closed up and you managed what would be a very, very, sad, and stiff bow. "Yes, Your Grace. Davos Stokeworth."
"Stokeworth." Valarr's brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to place the name. Then he nodded. "Well, Davos Stokeworth, welcome. The wine is there—" He gestured to a table set against the side of the pavilion, where several pitchers and flagons waited. "Start with Ser Alyn, if you would. The man looks like he needs it."
A few of the officers chuckled. Ser Alyn, seated near the middle of the table, grunted and held out his cup without looking at you.
"Move, boy," someone muttered. "We're thirsty."
Right. Move. You crossed to the side table, hands trembling as you picked up one of the pitchers. It was heavier than you'd expected, the wine sloshing inside. You carried it carefully to Ser Alyn and poured, focusing on keeping your hands steady, on not spilling a single drop.
The wine filled his cup. You stepped back.
"Next," Ser Alyn said.
You moved down the line. One officer after another, pouring wine, setting down the pitcher, picking up another when the first ran dry. The men barely looked at you. A few muttered thanks. Most ignored you entirely, already deep in conversation.
"—heard Daemon's forces are larger than we thought—"
"—doesn't matter, we've got the numbers—"
"—if it comes to a siege, we're fucked. We don't have the supplies—"
You kept your head down, kept pouring, kept being invisible.
And then you reached the head of the table. Prince Valarr held out his cup, his eyes on one of the other officers as he spoke. "Ser Jorin, you were saying about the Stormlands?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The man—Ser Jorin, apparently—was older, grizzled, with a thick beard gone mostly gray. "Reports say Blackfyre's already taken Bronzegate. If he pushes north—"
You poured the wine. Your hands were steadier now, the repetition helping. The cup filled. You started to step back.
"Careful, boy." Valarr's hand shot out, steadying the pitcher before you could pull it away too quickly. His fingers brushed yours—warm, calloused—and you froze.
He was looking at you now. Truly looking with those blue eyes sharp and curious. Your heart pounded against your chest, and you looked away from the intense gaze.
Seven Hells, get it fucking together.
"Easy," he said quietly. "No rush."
"Yes, Your Grace," you managed. “My apologies, Your Grace."
He smiled—just a flicker, there and gone. "No harm done." Then he released the pitcher and turned back to Ser Jorin. "Go on."
You stepped back, heart hammering, and moved to the next officer.
He touched you. He looked at you. It's fine. You're fine. He doesn't know. He can't know.
You finished pouring and retreated to the side table, standing with your back to the wall, waiting for someone to need a refill. The conversation at the table continued, voices rising and falling, debates about strategy and supplies and how many men Daemon Blackfyre had really brought with him. You tried to listen, tried to focus on anything other than the way your pulse was still racing.
And then Valarr laughed again, and despite every nerve in your body telling you to do the goddamn opposite, you looked up. He was smiling at something Ser Alyn had said, his whole face transformed by it. He looked, gods, he looked like someone you could actually talk to.
You forced your eyes back down and prayed for the night to end quickly.
The wine flowed freely.
You'd lost count of how many times you'd circled the table, pitcher in hand, filling cups that never seemed to stay full for long. The officers drank like men who knew tomorrow might be their last day, and the conversation grew louder, looser, as the night wore on.
"—swear to you, she had tits out to here—" Ser Jorin was gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his cup. You darted forward to steady it, refilled it without a word, stepped back.
"You're full of shit," another officer said, laughing. "No woman in Flea Bottom has tits that big."
"I'm telling you, she did!”
"What about you, Your Grace?" This from a younger knight, his face flushed with drink. "Any ladies caught your eye? Half the realm's probably throwing their daughters at you by now."
Valarr leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his cup. His eyes were bright—not quite drunk, but well on his way. "I've had offers."
"Offers!" Ser Alyn barked out a laugh. "The boy's had every lord from here to the Wall trying to marry off their daughters. I've seen the letters."
"And?"
"And nothing." Valarr drank, set his cup down with a soft thunk. "I'm not interested in marrying another lords political ambitions wrapped up in a pretty dress."
"Aye, so you want an ugly wife, then?" Ser Jorin grinned.
"I want a wife I can actually talk to." Valarr's voice was easy, but there was something sharper underneath. "Someone with a mind. Someone who isn't going to smile and nod and bore me to death at the breakfast table."
"Good luck finding that," someone muttered.
"Maybe I'll marry a warrior." Valarr was smiling now, the wine making him reckless. "Someone who can hold a sword. Wouldn't that scandalize the court?"
Laughter rippled around the table. You refilled Ser Alyn's cup, moved to the next man, kept your face blank.
"A warrior wife," Ser Jorin mused. "I'd pay good coin to see that. Can you imagine? Some woman in armor, telling the prince what to do."
"Sounds like a nightmare," another officer said.
"Sounds like a good time," Valarr countered. He drained his cup and held it out. You stepped forward automatically, pitcher raised. His eyes flicked up to yours as you poured—just for a moment—and you felt the weight of it. Your hand trembled, just slightly. The wine splashed against the rim of the cup.
Steady. Steady.
You pulled back before you could spill.
"Thank you," Valarr said quietly.
You nodded, stepped away. Your heart was beating too fast, a sick, fluttering organ trapped behind your ribs. The talk shifted again and someone was telling a story about a brothel in Lys. Another was complaining about his horse. The voices blurred together, and you stood against the wall, hands clasped behind your back, and tried to breathe.
The binding was too tight. Your chest ached, every breath felt like dragging air through wet cloth.
Not now. Not here.
You locked your knees and waited. It was well past midnight when Valarr finally pushed back from the table.
"Enough," he said, standing. The word was slightly softer at the edges, blurred by wine. "We ride at dawn. Get some sleep."
The officers rose—some steadier than others—and began filtering out of the pavilion in twos and threes, clapping each other on the shoulders, still laughing about something. Ser Alyn paused to mutter something to Valarr, too low for you to hear, and then he was gone too. You stayed where you were, back against the wall. You were supposed to wait until the tent cleared. Until someone dismissed you.
And then it was just you and the prince.
Valarr stood by the table, one hand braced against the back of his chair, staring down at the maps spread across the surface. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, silent, his shoulders tight. Then he spoke without looking up.
"You're dismissed," he said.
You bowed and left, thanking the gods.
You woke to Mace's boot nudging your ribs.
"Up, cupbearer. Can't sleep all day just because you spent the night pouring wine for fancy lords."
You groaned and rolled over, every muscle in your body screaming. The ground beneath your bedroll was hard as stone, and the binding around your chest had left deep aches in your ribs. You'd barely slept three hours.
"Fuck off, Mace," you mumbled.
"Ooh, the boy's got a mouth on him this morning." Mace grinned down at you. "How was it? They treat you nice? Feed you scraps from the prince's table?"
"It was fine." You sat up slowly, rubbing your face. Your head pounded. Around you, the tent was already half-empty. Petyr was gone—probably at the latrines or getting food. Benedict sat in the corner, polishing his sword and looking like someone who had no idea what he was doing. Tym was still asleep, snoring like a dying animal.
"Word is there's archery practice today," Mace said, pulling on his boots. "Ser Alyn wants to see who can actually shoot and who's been lying about it."
Your head snapped up. "Archery?"
"Aye. Apparently we're short on archers, and if Blackfyre's forces have the high ground when we meet them, we're fucked." He stood, stretching. "You know how to shoot, Davos?"
You hesitated. "A bit."
"A bit." Mace snorted. "Well, you'd better pray you're better than 'a bit,' because Ser Alyn's in a foul mood. Anyone who can't hit a target's getting assigned to cleaning shit for a week."
He ducked out of the tent, still laughing. You sat there for a moment, heart pounding.
Archery. Gods.
The range was set up in a wide clearing beyond the horse lines—a dozen straw targets propped against wooden frames, each marked with rough circles of charcoal. Men were already gathering, maybe forty or fifty of them, talking in low voices while Ser Alyn stood at the front with his arms crossed.
You hung back near the edge of the crowd, trying to stay invisible.
"All right, listen up!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "We need archers. Good ones. If you can shoot, step forward. If you can't, fuck off back to your tents."
A few men stepped forward immediately—older soldiers, veterans with the scarred hands of bowmen. Others hesitated, shuffling their feet.
"Come on, don't be shy!" Ser Alyn barked. "I don't care if you've only shot a bow twice in your life. Get up here."
More men moved forward. You stayed where you were.
"You too, boy."
You looked up. Ser Alyn was staring directly at you.
"Me, ser?"
"Yes, you. You've got the build for it. Small, light. Good for a longbowman." He jerked his chin toward the line forming near the targets. "Get over there."
Your stomach sank. "Ser, I don’t.”
"That wasn't a request, boy.”
You swallowed and stepped forward, joining the ragged line of men. Mace caught your eye from across the clearing and grinned, mouthing good luck. Ser Alyn walked down the line, eyeing each man. When he reached you, he paused.
"You ever shot a bow before, Davos?"
"A few times, ser," you lied. Or—no, it wasn't a lie. You just didn't mention how many times. "My father taught me."
"Good. Let's see what you've got." He moved to the center of the range and raised his voice. "First round! Fifty paces! You'll each get three arrows. Hit the target, you stay. Miss all three, you're done. Understood?"
"Yes, ser!"
One of the soldiers handed you a bow—a simple recurve, nothing fancy, but solid enough. The wood was worn smooth from use. You tested the string, felt the tension. It was heavier than the bow you'd trained with at home, but not by much. Three arrows. You nocked the first one, feeling the familiar weight of it, the way the fletching brushed against your fingers.
The first man stepped up to the line. He drew, aimed, loosed.
The arrow hit the edge of the target. Barely.
"Next!"
Another man. Another shot. This one missed entirely, burying itself in the dirt three feet to the left.
“Fucking pathetic! Next!"
You watched them, one after another. Some hit. Most didn't. Your turn was coming, and your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"You! Boy! Step up!"
You moved to the line. Fifty paces. The target looked small from here, just a circle of straw and charcoal. You raised the bow, feeling the weight of it settle into your grip and drew the string back. You loosed and the arrow flew straight and true, slamming into the target dead center.
Silence.
You blinked, staring at the target. You hadn't meant to—you'd just shot. Just let your body do what it knew how to do.
"Well, shit," someone muttered behind you.
Ser Alyn was staring at you, his expression unreadable. "Again."
You nocked the second arrow. Drew. Loosed.
It hit an inch from the first.
"Again."
Third arrow. This one split the difference between the first two, all three clustered in the center of the target so close together you could barely see the gaps. The clearing had gone quiet. Every man was staring at you now. Ser Alyn walked over to the target, examined the arrows, then turned back to look at you. His face was hard to read—somewhere between impressed and suspicious.
"Where the fuck did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked.
Your mouth went dry. "My father, ser. He—he was good. Taught me when I was young."
"Your father must've been a gods-damned master archer." Ser Alyn pulled one of the arrows from the target and turned it over in his hands. "I've seen knights who can't shoot this clean."
You didn't know what to say to that. Ser Alyn looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're staying on the line. Let's see if you can do it again."
The next round started. Seventy-five paces this time. You hit the target. So did a handful of others, but most fell away, their shots going wide or falling short. One hundred paces. You hit the center again. Only three other men managed to hit the target at all.
One hundred and fifty paces. The target was barely visible now, just a smudge of straw in the distance.
You drew. Aimed. Felt the wind against your face, adjusted for it without thinking.
Loosed.
The arrow arced high, then dropped, slamming into the target just left of center. When Ser Alyn walked down to check, he stood there for a long moment, hands on his hips, staring at the arrow.
Then he turned and shouted back toward the range: "Someone get the prince. He needs to see this."
Your blood went cold.
No. No no no—
But it was too late. Across the clearing, one of the squires was already running toward the center of camp.
Prince Valarr arrived on horseback, flanked by two of his knights. He dismounted and walked toward the range as you kept your eyes down, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. This was bad, very fucking bad.
Ser Alyn met him halfway, speaking too low for you to hear. Valarr listened, his expression unreadable, then his eyes swept across the line of men until they landed on you. He studied you for a moment and then nodded to Ser Alyn.
"Show me," he said.
Ser Alyn gestured you forward. "Davos. One more shot. Two hundred paces."
Two hundred paces. The target was barely a speck at this distance, the wind strong enough that you could feel it pulling at your clothes. You nocked an arrow with hands that wanted to shake, forced them steady. You could feel every eye on you—the soldiers, Ser Alyn, the prince. Especially the prince. You drew the string back until your fingers touched the corner of your mouth, felt the tension singing through the bow, and let everything else fall away. Just you and the target. Just the wind and the weight of the arrow and the moment before release.
You loosed.
The arrow flew in a long, clean arc, cutting through the air like it had been drawn there by an invisible hand. It struck the target high and right, just inside the outer ring. Not perfect. But at two hundred paces, in the wind, it was more than good enough. Valarr walked down to the target himself this time, Ser Alyn trailing behind him. He pulled the arrow free, examined it, then looked back at you across the distance. You couldn't read his expression from here, but the fact that he was looking at all made your stomach clench.
When he returned, he stopped in front of you, turning the arrow over in his hands. "Your father taught you to shoot?" he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace," you said, keeping your voice low and steady.
"He must have been very skilled." Valarr handed the arrow back to you. "Or you're a natural. Either way, I have use for someone who can shoot like that." He glanced at Ser Alyn. "I'll take him."
Ser Alyn's brow furrowed. "Your Grace?"
"Send him to my tent after midday. I want to speak with him privately." Valarr's eyes flicked back to you. "Well done, Davos. It seems you're full of surprises."
Then he turned and walked back to his horse. You stood there, heart in your throat, arrow still clutched in your hand.
What in Seven Hells have you gotten yourself into?
You stood outside the prince's pavilion, trying to steady your breathing.
Midday had come too quickly. You'd spent the morning in a haze of dread, barely hearing the jokes and questions from your tentmates. Mace had clapped you on the shoulder so hard you'd nearly stumbled, crowing about how "little Davos" had shown up half the camp. Petyr had just looked at you with something like concern and said nothing.
Now you were here, and the guards were watching you, and there was no avoiding it.
"The prince is expecting you," one of them said, jerking his head toward the entrance.
You ducked inside. The pavilion was quieter than it had been last night. No crowd of officers, no wine-loosened laughter. Just Valarr, standing at the table with maps spread out before him, still in his riding leathers. He looked up when you entered.
"Davos. Come here."
You crossed to the table, stopped a respectful distance away. Your hands wanted to fidget. You locked them behind your back.
Valarr studied you for a moment, then gestured to the maps. "Do you know what these are?"
You glanced down. Terrain maps, troop movements marked in different colored ink. "Battle plans, Your Grace."
"Close enough." He tapped a spot on the largest map—a river crossing, forests marked on either side. "Daemon Blackfyre's forces are moving north. We know their general direction, but not their numbers. Not their exact position. If we're going to meet them, we need better intelligence."
You nodded, unsure where this was going.
"I need scouts," Valarr continued. "Fast, quiet, with good eyes. Someone who can get close without being seen and get out again without getting killed." His gaze flicked up to you. "You're small and light. And clearly you can shoot well enough to defend yourself if things go wrong. That makes you useful."
Your stomach dropped through the floor. "Your Grace, I'm not—"
"You're not a soldier?" He raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered, didn't you? Came here in your father's place?"
"Yes, Your Grace.”
"Then you're a soldier. And soldiers do what they're told." He straightened, crossing his arms. "I'm assigning you to reconnaissance. You'll ride out tomorrow with two others, get close to Blackfyre's camp, count what you can, and report back. Think you can manage that?"
No. Absolutely fucking not. This was insane.
"Yes, Your Grace," you heard yourself say.
Valarr's expression softened slightly. "You're scared. That's good. Means you're not stupid." He moved around the table, closer now. "The men you're going with are experienced. They'll keep you alive if you listen to them. And if you see something—anything—you come straight back here and tell me. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good." He held your gaze for a moment longer, and you couldn't look away. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but there was something else there too. "Dismissed. Report to Ser Alyn before dawn. He'll give you the details."
You bowed and turned to leave.
"Davos."
You stopped, glanced back.
"Don't get yourself killed," Valarr said. "I'd hate to lose a decent archer."
You nodded and left before you could say something stupid.
You'd been crouched in the same position for hours, muscles screaming, barely daring to breathe.
The other two scouts—Harwin and a lean, quiet man named Durran—had split off at sunset to circle Blackfyre's camp from different angles. The plan was simple: watch, count, don't get caught. You'd drawn the shortest straw, which meant you got the closest position, tucked behind a fallen log at the edge of the treeline with nothing but darkness and luck to keep you hidden.
Blackfyre's camp sprawled below you, a sea of cookfires and tents that seemed to go on forever. Too many. Far too fucking many. You'd tried to count them at first, but gave up somewhere past three hundred. The prince needed to know this. Needed to know how badly outnumbered you were.
Your shoulder ached from holding still. Your legs had gone numb an hour ago. The night air was cold enough that you could see your breath, and every slight movement made the leaves around you rustle. You'd been here since dusk. It had to be near midnight now.
Then you heard voices.
Close. Too close.
You froze, pressing yourself flatter against the ground. Two men were walking up the hill toward your position, their boots crunching through the underbrush. Blackfyre soldiers, had to be. You could see the dark shapes of them through the trees, close enough that you could hear their conversation.
"—don't see why it matters," one of them was saying. His voice was rough, annoyed. "Just kill him and be done with it."
"Because it has to look right," the other man said. He sounded older, calmer. "The prince dies in battle, fine. The prince dies in his tent with a knife in his back? That raises questions."
Your blood went cold.
"So what, we wait for the fighting to start?"
"We wait for the signal. Martyn's got someone on the inside, close to the prince. When the time comes, it'll look like an accident. Friendly fire, it happens all the time in wars.”
"And we're sure this source is good?"
"Good enough that Daemon's paying him in gold. The Targaryen prince dies, their army falls apart, we win." The older man spat into the dirt. "Just be patient."
They were maybe twenty feet away now. Moving closer. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. Your heart was slamming against your ribs so hard you were sure they'd hear it.
Assassination? Worse, an nside job. This had to be someone close to Valarr.
You had to get back. Had to warn him. Your foot shifted and a branch snapped under your boot. Suddenly, the voices drew to a stop.
"What was that?"
"Over there. By the log."
"Fuck."
You stood at once and ran. Didn't think, didn't plan, just scrambled to your feet and bolted into the trees. Behind you, shouting erupted. Boots pounding. Someone yelled for a bow.
The forest was a blur of shadows and branches tearing at your face. You ran blind, lungs burning, legs pumping. You didn't know where Harwin and Durran were. Didn't know which way was camp. Just ran.
The arrow hit you from behind. It punched into your left shoulder with a force that sent you sprawling forward into the dirt. The pain was white-hot, blinding, and for a moment you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but lie there with your face in the leaves and feel the warm spread of blood soaking into your tunic.
Get up. Get up get up get up, you fucking idiot, you have to get up.
You dragged yourself to your feet, gasping. Your left arm hung useless, the arrow shaft jutting from your shoulder like some obscene flag. Blood was running down your back, hot and wet. You could hear them crashing through the brush behind you, closer now.
You ran again.
The world tilted and swayed. Your vision blurred. You tripped over roots, slammed into trees, kept going. The sounds of pursuit faded—or maybe you just couldn't hear them anymore over the roaring in your ears.
You didn't know how long you ran. It felt like hours. It felt like seconds.
When you finally saw the lights of camp through the trees, you nearly sobbed with relief. You stumbled out of the forest and into the outer ring of tents, legs giving out. Someone shouted. Hands caught you before you hit the ground.
"Gods—he's been shot—"
"Wake Ser Alyn and the maester—“
You tried to speak, tried to tell them about the prince, about the assassin, but your mouth wouldn't work. The world was going dark at the edges, folding in on itself.
The last thing you heard before everything went black was someone yelling for Prince Valarr.
Pain woke you. Sharp, burning, radiating from your shoulder down through your ribs like someone was twisting a hot poker into your bones. You tried to move and your body screamed at you—don't, don't, stop—and you froze, gasping.
Something was wrong, really fucking wrong. Not just the arrow wound. Something else. Something worse.
Your eyes snapped open. Canvas overhead with dim lantern light. The smell of blood and herbs and something medicinal that made your stomach turn. You were lying on a cot, blankets pulled up to your collarbone, and your chest felt wrong—loose, unbound, the pressure gone.
No. No no no.
You tried to sit up. Hands pressed you back down—gentle but firm—and a voice spoke from somewhere above you.
"Don't."
You knew that voice.
Your head turned and there he was. Prince Valarr. Sitting on a low stool beside the cot, close enough to touch, his face drawn and pale in the lamplight. He looked like he hadn't slept. His hair was a mess, the streak of silver falling across his forehead, and his eyes, gods, his eyes were fixed on you. Sharp and watching.
"Your Grace," you managed. Your voice came out rough, cracked, barely audible.
He didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at you, and the silence stretched so long your heart started slamming against your ribs. His jaw was tight. Too tight. "Davos," he said finally. "Or should I say—" He stopped. Jaw working. "What's your real name?"
The world dropped out from under you. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Your hand moved without permission—reached for your chest, felt the bandages wrapped around your ribs where the binding should have been gone. It was gone. They'd cut it off.
"I—" You tried to sit up again, panic flooding through you hot and terrible. "Your Grace, I can explain."
"Don't." His hand shot out, pressed against your good shoulder, holding you down. "You'll tear the stitches."
You froze. His palm was warm through the thin blanket. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, the same ones that had brushed yours when he'd steadied the wine pitcher. When he'd looked at you and you'd thought—gods, you'd been so stupid.
"The maester had to cut away your tunic to get to the arrow," Valarr said. His voice was quiet, too quiet. "He found the binding." A pause. "And then he found everything else."
Your throat closed up. You wanted to run. Wanted to bolt upright and sprint for the tent flap and just fucking run until your legs gave out, but you couldn't move. His hand was still on your shoulder and his eyes were still on your face and you were trapped.
"So I'll ask you again." Valarr leaned forward—close enough that you could see the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. Close enough that you couldn't look away. "What's your name?"
You opened your mouth and nothing came out.
He waited. In the corner of the tent, an old man sat on a stool—the maester, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, watching the two of you . He'd seen. He knew. "I sent everyone else away," Valarr continued, reading your panic. "As far as the camp knows, you're still just Davos. Wounded, but alive." His eyes flicked toward the maester. "Maester Harrion has agreed to keep silent for now."
For now.
"But I need the truth," Valarr said. His hand was still on your shoulder. You could feel the weight of it, pinning you down, holding you there. "All of it. Starting with your name."
Your shoulder throbbed. Your ribs ached. Blood had soaked through the bandages and you could feel it—warm and sticky against your skin. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong. And Valarr was looking at you like he didn't recognize you anymore.
"It doesn't matter," you heard yourself say. Your voice sounded thin. "Your Grace, my name doesn't matter—you need to listen to me, there's going to be an assassination—"
"Don't."
The word came out sharp. Hard. Valarr's hand tightened on your shoulder—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you flinch. His jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing.
"Don't you dare try to change the subject," he said, and there it was—the anger you'd been waiting for, finally breaking through. "You've been lying to me since the moment I met you. You stood in formation with my men. You poured wine in my tent. You—" He stopped and swallowed. "I touched you."
His hand jerked back like you'd burned him.
The absence of his touch felt worse than the arrow wound. "You let me believe you were someone you're not," Valarr continued, and his voice had gone quiet again. Dangerously quiet. "You lied to Ser Alyn. To the men in your tent. To me." He stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the ground, and turned away from you. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What this means?"
"I didn't have a choice—"
"There's always a choice!" He spun back toward you, and you flinched. "You could have stayed home. You could have let your father answer the call himself. You could have—" He stopped. Dragged both hands through his hair. "Gods. Gods. You're—you're a woman."
He said it like he still couldn't believe it. Like the word didn't fit in his mouth. You wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at him that your father would have died, that you'd saved his life, that you'd done what you had to do. But the words stuck in your throat because Valarr was looking at you like he'd trusted you. And you'd broken that.
"I could have you executed for this," he said finally. "Lying to the Crown. Deceiving the army. and impersonating a soldier." He paused. "Do you understand that?"
"Yes." Your voice was barely a whisper.
"Do you understand that I should have you executed for this?"
"Yes."
Valarr stared at you. His hand moved—unconscious, automatic—toward the hilt of his sword. You watched it happen. Watched his fingers brush the pommel, hover there for a second.
Then drop.
"Fuck," he muttered, turning away again. He paced to the other side of the tent, put his back to you. His shoulders were rigid. You could see the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The silence stretched. Seconds. Minutes. You couldn't tell. Finally, he spoke without turning around.
"Why?"
"My father," you said again. The words came easier this time, like something inside you had cracked open. "He was called to fight. He's—he's old, Your Grace. Wounded. He fought at the Redgrass Field. He gave everything for the Crown. And they—" Your voice broke and you forced it steady. "They were going to send him anyway. Even though he can barely hold a sword anymore. Even though it would have killed him."
Valarr didn't move.
"So I took his armor," you continued. "Cut my hair. Bound my chest and I came here in his place." You swallowed. "I knew it was treason. I knew what would happen if anyone found out. But he's my father, and I couldn't—I couldn't just let him die."
More silence.
Then, quietly he said, "What's your name?"
You told him your real name. The one only your father had called you for the past month. Valarr finally turned around. He looked at you for a long moment, and you couldn't read his expression anymore. Couldn't tell if he was angry or confused or something else entirely.
"You took an arrow for me," he said.
"I—" You blinked. "What?"
"You heard the assassins. You could have run. Could have disappeared into the forest and no one would have known." His eyes were fixed on yours now, searching. "But you came back. You warned me."
"Of course I did." The words came out sharper than you intended. "Your Grace, they're planning to kill you. Someone close to you, someone on the inside—I heard them talking about Martyn, about waiting for a signal."
"I know."
You stopped. Stared at him.
"You—what?"
"You've been unconscious for hours," Valarr said. "Kept mumbling about assassins. About someone close to me." He moved back toward the cot, sat down heavily on the stool. "I've already doubled the guard. Ser Alyn is questioning everyone who has access to my tent."
Relief crashed through you so hard you nearly sobbed. "Then you—you believe me?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Valarr asked quietly. "You got shot trying to warn me. Why would you lie about that?"
You didn't have an answer and he studied you for another long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out—hesitated—and rested his hand on the edge of the cot. Not touching you. But close.
"I don't know what to do with you," he admitted.
Your heart was pounding. "Your Grace."
"You saved my life," Valarr continued. "But you also lied to me. Deceived me. Committed treason." He exhaled. "I should have you executed. I should. But—" He stopped and looked away, his jaw ticking.
"But?" you pressed.
"But you're the best damn archer I've seen in years," Valarr said. "And you took an arrow in the back trying to save me." He dragged a hand down his face. "And I—" He stopped again. Shook his head.
"I can't execute you," he finished quietly. "I should. But I can't."
The tent was too small. Too hot. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your shoulder, everywhere.
"So what happens now?" you asked.
Valarr looked at you. Really looked at you, like he was seeing you for who you were, truly, the first time. "Now," he said slowly, "you tell me everything those men said. Every word. Every detail. And then—" He paused. "Then we figure out how to keep you alive."
routine and relationship dynamic description. very gradual, turned out long. mentions of the harsh idol life, harassment, hints at sexual advances; jaded view of idol life. 8th member might be a tired concept but guys i haven't been here back in January so i am tapping into eve-ry-thing
you are added to the group the last
it's a controversial experiment for Big Hit. debuting a boy band with exactly one female member. they do not hold their breath: they believe in the failure. nobody expects BTS to actually succeed.
as the decision to add a girl is made much later, they are faced with the question whether to change the name of the band from "bulletproof boys" to "bulletproof youth". and they decide against it because of how little they care about the whole group
the bangtan trainees mostly oppose the idea, not only because it's a late addition, but also because it's a girl
they are told that they have to go on living all together, but with a girl. train as usual, but with a girl. share food and allowance, but with a girl
"that wasn't in the contract" - "none of this was in the contract"
the boys are terrified thinking of how this is going to shift things completely
Yoongi is one of the most opposing members, bringing up good points and complaining about it, but there's not much he can do.
a couple of days before you arrive the boys have a meeting with the management. they are told that the girl (you) is coming and there's one rule
no hookups or relationships. it should be clean, friendly and disciplined. if there's even a whiff of anything similar to attraction or flirting, or drama, the member caught is out without the second warning
at the time the members do not see it as a problem, in fact, they do not even consider it a danger because of how preoccupied they are. they don't want to mess with anybody; they don't want anybody
actually they mostly see you as an enemy and an obstacle because they believe you will be a bad addition. nobody's even thinking about the funny stuff; they are cautious, unsure and reserved
when you arrive, you try to be cool and calm, and they try to be polite and non-hostile
the first person you notice is Namjoon: he is going to be your roommate, your companion and most likely your best friend (you couldn't be further from the truth: they will all become your friends soon)
you speak good English, so Namjoon is naturally drawn to you and you click in spite of his initial unwillingness. "hey, that might actually work..."
first impressions:
Namjoon: mature, normal guy, too burdened by his leader role, super focused, kind, helpful. will not make you uncomfortable even if he tries. feels like he is already your friend. you are born in the same year, several months apart, the same zodiac, the same introversion deep down under ambiversion.
Hoseok: painfully shy, glaring at you curiously from a distance. you can see instantly that a smile is his natural reaction to everything, and you actually flinch when the teacher snarls at him, and he smiles. this is the first of many times you get an urge to protect. he seems kinda small, fragile, and only relaxes when he is dancing or sleeping
Jimin: seems like a menace. his smile is too oily, and yet he shifts from being flirty to completely closed down. he seems like somebody you want to know better because at first you can't figure out his role in the group: is he the main dancer or the vocal? or the visual?
Jungkook: b a b y. you drop one look at him and, even though he is already your height, you get motivated to stand on his side. his round cheeks and still childish eyes make you question why the hell the company would hire such small kids. he is already sixteen, but he feels younger, he is super sweet and you do not feel threatened at all
Yoongi: the quiet ghost in the corner of the room giving you contemplating, evil looks. sharp jaw and the eyes that are too expressive. however, once he opens his mouth, he turns out to be polite and balanced. he gives you the trustworthy quiet helper vibe. it feels like acting on camera during making the content drains the energy from him
Jin: sage. he is so tall and adult that you unintentionally keep your back more straight in his presence. you passionately want to earn his respect because you see how he is soft and helpful with the guys but cautious with you. to you, he shows his colder side, and it kicks in the natural instinct of winning him over
Taehyung: soulmate. you click immediately. you joke at the same time, then start laughing, and your laughing voices harmonize, and you look at each other surprised. at the very beginning, he is on par with Namjoon the closest person who provides the initial comfort in a highly uncomfortable situation
you look at them seven and the hammer strikes. if you can't match them, you must at least do everything not to hold them back as a team. they are already familiar with each other, and now your job is to force them to accept you and see you as equal. it's going to be brutal
the first genuine contact:
you help Jungkook with his English homework. and by helping, you mean do it for him. he sits next to you at the desk, clicking the pen on it, while you write and try explaining things to him simultaneously
the first week you feel super lonely in the dorm because you and the SEVEN BOYS you live with walk around each other like wild animals, sniffing. all interactions are awkward: reaching for something in the cupboard at the same time and flinching like the hands touching is the worst thing that's happened in the last hundred years
blushing when you meet each other in the vicinity of the bathroom
you don't even pee when someone is nearby
you have a lot of stuff and sometimes it gets mixed up with the boys' things, and they get confused whose towel or shirt it is
the first week, in fact, is wildly stressful, because it's like jumping into ice-cold water while surrounded by sharks who don't bite but give you weird, awkward side eyes. Namjoon is too nerdy to provide insightful comfort, and Taehyung gets flustered in others' presence so he starts saying stupid shit
however the ice starts melting when you find Jungkook sobbing at that tiny desk punctured in between the clothes rack and the dinner table
it's about homework, but also his leg hurts, but also he misses his mum, and he is behind on his studies, and his voice isn't working properly
he's telling you all this with his head turned around, red like an apple, and you open up and decide that you aren't going anywhere anyway, and these boys aren't either
you hold him the way only a woman can hold a child. the other boys take really good care of Jungkook: he is fed, dressed, he is mostly comfortable and generally happy all the time. but the friendly and protective touch of a woman's hand makes sixteen-yeard old Jungkook break down and cry on your shoulder, while you stroke his head and tell him that he is safe
you try to make it very clear that he is safe with you and you won't tell anybody. try to tell him that getting tired is fine and the best thing he can do is break down when he feels like it
Yoongi witnesses the end of it, when Jungkook is already wiping his nose, and your hand is still on his head, stroking him like a kitten
this incident facilitates the eventual onset of closeness
suppose Yoongi clocks a certain feature in you, that he himself also has: the impulse to protect and comfort, and it makes him a little relieved
the hyung line starts taking care of you subtly: first of all, the boys get rid of the habit of avoiding eye contact. then you start smiling at each other.
a week later you have a collective conversation in the kitchen at night, warming up to each other
who initially has a crush on you
everybody
for most of them (6/7) it's short, the shortest for Namjoon because you're not his type. instead, he amalgamates into the older brother persona with quite a lot of satisfaction about it. he already has a younger sister and has experience, he is familiar with the problems that arise with having one, and sees that you need him in that way
Jimin drops it when he sees you aren't the ideal girl he has been picturing you as. as he knows you more, his infatuation dissipates into respect and reliability. he relies on you in many things because he has that childish persona and really likes to be taken care of. he actually exploits this quality of yours a little bit, seeing that, in the impulse to be perceived as good, you go out of your way to help them
Taehyung isn't even sure if he had a crush on you, he hadn't noticed. he just knows you're cool and he was the one who opposed the girl member addition the least of them all. he was never fully against it
Jungkook has a crush on you in a surprisingly innocent way even though he is almost an adult. he knows it's more of an awe because he just imprinted slightly when you love-bombed him in the very beginning. he grows fiercely protective of you and is the first of all the boys to start calling you sister
Hoseok's crush dies quietly when he reminds himself of the rule that management enforced on them. he understands why it's there and totally agrees with it. he is an incredibly focused and motivated person, so he takes a second look at you, and goes, no, and switches it off for good. he is cautious and quiet around you, and for the longest time you feel like a wild nature photographer that is chilling on the ground, waiting until the antelope loses alert
Jin's crush was more out of curiosity and the whiplash of change. it doesn't last and wouldn't have even if all of a sudden you told him you liked him. instead, he gains respect for you when he sees your striving to work as much as they do and even more. Jin ends up being the most perceptive protector of yours, who clocks your exhaustion first. he approaches you very soon into the shared living and working, and tells you not to run too fast, or you'll burn out
Yoongi doesn't do anything about his crush and isn't alarmed when it doesn't cease. he thinks it's irrelevant. two things are unchangeable: you are not going away. and second: you are off limits. coexisting with his liking of you is easy because he sees you literally every waking minute
actually for the longest time he believes that all the other members are in love with you and it's a norm, and is very surprised when they talk about it and say, uh, no, not really
then he's like, uh oh. while Hoseok's crush floats up and bursts like a bubble, Yoongi's feeling suddenly sinks down and cements itself somewhere deep
you don't call the older ones oppas: you absorb their habit and call them hyungs
the first year together:
you debut all together, after some time during which you grow close and start trusting each other. the first year is tough because it's still friction. would've been much easier if you were a boy, of course.
there are inconveniences, awkwardness and surprises in every aspect of your lives
they need to adjust choreo for you because it needs to reflect on the female presence and make it your collective IT factor
the boys need to kiss all their previous concepts goodbye: that they will be a boy band; that they will all be equal (now there's this 'we have a special factor' dynamic); that they will do exactly what they were promised; that they can fart into each other's faces in the morning as a method of waking up those who don't hear the alarm clock
for some reason they cannot see themselves farting into your face
you prove to become spicy if tackled.
people aren't having it at all. BTS are bullied, ridiculed, ignored and talked down to all the time
the boys gather around Jungkook and focus on the work, trying to ignore the negativity
they are surprised when they find out yet another feature of yours
you laugh off the hate towards you, which you get a lot, but become feral when someone insults them
you hesitate whether to accept me? well, tough luck, i accepted you
because you told yourself "we are stuck together, so I'll better make the most of it" and now you live by this
you feel so lonely; the only girl, the weakest one, the shortest one, different dancing style, different voice, different rhythm, different low points. in order to survive this loneliness, you shut your feelings off and concentrate on getting them on your side
also, that one time you comforted Jungkook gave you an idea that boys are just that - boys, and not stone-cold machines, and might even react positively to your friendly attitude
long story short, you start releasing your tension out on people who dare to insult them
you lash out at radio hosts who speak to them in a condescending way
"you think you guys can be rappers?" "they already are. care to explain your problem with it?"
you bite back at the people who don't believe in them and ridicule them: "let's take it outside? or you just gonna pick on an eighteen year old boy?"
"so, how's that Korean rap boy band going?" - "it's going super well, and not sideways, but your jaw will"
a couple of times the hyung line has to restrict you physically
Seokjin realizes these reactions may be a problem
Namjoon indulges your temper because for the first time, he is partially relieved of his weight. he isn't the only one who speaks English; he isn't the only one who is in the avant-garde
Yoongi sees through your anger and the short fuse and is like, oh shit. she is going to snap sooner or later. he understands this aggression is a response to the tension this work puts on you
he starts taking care of you little by little, like a doctor, but not medically
he does it humanly. a coffee. brings you the hoodie you'd forgotten at the studio. surrenders the window seat to you. pushes you behind when the reporters or staff are male and look at you for too long
you start associating Yoongi with safety
there's a talk about you having to visit a certain hotel to meet a certain "business partner", and before you can respond, the boys go "no" in unison
you realize, even if you aren't all best pals yet, and you've only been with them for six months, and debuted like two months ago, they will protect you at least on the very basic level
it finally kills your stress-induced insomnia
you start feeling like a team
you harmonize the best with Jimin and Taehyung
you start training even more, running yourself into the ground, to prove to them that you have earned your spot here; that they won't regret standing up for you; that they won't have to pull their punches because you're a girl
exhaustion blackouts for which you feel very guilty
your periods sometimes don't come for months because of the stress
you have a specific conversation between the eight of you, where you discuss the situation the company put you in. it was an experiment. it also felt like they were setting you up for failure from the beginning. trying to clash you and them. inconveniencing them by bringing a girl. antagonizing you.
you all look at each other and decide to succeed in spite of the company
from then on, you begin to intentionally learn to live together
"good morning", "how are you?" "did you sleep well?" "let's do it" "you go first please" "you did great". positive sabotage
they start saying "pads" without fainting. start living with the idea that the shower cabin where they stand naked, is the same spot where you also stand naked
they become more okay with touching you when it's not during the training and not a part of choreo
hugs
they do not let you do the dishes or clean the bathroom. for the whole first year you do not do either of those things; they take turns instead of you
how they deal with your stress:
Jungkook is the sweetest and is direct. "What can I do? Why are you crying?" and you cry A LOT. after some time, you stop hiding when you feel like crying, and stop feeling guilty when you get injured. there's no way to escape them anyway. there's SEVEN of them. at any given point of time, you're bound to be walked in on by a member.
Jin talks to you like a wise elder, providing practical advice
Jimin is the fairy that flaps around and tries to distract you or make you laugh so that you stop crying
Taehyung cries with you and offers his shoulder. he is the first who invents the lifehack: how to stop Y/N from crying. he begins sharing his own troubles, and you switch immediately and forget about yours
Hoseok tries to make himself scarce, hoping that someone else will handle you. when there's no other choice, he just sits next to you quietly, horrified
Yoongi provides efficient physical comfort; when there are other people around while you're in tears, he pulls the hood onto your head; if it's due to an injury, he caters to it; if it's just stress and loneliness, he elects to call Jungkook or Namjoon because he himself avoids hugging you
and it's not even embarrassment (sometimes he is so tired that he doesn't even get a boner); he is just distant like that
Namjoon = bear hugs. he is the authentic older brother who lets you cry on his chest
Yoongi is the only one who isn't affected by your rage. when you snap, whether it's at a person, or at an object that inconvenienced you, he doesn't get scared like the others. he is the mediator who pulls you away or picks the broken parts of a chair, and his silent courtesy makes you feel very guilty for the outbursts
his gentle acceptance of your character is the factor that pushes you to practice better control of your emotions
Seokjin also tells you that it's super nice that you are ready to murder people to protect the boys, but it has to stop, because it only creates more trouble
you become known as, at best, the wild card of the band
at worst, you're the attention seeker
in truth, you are in the inherently losing position. no matter what you do, you will be the scapegoat and the target. a girl in a boy group
as the fandom gradually grows, many of the fans see you as the red cloth. if you're quiet, you're boring. if you're loud, you're trying to get attention. if you're smart, you're a know-it-all. if you act silly, you're flirting with your mates. you're ugly. you're too pretty. you're fat. you're too thin. you dance too girly. you sing too high. you eat too funny. you speak too loud. you sleep wrong.
the boys gradually understand that this is your designated spot, and this is the weight you take upon yourself. as they get familiarized with the public and how it perceives you, their love for you grows
what unites you with each of them:
Namjoon: shares everything with you. you are the two smart ones who speak good English. you are also roommates and he is the last person you see before you go to sleep
Seokjin: at the moments of lethal social exhaustion, when you are both drained to zero, you sit in the kitchen with glassy eyes and chew on cornflakes straight out of the pack, without speaking. you are the only one who understands the visceral hatred for people he sometimes has; you recharge off of each other a little
Jimin: similar voices. you are paired for the performances often; and your roles are playful mates. you joke a lot together. with time, you start mimicking his uninhibited charisma, and he starts mimicking your dry, zero-bullshit snappy attitude
Taehyung: he feels like a soulmate. you like the same movies, the same books. he has impressive emotional vulnerability coupled with purely artistic selfishness, and you instinctively want to keep it alive in him. he appreaciates your attention and the fact that you forgive him for anything he does. he feels you treat him like a piece of art
Jungkook: becomes loyal to you. where you go, he goes. what you eat, he wants a bite of. when you fall down, he is on the spot in a flash, picking you up. when you're sick, he is the first to puff his chest and argue with the management to get you at least one day off
Hoseok: for the longest time, you just coexist together, trying to find common things. until you catch him in the kitchen one night, watching youtube and sobbing. he has soft, vulnerable darkness to him. you don't dare to wrap your arms around him like you do with Jungkook as he guards his personal space. the thing that unites you is the mutual respect of people who start growing similar habits. you start eating at the same time. you have similar headaches and both become sadder in November.
Yoongi: is a mystery to you. he is like the mountain that provides you haven when you need it. he has that dry laughter that betrays his maturity. he is ready to give you the shirt off his back, but doesn't let you in. he'll be like, eat my portion and go away ok? you both like your alone time and often prefer to stay in the dorm during the free hours, so you end up in the different corners of the rooms. clashing in the kitchen. you develop huge respect for him because you write a lot of lyrics, and he writes music. you think you should bond about it. Yoongi really starts looking you in the eye after you begin bringing your prose to him, asking to take a look
how you inconvenience them:
the thing that irritates them the most is crying. each member reacts differently to it: Hobi and Seokjin are almost openly annoyed when they realize that you cry too often. Jungkook is always wounded by it. Namjoon isn't very annoyed, neither is Taehyung. Taehuyng also cries often, so he isn't affected by it. Yoongi is always trying to get to the root of the problem. studies your reactions like a scientist. he is the first one to clock your heightened emotional reactivity. he tells the others about it and they ask well, how do we cure it. Yoongi laughs and says, we don't. we deal with it
you are a little messy and even though you work on it, sometimes the natural forgetfulness makes you leave things untidy or your things scattered. Hoseok and Jin are usually the ones to yell about it
loud singing in the shower. you and Namjoon are the main perpetrators
"you are supposed to be the vocalist, not the dying alpaca"
you get stress-induced insomnia and sometimes wander around at night. the only one who isn't mad about it is Yoongi because he works at nights
you get periods (when you do). sometimes you get tired more than them. you are physically weaker, and no matter what you do, or how much you strain yourself, you will never have their stamina. they never show it, but you know they do not run as fast as they could have without you, and it actually becomes a very, very deep sore in you and creates this sort of trauma and complex in you. coupled with the public reactions, it cements the perception of yourself: you're the weak point of the band. the members don't think that. in the second year they realize the concept grows on them. they stand out among mono-gender groups. they are easily recognizable. they have a draw of male fans because of you. in a twist of irony, the more they like your presence, the less you like it.
sooner rather than later you decide to make them get used to your body. you are, after all, bound to get revealing outfits for performances, as well. in the dorm, when it's hot, you walk around in shorts. you don't hide. sometimes you might walk around in the towel after the shower, looking for something. they know they need to get accustomed to it
hair everywhere
the female energy. you chat during breakfast. yelp about things. nag to keep the movie on and not switch the channel
low pain limit
they sometimes fight about 'spoiling you'. "you only bought this xyz food because you know Y/N likes it. but we are all going to eat it!"
trying not to exploit their natural male impulses to give in to you. if they want to ride bikes along the river, and you want to go to the park, they are inclined to go to the park. you start demanding they do what they want
trying to kill the 'it's okay, she's a girl' ideology. it means you bear the same responsibility but also the same agency. you start doing dishes and cleaning the bathroom in the second year.
you are delicate. they are boys. you get blisters on your feet - you do not hide it and whine about it
hair ties everywhere
how they inconvenience you:
brutal jokes that they need to tone down sometimes
pranks aren't always pleasant
SEVEN LOUD BOYS
feet into your face. rude nudging to wake you up (they do not see it as rude. it's just "gentle" wake up shove)
bring you all the wrong food when you're on your period or sick. for some reason, their brains (except Yoongi who seems to be a professional at caring for a woman) switch off like they think girls eat inherently different foods
their FUCKING UNDERWEAR in the shower
SPITTING IN THE MIRRORS AND TOOTHPASTE IN THE SINK
kicking the garbage away from sight: "i tidied up"
burping
shorter hair everywhere
"can you pluck my armpit"
they leave the mess after themselves way more often than you
you can't cope with them when they start playing games or mess around
sometimes they eat too much too fast
"Y/N'll deal with it" because you are tough in public/speak English/read books/are witty/can communicate with women/pretty/a girl
if you do something funny, they never let go of it. now it's the butt of the joke forever
you mention a celebrity crush once and now you're doomed
SNORING
if Seokjin accidentally pushes Hobi, he sways a little. if Seokjin accidentally pushes you, you fly over and crash into the floor. if Namjoon accidentally slaps you during the change of position, your head hoots for the rest of the night. if Jimin wants to catch and tickle Yoongi, Yoongi smacks him and it's over before it began. if Jimin wants to do that to you, he simply lifts you above the ground and you have no way of escaping
"you won't get it, you're a girl"
"sorry, this is balls only zone"
they watch MMA and SCREAM
one day you're the group princess, the other day you're the punching bag
you start boxing because sometimes it's impossible to break out when they get agitated, they forget that even the smallest of them is still very big and heavy against you
how they protect you:
at the airport, they quickly learn that sweeping you off your feet is too easy. they invent the oval walk. they form an oval around you and you walk all together, you hidden by their shoulders from the cameras and hands. you witness Jungkook's cheek getting scratched once, and he just shrugs it off with the most loving look
NO. Y/N isn't going to a "meeting" in a "hotel".
they check the fanmail and remove the creepy letters that are addressed to you. for the first couple of years, while the mail is handled within the group personally, you have no idea what male fans want to do to you. after, as the amounts of mail begin to overflow, and it is delegated to managers, you are left in the state of shock
"this whole time they have been writing poems about my tits??"
they do not expect you to perform on a male level. sometimes you do and they don't mention it either. they treat you as an equal.
Yoongi is the one who fences sexist questions with the sharpness of an assassin. he doesn't smile about it either, doesn't try to turn it into a joke.
"so, Y/N, which member do you find the most attractive?" Yoongi: "why didn't you ask me this question? i have a favourite one, it's Jimin". "Y/N, what diets are you on to keep that pretty body of yours?" Yoongi: "she only consumes human male meat". he makes a point to mention that you write a lot of lyrics, all the time. after Yoongi, the others pick up on this habit and try to focus on your lyrical and artistic input more than your looks and 'female presence'.
Seokjin's version: "y/n, so do you cook for the boys?" he snorts loudly. "you should see the attempts. no-no-no"
covering you when you're in revealing outfits. Hoseok will pretend to suddenly get very interested in the camera lense when you are in a short skirt and need to do splits on a variety show. Jungkook will outstretch his arm point at something for the other members if your top is revealing too much of your cleavage. Namjoon will put a towel on your knees
when the outfits get ridiculous, they won't wait for your protests. Yoongi will be like: is that for Seokjin? no? huh
giving deadly looks to people who clearly try to get too close to you
they secretly enjoy being the 'go through us first' bunch for you. each of them has this soft, gender-bending persona to some extent. but they switch back to very manly when there's a need to keep an eye on you
adjusting their whole existence to your presence: you are never the tail of the walk. at least one pair of eyes is on you when you're not at the dorm
Jungkook definitely jumps a guy at least once to protect you.
when the hopes are low:
while you are still struggling to lure people to your shows, you blame yourself for being the dragging factor. you always think that if they were a purely boyband, they would already be successful. after all, they are called "bulletproof boys", not "bulletproof boys and Y/N".
you express this self-doubt rarely because you don't want to be an even bigger burden. the response is always the same:
yah! who put this nonsense into your head? you shut up, you write like 50% of the songs! what are we supposed to do without you? sing na-na-na for three hours straight?
Jungkook won't find his shoes without you
don't say that, i just learnt to tie a ponytail!
sharing modest dinners
them secretly deciding to eat less; if each of them gives up just one spoonful of soup, you will get more. they see you are growing thin; they gaslight you by saying you're imagining things and the portions are absolutely identical. in fact, they say, you're undereating
sharing clothes, painkillers and bandaids. emergency muscle rubs. incredible survival-level health hacks to stay conscious learnt from great-grandmothers. carrying each other literally. "hold on one more hour, okay?" drinking one can of red bull all together
you teaching Jungkook to sew the holes closed. Yoongi teaching you to fix your night stand. you teaching Jimin to stop the nose bleed. Seokjin teaching you to make a sustainable meal out of two noodles, an egg and a pepper with salt. you teaching Namjoon to pick the lock. Hoseok teaching you to cover the cuts with foundation. you teaching Taehyung to sleep in sitting position. amalgamating into each other.
by the third year they know how many pairs of underwear you have and which colours can't be washed together. you know which foods upset their stomachs and read their exhaustion from the hum
the only time they come even close to exploiting you is when you wander around the city in America, handing out flyers to your show, and they notice that guys accept them eagerly from you. they ask you to tell the passersby that it's a girl group. you agree.
sleeping together on the dance studio floor, only to discover they had huddled around you, warming you with their bodies like badgers. even Hobi and Yoongi.
by the time you finally make it, you eight know each other and trust each other with your lives. you conduct a thought experiment: you imagine you collapsed in the shower naked and need assistance. which one are you comfortable with helping you? the answer for you now is any one of them.
Pairing: Formula 1 Grid x Platonic!gn!Reader (Y/N), K-pop Idol!Reader, BTS OT7 + Y/N (as 8th member)
Word Count: 868 words
Genre: Platonic, Wholesome, Slice of Life, RPF/Real People Fanfiction
Pronouns: Gender-neutral (they/them)
Timeline: Formula 1 season, Monza Grand Prix
Warnings: None, just fluff and chaotic driver energy
You had the world’s biggest stages in the palm of your hand and somehow still found time to obsess over aerodynamics.
It was supposed to be a break year.
With Jin, J-Hope, RM, SUGA, Jimin, V, and Jungkook all enlisted in the military, HYBE had insisted you take time for yourself. Travel, rest, write music. Not that anyone ever expected you to write a global summer hit about Formula 1.
But there it was—
"Ferrari (페라리)"
A synth-heavy, bass-dropping, borderline techno K-pop anthem with lyrics all about speed, chassis, turbo engines, red flags, and emotional heartbreak disguised as a racing metaphor. It charted #1 in 12 countries within 48 hours.
You didn’t even mean for it to blow up. You just missed the racetrack.
Your obsession with F1 wasn’t new. BTS fans already knew about it—there were compilation videos of you doing deep dives into carbon fiber strength on V-Lives and explaining the 2022 porpoising crisis on Weverse.
But when you were offered to perform "Ferrari" live at the Italian Grand Prix in Monza?
Yeah. That made it real.
The sun was setting over the paddock, golden rays kissing the tops of every team garage, the scent of fresh rubber and motor oil oddly comforting. You stood next to your performance tent near the Ferrari hospitality suite, still breathless from your soundcheck.
Someone cleared their throat.
You turned around to see Charles Leclerc.
"Hi," he smiled, hands in his fire suit pockets. "You’re Y/N, right? The one who sings about my car."
You grinned. "Only if you’re the one who drives like heartbreak."
He laughed, shoulders relaxing. "Touché. Can I say something slightly crazy?"
You tilted your head. "Go for it."
"I watched your MV four times. I was trying to figure out if you actually understood the ERS system or if it was just for the lyrics."
You blinked. "I built my own PC. I modded it with an F1 sim wheel. I’ve been watching telemetry since 2019."
He looked visibly impressed. "D'accord. That’s legit."
"Ask me anything."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Okay, what’s the weight limit on a 2025 car, including the driver?"
"798 kilos. Unless you’re Lance and brought a baguette onboard."
Behind you, Lewis Hamilton burst out laughing. Apparently, he’d been listening in.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the drivers to find you.
Franco Colapinto was the first to ask for a selfie. "My sister is ARMY. She’s going to cry when she sees this."
Isack Hadjar tried to keep it cool. "So, you, uh, like the Red Bull aero this year?"
"Downforce balance is solid but the floor edge design might be too exposed," you replied casually.
He blinked. "Wait. How do you know that?"
Ollie Bearman came running, dragging Kimi Antonelli behind him. "I told you she knew! She predicted Ferrari’s tire strategy last week!"
You laughed, palms up. "What can I say? I study."
Logan Sargeant stared in awe. "Are you secretly an engineer disguised as a K-pop idol?"
"I mean, music and motorsport both require rhythm."
"Fair."
You’d barely made it to the performance stage before Esteban Ocon stopped you with a question about fuel flow limits. Lando Norris wanted to know what mic brand you used. Fernando Alonso asked for your thoughts on Honda’s engine revival.
The performance itself? Electric. You danced in a custom red racing suit-dress hybrid with Ferrari’s prancing horse stitched on your boots. Pyrotechnics flared behind you as you hit the high note in "Shift me into overdrive, love’s a redline I can’t survive".
Half the pit wall was filming.
After the performance, you found yourself on a bean bag in the McLaren motorhome, legs curled up under you as Oscar Piastri handed you a juice box. "You’re honestly one of us."
"An honorary driver?"
"More like a paddock gremlin. The best kind."
Kimi Antonelli flopped beside you. "If I ever forget the diff settings, I’m calling you."
You grinned. "My fee is one lap in the sim rig."
Carlos Sainz walked by and laughed. "She’s gonna take all our seats."
You had dinner in the Mercedes motorhome that night. Toto Wolff pulled up a chair across from you.
"So. BTS. F1. Hit songs. And you still managed to know the difference between toe angle and camber."
"My brain’s weird," you said with a shrug.
"Your brain is brilliant. You remind me of someone."
You tilted your head.
He smiled. "My daughter, before she started lecturing me on downforce at the age of eight."
You chuckled. "I memorized Ferrari’s engine layout before I could read."
You didn’t expect to become a regular in the paddock.
But weeks later, there you were: dropping by the simulator at Red Bull’s factory, FaceTiming George Russell to argue about tire deg, playing Mario Kart with Lance Stroll during a rain delay, sitting on a stack of tires next to Zhou Guanyu as he translated Chinese F1 slang for your next single.
They’d pulled you into their chaos.
And somehow, you fit perfectly.
Your next solo track?
It was called "Chicane".
Lewis smiled when he heard the demo. "You know, Y/N, you might just be the fastest pop star alive."
Everyone says idols shouldn’t date their fans. Little did you know the crazy sasaengs aren’t the ones who might ruin your relationship. It might just be your boyfriend’s best friends.
Relationship: Taehyung x Reader
Rating: Explicit
Tags: Canon Divergence, Idols (i’m just making shit up y'all as usual), Jealousy, Established Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, an attempt at army-specific humor, Insecurity, Soft Dom Taehyung, Finger Sucking, thigh riding, Blow Jobs, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Overstimulation, a breeding kink is ~hinted at~, Cunnilingus
Word Count: 12,624
A/N: this was entirely self-indulgent 😂 also i wrote 80% of this while i was high and with no beta so if it’s bad, now you know why
“Y/N, stop it right now.”
Your boyfriend breathes the command faster than you can even open your mouth to greet him. With a roll of your eyes, you put your phone on speaker and sit it on the floor beside you. Rummaging through the cardboard boxes littering your apartment is easier done with both hands.
“Why hello, Taehyung. What a pleasure to hear from you.”
“Are you seriously mad at me right now?” From the whine in his voice you’re positive he’s wearing a deep pout, bottom lip jutting out as far as it can. You love kissing his pouts away.
But not this time! And not just because you’re on opposite sides of the world.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s so late there and I’m sure you’re very tired from displaying your dick to all of America for three hours.”
The cardboard box in front of you has “BEDROOM” scribbled in your father’s handwriting on the side in thick, black Sharpie. It’s full of little trinkets and random decor. A Shooky plushie is crammed into the corner in between a cracked Army bomb and a small framed photo of you with your parents. You smile to yourself despite your boyfriend’s huffing over the phone. Your father had given you a strange look as he helped you pack the items as if to ask, Really? Do you really need these?
Just because you’re dating a member of BTS now doesn’t mean you can’t cherish your old BTS merch! It’s not weird, in your opinion. It would only be weird if you made it weird. And you weren’t making it weird.
“I did not display my dick!”
You roll your eyes for probably the fifth time while you ponder where to put Shooky. You’d kept it on your dresser in your old home in the States. Something tells you Taehyung won’t appreciate the lack of a Tata beside it.
“You were thrusting and throwing it around! And pointing at it while doing it, too!”
“Y/N!”
“Don’t Y/N me! I have my TikTok evidence!”
With your cracked Army bomb in hand, you open the app in question, scrolling through your favorited videos until you get to the one. The one uploaded only a day before. The one you’d texted to Taehyung which prompted his immediate phone call.
“And what does the caption say?” you ask but then cut Taehyung off before he can answer the question. “It says, and I quote, ‘I will never forget Taehyung doing this. I looped this for hours. Kim Taehyung lives in my head rent-free.’ Hashtag Taehyung. Hashtag HipsDon’tLie. With the woozy face emoji. And do we need to discuss the music choice?”
“Y/N, can you please-”
“Slut Me Out,” you deadpan in a monotone voice. “That is the song they chose for you.”
The other end is silent for so long you start to feel bad. Every time your jealousy spikes, you seem to act on impulse rather than thinking through how you might make Taehyung feel. Yes, he sometimes plays his part in the group a little too well, but you also knew that this was his job. It’s his job to make people get excited - excited for the music, the group, and himself as an idol.
Still, your opinion is the most important to him, and you know that.
“Jagiya…” Taehyung sniffles and you feel your heart shatter.
Fuck, you really are a bitch, aren’t you?
“Tae, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know, I didn’t really think anything of it. It’s just an act, y’know?”
You did know. Away from the stage and the cameras, Taehyung is quiet, almost shy. He’s happy to be a silent observer of whatever chaos his members create. He gifts everyone with puffy cheeks and boxy grins, sometimes a boisterous laugh that manages to make your heart soar every time. But the soft-spoken soul you listen to old school R&B with while you smoke strawberry swisher blunts on the balcony late into the night, and convince that yes, the apartment is soundly built and no, the balcony will not randomly fall out beneath you… That person is different from the person you see wearing a resting bitch face in interviews or the person who chews away at imaginary gum during concerts.
You find all versions of Taehyung endearing, although the fake gum chewing is kind of embarrassing if you wanted to be perfectly honest.
“I know, Tae. I’m sorry I’m being judgmental for no reason,” you insist and you hope he believes you. Complaints about his idol status typically resulted in red eyes and sniffles, yet sometimes you couldn’t stop yourself from pushing his pressure points despite his sensitivity.
Your apology puts Taehyung in a better mood because his following comment is cheekier than you expect.
“You get jealous a lot, jagi.” His smug tone is close to bringing back your irritation.
“I am not jealous of some fans in a stadium, thanks.”
“Good,” he says more cheerfully. “‘Cause I only have sights for you.”
That makes you laugh and you feel your earlier heaviness disappear. “You mean, you only have eyes for me?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
You shake your head as if Taehyung can see you. A few photo strips are beneath Shooky in the cardboard box. You silently curse your father (respectfully and endearingly) for casually placing something so fragile in the bottom of a box. The photos are of you and Taehyung in a photo booth at a birthday party for an idol you didn’t know. An actor, you think. You thumb at one of the corners of the photo strip that has curled inward. Taehyung’s hair was straight then, and short, falling just above his ears. You much prefer the thick waves he wears now.
“You’re so cute.”
“Only for you.”
“Oh shut up, now you’re being corny.”
You’re not sure why, but you try to suppress the smile Taehyung’s light flirting coaxes out of you, even though he can’t see you. Accepting his teasing affection has always been hard for you. All the boys are too caring; it makes you uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. You’re just not used to men acting like that. They’re all very different from the men you’ve been around growing up. There’s a reason Taehyung can’t listen to you talk about your ex-boyfriends without getting pissed.
“Mmm, maybe. I’m also sleepy,” Taehyung slurs. His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear him, so you lift your phone to your ear rather than use the speaker setting. The smoothness feels like a lullaby gentle enough to carry you to sleep, even though it’s still daylight in Seoul.
“Goodnight, Kim.” You decide for him, knowing he would stay on the phone if you let him.
Confirming your thoughts, Taehyung grumbles when he speaks next. “I love you, jagi.”
“I love you, too.” People always talk about the “honeymoon phase” when the butterflies disappear and couples no longer feel the exciting draw toward each other anymore. It’s been less than a year since you started dating Taehyung, but you’re confident that your heart will always flutter when you hear those three words so confidently spoken. Taehyung had been the first to say it; something about that makes you even more sure of your relationship.
“Can’t wait to see you soon so I can slut you out.”
“… please go to bed and never say that ever again.”
In the distance, you hear someone start yelling. The noise is accompanied by a rather aggressive ruffling sound, as though Taehyung’s phone is being rubbed against fabric.
“Are you two having phone sex?” The second voice accuses, this time sounding much clearer.
“Hyung, leave me alone,” Taehyung whines. “Y/N, tell him to go away.”
You let out a long sigh, but the grin finally cuts through the hardened expression you try to maintain. “Goodnight, Jimin.”
It sounds like the two boys start physically fighting each other before Taehyung lets out a breathy, “Goodnight, baby,” accompanied by Jimin screeching something you can’t understand before the call ends.
With a shake of your head, you leave your phone on the floor and get up to position Shooky and your Army bomb on your dresser. You’ll figure out what to do with it later, you decide.
Later ends up being three more days of you giving a half-assed attempt to sort through the boxes. Your bedroom is mostly organized by the end of the week with only one more box remaining, shoved into the corner of the room. It’s a bunch of family keepsakes that will make you cry if you start looking at them.
Right now you want to make a beeline to the kitchen.
It’s hard not to trip over all the boxes that litter your apartment, most of them already torn open and half-empty. The kitchen hasn’t been fully unpacked, either, so you opt for instant ramen in the microwave rather than dig for utensils to cook a proper meal. It’s pretty bad. You and Taehyung are a terrible match; you both have no idea how to cook. There’s no point in all the fancy kitchenware your parents bought you. You’ll never master any of it. It’s not because you don’t put in any effort, like Taehyung. You’re genuinely shit at cooking.
And baking? That’s even worse.
You stand in the middle of your living room while you shovel ramen in your mouth. It’s too hot, so you inhale loudly through your teeth to cool the food off before it scorches your throat. There’s so much you need to do, and it’s making you nauseous thinking about it. Somewhere in the mix of boxes are your Hangeul textbooks that you should be studying in your free time instead of playing video games and video chatting with your friends. It’s only been a week and a half, but you already feel lonely without the constant presence of your friends and family. The boys have been on tour the entire time. Namjoon decided you moving to Seoul while they’re on tour would make your arrival less suspicious, and everyone would be more focused on the tour than whatever an unknown American music producer is doing.
In your opinion, Namjoon was overthinking the whole thing as he is wont to do. But you let him be bossy because you know his heart is in the right place. It’s not like the public knows you’re dating Taehyung. There hasn’t been any press or rumors about you at all. You’re genuinely unknown.
You prefer it that way.
Your fork scrapes the bottom of the bowl and you realize you’ve scarfed down the ramen without much thought. You suppose it’s easier to do that when you aren’t using chopsticks. (You’ve managed to master them, for the most part, but you prefer to fall back on forks when you’re alone at home.)
You place the bowl on top of the large cardboard box in front of the couch. It has the pieces for your coffee table inside, but you haven’t had the energy to put it together yet. The part of you that allows your feminism to leave your body whenever the boys are around is kind of hoping you can get one of them to build it for you. Maybe Yoongi. He’s into that kind of stuff.
With a sigh, you flop onto the couch and slip your phone out of your back pocket. A few Whatsapp and KakaoTalk notifications light up the screen. You used to be terrible at responding to texts, but moving halfway across the world has made you a better texter. It’s a way to fill the loneliness.
[Alex] hey bitch
[Alex] this 15 hour time difference sucks ass
[You] I’m sorry
[Alex] its fine. i’ll forgive you for chasing money and dick
[You] I’m not chasing dick omg
[Alex] dont lie
[Alex] whats that tiffany pollard meme
[You] Stop
[Alex] i know his dick is big. i know it! i know it’s big!
[You] I hate you
[Alex] you didnt deny it. anywayyy did you see this?
As much as you adore Alex, she’s an expert at getting under your skin. You remind yourself that it’s all harmless as you click on the link she texts you.
BTS’ V woos fans with his casual rockstar visuals on his return from world tour
Kim Taehyung, also known professionally as V of BTS, was spotted at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Friday. The singer is reportedly returning early to South Korea ahead of his band members after completing the final performance of their…
You don’t know why you read the shitty k-pop tabloids. You figure it’s the same reason why people make a hobby out of watching bad movies. There’s a weird itch in the back of your brain that can’t be scratched unless you open the link Alex texts you— teasingly, of course, because she thinks she’s being funny. Your friends don’t understand the nauseous feeling you get when you scroll through the article and accidentally click on a link that takes you to an external website flaunting doctored photos of your boyfriend with Jennie Kim.
BTS’ V and BLACKPINK’s Jennie Spend Romantic Weekend in Paris
You know it’s a lie because the weekend in question was the same weekend Taehyung flew you to Seoul to do a final walkthrough of your apartment before you signed off on it. Taehyung spent every second of that weekend by your side.
The article makes you sick anyway.
You’re so caught up in trying to craft a text to Alex to explain why she needs to leave you the fuck alone that you don’t hear the sound of your apartment’s front door open over the music you’re listening to.
“I’m gone for a few months and I come home to you listening to some other band?”
“Holy shit, Tae, you can’t do that to me,” you yelp when Taehyung leans over the back of the couch to hover over your shoulder.
“Explain yourself.” His voice is warm honey and milk even when his strong eyebrows point downward in mock disappointment. The expression is almost convincing, his naturally sharp features making conjuring up a dark appearance easier.
“You can’t tell me Stray Kids’ new album isn’t good.”
“Jagiya, I just got home,” Taehyung whines. “Kiss me and stop thirsting over Australian boys.”
He touches your chin to tip your head backward. You lean your head against the back of the couch and look up at him. The position makes you think of the iconic Spiderman kiss, seeing Taehyung’s face upside down above yours.
“Y’know, I worked on a few of their songs. Before I met you.”
The confession is meant to tease him for making fun of your music choice. Of course, words’ impact often diverges from intent. It’s in the twist of his face and the way he pulls back slightly just before his lips brush against yours that you know you’ve made him jealous.
“Oh did you?” His hair hangs around his face as he leans over you.
“Mhm, Bang Chan’s accent is really cu—”
You shouldn’t be shocked when strong hands squeeze your waist and Taehyung hauls you off the couch to stand in front of him. He wraps his arm around your waist to pull you tightly against his chest.
“You didn’t work with any other groups before us, okay?”
You purse your lips to hold in the laughter that threatens to explode from your chest. All you can do is nod in agreement. It reminds you of girls getting upset when they remember their boyfriends dated other people before them.
“Good.”
Taehyung dips his head down to connect his lips with yours. The closeness of his body forces you to inhale his cologne and feel goosebumps travel down your arms. It’s been months since you’ve so much as held Taehyung’s hand and you feel like you’ve been starved. Your body trembles so severely that you dig your nails into his biceps to hold yourself upright. You moan into his mouth, already open and ready for you because Taehyung is nothing but giving.
The kiss isn’t bruising, not yet. It’s slow and deep. Taehyung takes his time reminding himself of your taste. You grip the nape of his neck to pull him down as you meet him by standing on your tiptoes. His height has always been one of your favorite aspects of his physical appearance. Dark, watchful eyes that pierce into your soul might be at the top of the list.
His tongue swirls around yours, only retreating to suck your bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth graze along the plump skin, each nibble making you dizzy in the head. You normally hate wet kisses, but there’s something satisfying about seeing Taehyung’s lips pink and shiny with your spit when he finally pulls away. Pride thrums in your chest; you did that. You made his tan skin flush pink. You made his eyes dark and sharp. You made his breathing ragged and desperate.
And, fuck, does it feel good.
You run your fingers along his sharp jawline and watch the muscles flex beneath his taunt skin. “Don’t clench your jaw like that. It’s not good for you,” you muse, allowing your fingers to skim over his Adam’s apple.
“I’m trying to stay calm.”
Your eyebrows fly up with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Wanna bend you over the couch and fuck you until you can’t walk,” Taehyung says with such a gentle tone that the stark difference between what he says and how he says it has your body trembling once again.
You inhale sharply and let your hand fall from his throat. Instead, you reach for the lapels of his leather jacket and squeeze them.
“Why don’t you?”
You can’t look at him when you ask. Even though you’ve been dating for almost a year, Taehyung still intimidates the hell out of you sometimes. The darkness of his eyes when he gets horny sends you reeling. You’re sure if you look up, you’ll see The Look. He stares at you unabashedly with an expression of desire so strong you feel like he might consume you just by looking at you.
“You haven’t eaten yet and I need to take a shower.”
“How do you know I haven’t eaten yet?” With a pout, you finally dare to look your boyfriend in the face. The way he gapes at you is judgmental and doesn’t make you feel devour-worthy at all.
“I know you,” he scoffs. “You’re just like Jimin. I bet you haven’t even been awake more than two hours.”
Barely a year into your relationship and he’s already reading you like an open book. You can’t stay salty about it when his bread cheeks come out and he’s giggling at the frustrated “hmph” you let out.
“I’ll be fast,” he promises with a smirk that collapses into another fit of giggles. The hearty slap on your ass encourages you toward the kitchen while Taehyung makes his way to the bathroom.
You did already eat, but today is an outlier. Normally, you are like Jimin, staying up too late and sleeping in longer than everyone else. And sometimes you’re like Yoongi, too. You get so caught up in the songs you’re working on that you forget to stop to eat or pee or look somewhere other than at a computer screen.
The move to Seoul threw you off your usual work schedule. Everything you need to get done is looming over your head like a dark cloud. If Namjoon comes back before you finish editing the English lyrics of his upcoming single, you might die of embarrassment, no matter how many times Taehyung insists that Namjoon won’t be disappointed.
Taehyung wasn’t lying about being quick. He’s wearing a white cotton t-shirt and grey sweatpants when he returns, hair damp and swept away from his face. You’re still standing at the fridge, painfully aware of how little food you have. Plenty of grapefruit soju, though. Priorities.
“Do you want ramen?” You eventually ask. When Taehyung doesn’t respond, you turn to give him a sheepish smile. He probably thinks you’re ridiculous.
Taehyung is sitting at the kitchen table with your phone in his hands. His eyebrows scrunch together and he turns to you with narrowed eyes.
“Why were you looking at this?”
He lifts your phone in your direction. The doctored photos of him and Jennie glare back at you. You feel your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.
“Tae, I didn’t—” You snap your mouth shut because, honestly, it looks bad. It looks bad no matter how you explain yourself because Taehyung’s bottom lip is already quivering and you know you’re both replaying the stupid TikTok phone call in your heads right now.
The two of you stare at each other for only god knows how long. You’re the first to break; not many people can hold their own in a staring contest with Kim Taehyung. Yoongi is probably the only one. Jungkook would give a valiant effort, but he’d ultimately crumble in a fit of nervous giggles. Taehyung is scary when he wants to be.
Dating Taehyung started as an unbelievably exciting experience. You had your brush with fame before meeting the boys, but Taehyung was the first idol to give you genuine attention beyond whatever job needed to be done. Not that you’d ever sought it out; you had more dignity than that. No, Taehyung pursued you. Who could blame you when you fell head over heels for the sinfully gorgeous man who seemed larger than life? The long legs, big hands, and chiseled features were dangerous enough. Throw in a glowing personality, quirky sense of humor, and a big-hearted desire to care for others and you had a man who was too good to be true.
And who are you? Some dumb American kid with average looks, a standoff personality as a result of having a bit of social anxiety (and trouble acclimating to a new country), and a penchant for fucking things up. Maybe it was your fault for not seriously considering how hard it was going to be to date an idol.
“C’mere, jagi,” Taehyung murmurs, beckoning you.
You expected waterworks— hell, you’re ready to start crying yourself. Instead, Taehyung wears a tired but soft smile. He holds your waist as you climb into his lap, straddling him. He wiggles a little in the chair to adjust you more comfortably on his thighs.
“Koreaboo, really?” He gathers your face in his hands, thumbs running across your cheeks. His hands are soft and you regret not washing your face when you woke up. Sometimes it’s not fun to date someone as beautiful as Taehyung.
“It was an accident.”
You avoid his gaze, but Taehyung coaxes you back to look him in the eyes. It’s hard. There’s so much passion swimming in them. He blinks up at you with an earnestness that makes your heart ache because you’re always the one causing problems.
“They could have at least used better pictures of me,” he complains with an exaggerated pout.
“Maybe I’ll send them some from my private collection.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Taehyung grins as he threatens you, so you grin back.
“Oh, I dare.”
Quick fingers dig into your sides and you let out an embarrassing squeal. Taehyung doesn’t let up on tickling you until you’ve got tears in your eyes and your threats to elbow him in the face start sounding a bit too real.
“Please don’t torture yourself with shit like that, okay?” He mumbles the request into your neck because your arms are thrown around his shoulders.
You slide your fingers into his hair to cradle his head against your chest. When you dig your nails into his scalp he lets out a low groan. Nothing about the position you’re in is sexual, but you’re quickly reminded that this is the most skin-on-skin contact you’ve had with your boyfriend in months. With that fact in mind, you don’t feel bad when you scoot further into his lap and squeeze his thighs with your own.
“Tae?”
“Hmm?” When he tilts his head back to look up at you, he’s got that spacey, blissed-out look on his face.
“Tell me you love me.” You place your finger against the little freckle on the tip of his nose.
The slow, boxy grin is almost better than hearing the words. Your finger migrates to touch the freckle on his lip.
“I love you with all my heart.” He punctuates the confession with a kiss on the tip of your finger. “Your turn.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s the reaction he’s looking for.
“I love you, too. You dork.”
“So romantic,” he laughs, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he watches you with lust darker than what consumed his expression earlier.
You sit with your breath burning in your lungs as Taehyung slips his hands beneath your baggy t-shirt. His smooth palms slide up your rib cage until he reaches your tits, palming one in each hand. The tilt of his chin tells you he wants another kiss, and who are you to deny him what he wants? You dig your nails in his hair harder while you kiss him, tugging to angle his head in the direction you want. Small moments like this give the appearance that you’re in control. And Taehyung loves domming while you both pretend you’re the one in charge.
He pulls back with a wet smack. If it was anyone else, you’d be ashamed of the whimper that sounds from your throat as Taehyung removes his hands from your shirt. You grip his hair tighter, but Taehyung just chuckles.
“So needy. What am I going to do with you?”
You could give him a couple of ideas. There isn’t time, though. Taehyung is already grasping your chin and tilting it down.
“Open up for me, okay?”
Your cheeks grow hot as you open your mouth. You already know where this is going, so you stick out your tongue. Still, it’s difficult not to squirm when Taehyung presses his index and middle fingers flat against the wet muscle.
“Suck.”
You swallow around his fingers, sucking as best you can as he begins to thrust them into your mouth. It’s vulgar, the wet suctioning sound of his fingers dragging against your tongue. In and out, a steady pace that doesn’t go too fast. Taehyung has such long, gorgeous fingers. You quite enjoy when he wrecks your insides with them until you’re on the brink of tears. Which you’ve come to find is something Taehyung thoroughly enjoys doing.
“You miss having your pretty mouth stuffed?”
You know any attempt at a spoken response will come out as a garbled mess. You whimper, eyes fluttering closed as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. You push your tongue in between his fingers and curl around them.
“Gonna suck my cock like this, jagi?” He purrs the question, ending it so breathy it’s almost a moan as he eases over the term of endearment. “Show me how much you miss me, hm?”
Maybe it’s the deep, sensual way he purrs jagi with heavy eyelids and that crooked smirk on his face. Maybe it’s because he bites his lip when he says it or that he lets his lip go with such slowness that you can see the way his teeth scrape across his plump bottom lip as it falls back into place. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoving his fingers just a bit deeper into your mouth. Maybe it’s all of these things that make you shift so that you can press your clothed pussy against Taehyung’s thigh.
He flexes the muscle as you start rutting against it, rolling your hips to the rhythm of his fingers gliding in and out of your mouth.
“Look at you.” His lips brush against the curve of your ear, sending a shiver down your back. “So desperate for me that you’re going to get off on only my thighs?”
You’re not the type to be able to orgasm just from rutting and friction like this, but Taehyung has managed to learn your body faster than you ever expected. He slips his free hand beneath the waistband of your leggings and underwear. It’s the quick circling of his thumb against your throbbing clit combined with the rutting of your hips that sends you over the edge.
“That’s it, baby, you did so well,” Taehyung whispers praise against the skin his lips have access to on your collarbones as you shudder in his lap. “Love seeing you cum, fuck, doing this shit over KakaoTalk fucking sucked.”
Taehyung finally removes his fingers from your mouth when you stop moving. Seeing the string of spit that connects his fingers to your lips makes you feel weak, but you’re riding the high of his praise and skillful fingers, so you don’t care.
He wipes your spit onto his sweatpants and gently holds your chin with his other hand. He gives you a soft smile and rubs his thumb over your bottom lip. You can taste yourself when you flick your tongue over the trail his thumb left.
“I missed you so much,” he admits with a gentle kiss on your lips. “And not just because of this. I missed all of you, everything about you, just being with you.”
“I missed you, too.”
It’s meant to be a confirmation of your mutual love, but it comes out like a whine. You know Taehyung doesn’t mind from the way his eyes zero in on your tongue running along your bottom lip. You don’t have to say anything more for him to know what you want. He nods once and you’re almost immediately on your knees between his legs.
“Fuck.” He leans back in the chair and lifts his hips so you can tug his sweatpants down his thighs. “Gonna be good for me, baby?”
You quickly nod your head, though you’re focused on gently taking Taehyung’s cock in your hand. Alex isn’t wrong. Taehyung’s dick is big, but that doesn’t mean you have to go around talking about it. That’s for you to know and for others to wonder about.
You had to sign an NDA before you were allowed to see it, anyway, but you’d keep your mouth shut even if no legal action would be taken against you for gossiping.
“Kiss it first.”
He tongues the inside of his cheek as he watches you. His eyelids droop lower when you plant a puckered, open-mouthed kiss on the head of his cock. You press the tip of your tongue against the slit to lick at the precum already leaking from him. The buck of his hips isn’t unexpected, but you feel like you need to remember how to do all of this after being away from him for so long. Not to mention how tired your jaw is about to be.
Taehyung seems to sense your hesitation because he allows his body to go slack beneath you. The hand that has reached down to dig into your scalp doesn’t let up, but he doesn’t push your head down like he normally would when you finally slide his cock down your throat.
He doesn’t buck his hips again, even when you drool so much that the inside of his thighs become just as wet as yours. You squeeze the base of his cock, twisting your wrist to the rhythm you’ve established when you can’t take all of him into your mouth.
You reach down to gently roll his balls with your free hand. His cock twitches against your flattened tongue and you hum with satisfaction.
“God, your fucking mouth–”
You make eye contact with Taehyung as your hand ventures lower. There’s nothing more beautiful than the way his face crumples with pleasure when you massage his perineum.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop,” he whines.
You ease up slightly but still suckle on the head of his cock for longer than Taehyung wants. Why not have a little fun? All you’ll end up doing is riling him up even more, and that can only be a good thing for you.
Taehyung digs his fingers into your hair and yanks you up. It stings, but the pain might as well be white-hot pleasure once Taehyung is praising you with a gravelly voice.
“You’re too fucking good at that.”
You don’t even like sucking dick, but you’d do it all day, every day if Taehyung asked you to. But since he made you stop, you have other priorities to take care of, like the fact that there are way too many layers of clothes separating you from your boyfriend. While you were on your knees for him, Taehyung removed his shirt. The white cotton is discarded on the floor beside the chair and his half-dry hair is tousled around his head in a messiness only he could successfully pull off.
After wiggling out of your leggings and underwear, you climb back onto Taehyung’s lap. His broad chest shudders beneath your touch as you run your hands down to meet his soft tummy. His responsiveness strokes the ego you didn’t realize you have.
“Y’know, you never gave me the chance to ask you how travel went.”
“Seriously?” He knows you’re teasing, but you like the mock-irritated tone of his voice. It makes his chest rumble.
You use your grip on him to stabilize yourself as you grind into his lap. You scrape your nails at the nape of his neck and suck on his bottom lip. Taehyung moans into your mouth, low and throaty, when his cock glides through your wet folds as you roll your hips. He lets you pull his hair, head falling back to expose the smooth plane of his throat. Your lips leave his to latch onto his throat instead. The kisses you give him are slippery and biting and hot.
“No hickeys, Y/N.”
Taehyung’s scolding is deep and sharp; you both know he’s not fucking around. It’s a command he has had to throw your way more than once. The idea of marking him up is just so appetizing, but you know you can’t. Sure, makeup can make just about anything disappear, but it’s annoying to deal with and Taehyung isn’t particularly a fan of the side looks the makeup artists give each other when they see dark bruises littering his neck and collarbones.
Maybe you’ll give him just a tiny one and suffer the consequences later.
You cling onto him tighter when you feel two of his fingers slip inside of you. Spreading your thighs as wide as you can without throwing off your balance on the chair, you roll your hips into Taehyung’s hand to take his fingers deeper.
“Please,” you moan against his neck. You can smell your shampoo and body wash on him. Something about him smelling like you makes you feel overwhelmingly possessive. He’s yours. Kim Taehyung is yours.
He turns his head to the side to capture your lips with his own as he snakes his arm around your waist. The position allows him to pull you tightly against his chest. He holds you in place as he starts thrusting his fingers into your pussy just as he had thrust them into your mouth.
Taehyung grunts as he keeps his legs spread in the chair, which in turn forces your thighs open when you try to squeeze them closed around his hand.
“Stay still.”
“Can’t.” You shake your head and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging the strands harder.
It’s too much; Taehyung lights a fire against every inch of your body each time he touches you. If he was anyone else, you’d be singed, but Taehyung takes such good care of you. You’re not singed. You’re ignited.
“You have no fucking idea,” Taehyung takes a deep breath, “No fucking idea how badly I’ve been craving you.” He warms you up with each thrust of his fingers, adding a third until you’re clawing at his shoulders.
“So, ahh fuck, fuck me,” you gasp, your mouth hot against the corner of his jaw. Your teeth scrape against his skin and he merely lets his head fall back to give you more.
“No please?”
You bite his cheek in defiance and get a slap to the ass that only makes you want to bite him more.
“Don’t be mean to me,” you whimper.
Taehyung’s steady rhythm against your front wall has your orgasm burning so hotly in your core that you feel like you’re going to cum if he even so much as turns his head to look at you one more time.
Your thighs are already sore by the time Taehyung removes his fingers from your pussy. He uses your sticky arousal as lube to stroke his cock and you don’t want to think about how excited you are about this.
“Hurry up.”
Taehyung raises his eyebrows at you just as he grips the inside of your thigh with one hand. The other he uses to line his cock with your body. You can feel the head press against your entrance, and you try to push your body down to swallow him whole, but Taehyung holds you up to stop you.
His previously spacey look is sharpened by the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Your body tenses when he spits the insult at you, and he knows it’s making your clit throb even harder.
“Tae.” You bite your lip because you’re close to begging at this point.
Luckily, you don’t have to. Taehyung presses down your hip and you quickly take the lead, easing yourself onto his cock until you’re fully seated on his firm thighs.
Your body burns from the stretch it has to make to accommodate him, but you knew it would. Even when you’re fully adjusted to him, there’s always a bit of a stretch. He also knows he has to let you ease into it to avoid slamming himself straight into your cervix. The first time it had happened, Taehyung genuinely thought he’d broken you. You kind of thought so, too, if you were going to be perfectly honest. The struggle of having a big-dicked boyfriend.
“Okay?” He’s watching you with those lustful, dark eyes.
“Mhm,” you hum because you’re afraid of the way your voice will quiver if you try to say real words.
You’re so full, it’s a bit overwhelming. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. You missed Taehyung a lot, but holding onto each other in such an intimate position is making you realize just how lonely you were without him.
“I’m gonna move, okay?”
He waits until you silently nod your head before he adjusts in the chair, scooting down slightly to spread his legs better. You allow him to adjust your legs, bending them at the knee and hooking them over the arms of the chair. With a tight grip on your ass, Taehyung pulls you down onto his cock at the same time he thrusts up into you.
The pace Taehyung sets is desperate, but you don’t care. Your second orgasm is approaching at an alarming speed. It feels like it’s taking all of your energy to simply stay grounded with reality as Taehyung squeezes you and your hips crash into each other. You don’t even try to do anything, just let him take over your body as he pounds into you. For the most part, you’re a pillow princess and you both know it. Besides, how can you possibly keep up with someone so athletic? Taehyung’s stamina is ridiculous. Neither of you has an overstimulation kink, but Taehyung’s ability to just go and go and go might as well have given you one. None of this has ever bothered Taehyung, though. He likes giving more than receiving.
“Oh fuck.” Taehyung nips at the base of your neck when you clench around his cock just to feel him shiver.
There aren’t any rules about him marking you up. The petty side of him likes when you wear the dark bruises in the open, with no makeup or clothing to hide them. It’s a satisfying game he likes to play. He likes that everyone knows you’re getting dicked down and, therefore, are taken.
You like the secret satisfaction of knowing it’s Kim Taehyung who gives you those marks, and no one even knows.
What you don’t like is thinking about all the other people Taehyung may have enjoyed giving marks to.
It’s hard not to let your mind wander. Taehyung has never talked to you about his previous relationships, and there’s no way for you to know about them if he doesn’t tell you. The media can’t be trusted to accurately report idols’ love lives; today has been a perfect example of that. You’re stuck with only your imagination to make up all kinds of scenarios. Maybe Taehyung has been with other k-pop idols, or models, or actresses - people with more money, who are prettier and more sophisticated than you. Hell, you’ve never even asked him about his sexuality. What if he really has been fucking Jungkook! What if they’re in love and you’re just something temporary?
“I was made for you, jagi. You know that?” Taehyung’s breath is hot against your skin. His words are gentle, but the power with which he thrusts up into you is bruising. “Made for you.”
It’s as if he can read your mind, as if he can somehow sense the insecurities threatening to pull you out of the moment. As always, Taehyung manages to bring you back to the present.
Fuck, sometimes you wish he wouldn’t do shit like this to you. You’re already pathetically in love with him. You can’t imagine what more could come next, yet you feel yourself practically bursting from the seams with love.
Your moans fall in line with the sound of the chair scraping the floor and your skin slapping against Taehyung’s with every thrust. When your mouth falls open, Taehyung presses his thumb against your tongue. With eyes fluttering closed, you suck on his thumb and try to hold on as your body rocks up and down.
“Fuck, fuck, oh, god, Taehyung.”
“Yeah, jagi?” Taehyung pulls down on the corner of your mouth until his thumb is dragging spit across your cheek. “Tell me.”
His voice is so soothing it makes you want to cry. It’s unfair.
“You feel so fucking—“
It’s the slick pressure of his thumb massaging your clit that finally has you arching your back with a scream of Taehyung’s name. You’re so loud that you worry your neighbors heard you. There are plenty of people named Taehyung in the world, though, right? He could be any Taehyung.
If you ask Taehyung later, he’ll probably say he can’t even remember his own name because of how tightly you clench around his cock when you cum. The feeling is so overwhelming that you think you might pass out from holding your breath. You gasp, inhaling more air than you exhale, but Taehyung keeps going. Every subsequent thrust knocks the air out of you until you have the opposite problem and now you can’t keep any air in.
“I’m gonna…”
“Go ahead, baby. Cum inside me.”
Taehyung whimpers into the crook of your neck as he cums, the suggestiveness of your permission not lost on either of you. You’re on birth control and Taehyung knows a kid would probably ruin his career. So it doesn’t actually mean anything when you tell him he can stay inside; you’re not getting pregnant any time soon. Still, he gets off on coming inside of you, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.
“I was going to make a joke that I should go on tour more often if that means I’ll cum that hard again, but I think I don’t want to go on tour ever again,” Taehyung admits with a shaky laugh.
Just the idea of Taehyung leaving you for months on end again makes your stomach twist. He brings so much life to everywhere he goes, and you felt like much of that life left you when he did. Even if it was only temporary.
Taehyung holds you until his cock is no longer twitching inside of you. Once his arms finally fall to his side, you try to untangle yourself from the chair as his body, but your limbs might as well belong to someone else.
“Help,” you squeak hoarsely. You feel like covering your face when Taehyung laughs.
Taehyung helps you out of his lap, though you both are so wobbly on your feet that you hold onto the edge of the kitchen table when you stand. Taehyung looks wrecked, and you feel wrecked. You’re not sure your knees will ever work properly again.
“Why are we still listening to Stray Kids?” Taehyung grumbles when he realizes the speakers are still playing in the background.
“It’s a good album.”
“We should be fucking to my songs.” Taehyung pauses for a moment, thinking.“‘Christmas Tree’ is a fuckable song, right?”
“You’re joking.”
Taehyung shakes his head and reaches for your phone. His face is programmed to unlock your phone, just like your face unlocks his phone. You don’t understand how he can stand butt naked in the kitchen, cum all over his thighs, and search for the jazz playlist he made on your Spotify account.
(“Jazz Hands, Y/N. It’s a vibe.”)
Once his playlist has replaced Stray Kids, Taehyung wraps you up in a giant bear hug that lifts you off your feet. The hug nearly knocks the air out of you.
“Can’t believe you made me dirty after I just showered.” You can’t see his pout, but you can hear it.
“You’re the one who started this.”
Taehyung scoffs. He starts walking down the hallway, practically dragging you in his arms as he goes. Your toes barely reach the ground, but you’re more content to let your body fall slack and make him do all the work.
He kicks open the bathroom door and sits you down on the counter.
“No, you did this. You looked at me with those pretty eyes and said, ‘Tae’.” He tries to mimic your voice by moaning his name. “I’m a weak, weak man. You influenced me. I just wanted you to eat.”
“Well, I did eat.”
Taehyung presses his lips together. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m gonna say it.” You lean forward on the edge of the counter, trying to get in Taehyung’s space, but he’s ignoring you as he prepares the shower.
“Y/N.”
“I ate…”
“Stop.”
“Deez nuts.”
Taehyung drags his hands down his face, leaving his skin red. His reaction makes you giggle.
“Technically you only played with deez nuts. Your mouth, sadly, did not ever come near my—” He tries to correct you, but you’re already throwing a scrunchie at his face.
“You’re ruining the joke!”
“It’s a bad joke!”
Maybe your sense of humor is way better than his, but as you suffer another Taehyung tickle attack, you can’t help but feel ridiculous for how you’d behaved earlier. How can he look at you with sparkling eyes and a boxy smile that makes him laugh with his teeth, hand coming up to cover his face when you give him your poutiest of pouts— how can you see such genuine kindness and think Taehyung would ever do anything to jeopardize what you have?
“Wassup motherfuckers!”
You raise your eyebrows at Namjoon and tap the end of your chewed pen against your computer screen. Biting pens isn’t sanitary or cute but you do it anyway. The man’s eyes aren’t on your pen cap, though. He’s staring a hole into the podcast you pulled up because you know he doesn’t want to look at you.
“Namjoon, why did you start the episode like that? This is not your Automatic Dick era,” you say with a deep sigh.
“Beoryeo.”
“Excuse me?”
“The song. It’s called ‘Throw Away’, not… Automatic… Dick…” His correction dies on his tongue when he sees the exasperated look on your face.
“That is not the point.” You shake your head and exit the website. You’re not in charge of PR. That’s someone else’s problem.
Your attention turns to the newest draft of the song you’ve been stressing out about since you arrived in Seoul.
“This, though? This is fucking beautiful.” You adjust your laptop on the coffee table so Namjoon can better view the document. The two of you are at the dorm, lounging in the living room.
There are a lot of highlighted lines and many comments throughout the document. You wish you were like the members who scribbled their lyrics in cute leather journals, but your brain is too much of a disaster and broken by technology. If you don’t have your laptop, you can’t write lyrics for shit.
“How are you so eloquent in Korean, but in English, you’re so…” You wave your hands around like you’re rifling through the air for the rest of your sentence.
“Casual?”
“Yes.” Sure, we’ll go with that, Joonie.
“Well, that’s why I’ve got you!”
At least he thinks you’re eloquent. The boys probably think you’re spending all your time in your office easily pulling masterpieces out of your ass when in reality you’re Googling, “what’s the word for when you can’t remember a word?”
It’s lethologica, by the way.
You love Namjoon, but sometimes you think he has too much faith in you. Writing songs is hard. He of all people would know that. The difference between you and Namjoon is that when Namjoon struggles with writing he gets all emo, buys a bunch of weird furniture, and flies to another country to look at foreign art. When you struggle with writing, you just go home and play video games with Taehyung until you’re ready to try again.
You’re both practicing avoidance, but Namjoon’s method just looks a little more dramatic than yours. Despite his assumptions, that doesn’t mean you’re better at handling yourself. You just do things differently.
“We’re so lucky to have Jagi PD!”
Namjoon groans and covers his head with the hood of his hoodie as Jungkook flies into the living room.
Strong hands cup your armpits to lift you off of the couch. While Jungkook is crushing every bone in your body as he hugs you, all you can think about is how you were kind of a little bit sweaty, and now Jungkook has his hands all in your armpits.
“Jungkookie, don’t pick people up without their consent.”
Hobi enters the room behind the younger man and gives him a stern look which makes Jungkook immediately put you down on your feet.
“Sorry, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a pout and galaxies in his eyes. You give his shoulder a playful smack. His baggy black t-shirt sticks to his skin, and you’re less worried about being sweaty. Jungkook is soaked.
“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m tough.” You flex your nonexistent muscles to make the precious maknae laugh his pout away.
“You should come train with us, Jagi.”
“Jungkook,” Namjoon exclaims from where he still sits on the couch.
He turns to his friend with wide eyes. “What?”
“Stop calling Y/N ‘jagi’. Taehyung is going to kill you.” This time Jimin pipes up.
You hadn’t realized he’d entered the room, too. The three newcomers are varying degrees of sweaty with pink cheeks and wearing workout clothes. You suppose they’ve just come back from working out or perhaps a dance practice. They’ve all been back from tour for a few weeks now, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned about the Bangtan Boys it’s that they never fucking rest.
It’s exhausting just to think about it.
“It’s okay,” you say with a shrug. “I think ‘Jagi PD’ is pretty fucking funny, to be honest.”
The nickname Jungkook created for you is cute in your opinion. You are a music producer. Jagi PD is better than using your last name. It could be like your stage name. Maybe you can get Namjoon to credit you as Jagi PD under the songs you write. Using your first and last name seems lame when it’s paired with fun names like SUGA, RM, j-hope, and Slow Rabbit.
“Pretty fucking funny,” Jungkook repeats. He gives the other men a triumphant look before launching himself onto the couch with Jimin.
Hobi chooses to sit on the couch on the opposite side of the room with Namjoon. From the way Namjoon has nestled back into his seat, it’s clear that his song will have to wait. It’s for the best. You’re not thinking about music anymore.
You can’t blame Jungkook for interrupting your work, but the true source of distraction saunters into the room with his arms full of grocery bags.
“Hey, jagiya,” Taehyung greets you sweetly with a kiss on your forehead as he walks through the living room to get to the kitchen. The final two men, Jin and Yoongi, trail behind Taehyung with their own bags.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin give Jungkook a pointed look when Taehyung uses the term of endearment.
“What are you guys making?” Jungkook is curled up against the arm of the couch with his phone in hand. He’s holding it sideways which makes you think he’s probably playing In The Seom. The app is old news by this point, yet Jungkook’s attention is still consumed by it. It’s hilarious.
You wish you could meet the game developers. Whoever made Taehyung’s character look so fucking feral deserves a raise.
“You’re gonna cook?” You don’t hide your shock at the idea that Taehyung would be cooking anything, and that makes everyone laugh.
“I’m making dinner,” Yoongi clarifies. “And it’s a surprise, so stop paying attention to me.” He shoos Jin and Taehyung out of the kitchen.
Jin sits on the couch with Jimin and Jungkook, while Taehyung sits with you. The armchair really only seats one person comfortably, but you wiggle so Taehyung can sit half next to you and half under you. He arranges your legs to drape over his lap. It’s nice, being this close. You can snuggle into his side and let him wrap his arms around you without worrying about who can see or what people think. All the boys are supportive of your relationship with Taehyung. It’s a bit frustrating that there’s no way for you to fully express how appreciative you are.
“Well, what are we supposed to do?” From the couch in the living room, Jungkook shoots Yoongi a glare as if Yoongi’s request for some alone time while he cooks is a personal attack.
Yoongi snorts and turns his back on Jungkook to begin unloading the groceries. “I don’t know, talk to each other.”
“You guys are boring. I only want to talk to Y/N.” You’re not sure how you’ve become Jungkook’s favorite, but it’s exceptionally endearing.
“You’re not even going to pay attention,” Namjoon points out. “Always on that damn phone.”
He’s still got his hood up, and he looks like he was half-asleep. No one but you gets the joke, so Namjoon nods his head in your direction before returning to his slumped position.
“I like watching Jimin-ssi’s character spin around in little circles.”
“It’s cute, isn’t it?” Jin chimes in. “He looks so small.”
The glares Jimin shoots everyone in the room are terrifying. You think about something you’d heard someone say: the shorter the person, the closer to hell they are. Something dramatic that only a tall person would say.
“All the characters are the same size,” he exclaims. “And I don’t do that!”
“Yes, you do. There are fanmade compilation videos of you spinning around, Jimin-ssi! I’ve watched them,” Jungkook confesses with full confidence.
A small squeal sounds from the opposite side of the room. You turn to see Hobi practically bouncing on the couch.
“Please, can we watch some? I want to hear the cute sound effects.”
A pillow flies across the room, and Hobi just barely dodges it. Jimin crosses his arms firmly against his chest and scowls as Jin and Jungkook enthusiastically agree and Hobi snatches the TV remote before anyone else can.
“At least watch a video that isn’t about me doing something embarrassing,” Jimin breaks down enough to plead (not beg!) with Hobi. He eyes the room and his gaze falls on Taehyung. A small smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth and you feel Taehyung slowly exhale. “We should watch one about TaeTae.”
You try to cover your laughter with a cough, but Taehyung applies a light slap to your thigh in retaliation.
“Why me?” he pouts.
“Yes! Let me pick!”
“Jungkookie, no. It was my idea.” Hobi scrolls through his phone until his face lights up with glee. “I’ve watched this one before and it’s so cute, Y/N, you’re going to love it.”
“The suspense is killing me.” You wiggle your eyebrows at Taehyung. The rolled eyes you’re met with feel like a victory.
“Okay, it’s called, BTS struggling to understand ‘Tae-tae language’,” Hobi prefaces while the video loads on the TV.
Jin laughs at the loud snort you let out. “TaeTae language is hard to understand.”
“Maybe you guys aren’t creative enough to understand me,” Taehyung scoffs.
“Hey! I understand you!” Yoongi protests from the kitchen.
Taehyung looks like he might say more, but the video interrupts him. It starts with highlights from the comments section of previous videos. One comment mentions Namjoon being their bias.
“Is that weird? Like, to watch this kind of stuff and hear people talk about their biases?” If you were famous, you were absolutely positive that you’d never Google yourself. You would not want to know what kind of weird shit was out there about you, even something as seemingly innocent as silly compilation videos.
“I think it’s funny,” Jimin says with a smirk and half-moon eyes. “I’m everyone’s bias, anyway.”
“That’s not what TikTok says.” Jungkook turns his nose upward at Jimin, though his eyes never leave his phone. It’s a shame In The Seom didn’t allow him to drown Jimin in the ocean, or he totally would have done it by now.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just check how many videos there are under my hashtag.”
Jimin snorts with a roll of his eyes, seemingly dismissing Jungkook’s claims. But you see him twist on the couch so the younger man can’t see that Jimin pulls up TikTok on his phone. As if TikTok was the end all, be all. You want to tell them it’s impossible to know who’s the most “popular” or whatever, but you know that conversation is futile.
“Y/N, you were Army before you started dating Tae!” You can practically see the light bulb going off in Hobi’s brain. Or, rather, the Army bomb. “Who was your bias?”
Hobi’s question barely leaves his lips when the room grows quiet. Seven pairs of eyes stare at you expectantly, including your boyfriend’s. You keep your eyes on the TV, though you aren’t seeing the compilation video playing anymore.
“I don’t know. I didn’t have a bias. Y’know, OT7 and all that shit.”
Suddenly, the room erupts. Screeches of protests and arguments are shouted across the living room, the boys yelling on top of one another and slewing insults at each other.
“Oh come on, Y/N, tell us!” Hobi whines.
“Yeah, we wanna know! We won’t judge you.” Pulling this precious information out of you is so vital that Jungkook looks away from his phone long enough to give you a pouty face.
“It’s obviously me. I’m Worldwide Handsome.”
“Leave her alone, guys.” Taehyung shifts in his seat and adjusts how your legs drape over his lap. His large hands massage soft circles into your calf muscles. “This is so childish.”
“Right. A bias is just whoever a fan is partial to,” Namjoon says with a shrug. “What matters is that fans support us as seven.”
“No, a bias is the one the fan wants to fuck the most.” This time Jungkook doesn’t look up from his phone when he speaks.
Jin hums in agreement, winking in your direction and making Taehyung scowl.
“You’re just scared it’s not you, Tae.” For someone Taehyung calls his soulmate, Jimin seems to jump at every opportunity to fuck with his friend. He turns to you with those haunting siren eyes that lure in even God’s strongest soldiers. “Is he, Y/N? Is your bias Taehyung or someone else?”
“I thought Hobi’s question was, who was my bias? Not is.”
His siren eyes narrow at you. “Stop arguing semantics and answer the question.”
You can’t hold a staring contest with the now-paused Youtube video, and Jimin’s sudden snappiness makes you feel the need to look away. Right into the eyes of your answer, the only person who hasn’t spoken during the entire bias conversation.
Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch yours when you look away from the TV. Never one to miss a beat, he raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at you, the ghost of his classic Yoongi smirk barely lifting the corner of his mouth before the entire room erupts into shouting again.
“YOONGI?! REALLY?! OUT OF ALL OF US, YOU PICKED HIM?” Jimin jumps up from the couch, knocking pillows all over the floor.
“Watch it, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi scolds the younger man for his informal language. Jimin only rolls his eyes.
“Damn, Jimin was right. You aren’t her bias, TaeTae.” Jin shakes his head with a solemn look. He gets up to leave the room, giving your boyfriend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he walks past. “I’m going to my room to play Mario Kart. This is too depressing for me.”
At the mention of video games, Jungkook perks up. “Wait Jin hyungie, I wanna play, too!” He tosses the last couch pillow in Jimin’s lap and scrambles to catch up with Jin halfway down the hall.
Yoongi wears a full-blown smirk now. You watch with wide eyes as his tongue slips out to drag across his bottom lip before he’s drawing his lip between his teeth. “Cute.”
“Fuck off,” Taehyung hisses at the older man, lifting your legs off his lap.
“Tae…” You reach out to grab his arm to stop him, but he’s already heading to his bedroom. The door slams shut so hard that the photos on the walls shudder.
You turn back around to glare at the remaining men. “Did you have your fun, hmm? Was it worth it?”
“I really… I didn’t think…” Hobi fumbles his words, clearly uncomfortable with the outbursts he’d unwittingly caused.
“If it doesn’t work out with Taehyung, call me, yeah?” Yoongi sends you a wink, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek.
You feel your face heat up and you refuse to look at him. You wait until he goes back to preparing the food before you stand up. Without another word, you follow in Taehyung’s footsteps until you reach his door. It’s locked, but you expected as much.
“TaeTae,” you call softly. “Please let me in.”
You wait in silence long enough that you consider going home. If Taehyung doesn’t want to talk to you, you aren’t going to push him. Even if you think the reason for his outburst is stupid and that he’s acting like a child.
Eventually, the door is opened wide enough for you to slip inside. Taehyung doesn’t look at you when he shuts the door. Instead, he sits on his bed and leans his back against the wall. He keeps his eyes on his hands delicately folded together in his lap. His eyes are already red and slightly puffy. The sight is glass in your veins.
“Tae, please don’t be upset,” you start slowly. Climbing into his bed, you scoot until you’re lounging next to him. He doesn’t pull away when you rest your head on his shoulder.
“It’s embarrassing.”
You let out a small sigh, not because you’re frustrated with him but because you’d known watching fanmade videos would turn out to be a bad idea.
“If it makes you feel better, you were still in my bias line.” It’s probably not the best way to reassure your boyfriend, but it at least makes him look at you.
“Who else?” His eyes are narrowed.
“I don’t think I should answer that.”
Taehyung’s bottom lip droops and you feel your heart seize.
“Okay, okay!” Maybe holding his hand will make it better. “Jimin, but, no don’t give me that look! Just listen.”
Taehyung’s pout deepens, but he doesn’t interrupt you.
“It’s not like when I hang out with Jimin or Yoongi I’m thinking about those things, okay? It’s just a natural thing that happens. Anyone can be drawn to specific people in a group; the same thing happens with friendships. Like you and Jimin. It’s normal.”
Taehyung doesn’t seem convinced, but he laces his fingers through yours. You interpret the light squeeze he gives you as permission to continue talking.
“Yoongi is cool because I always saw him as this, like, mental health icon for me. He talks so much about mental health and fans see how he has grown and gotten healthier over the years. It’s inspiring, right? You’ve seen it firsthand.”
“That’s true,” Taehyung sniffles.
You nod your head. “Exactly, I respect him as a person and an artist. And with Jimin, I’ve always been almost jealous? of him. Because he can so beautifully balance both masculine and feminine qualities and aesthetics. He looks good no matter what and has learned to accept himself instead of forcing whatever weird masculinity shit y’all had when you debuted. That’s inspiring, too.”
Taehyung is silent for a while. You give him the space to process what you’ve said, and you hope that it’s enough to make him understand that a bias is not just about who you want to fuck. Jungkook is such a flirt; of course, that’s how he would interpret things.
“Why did you like me?” He finally looks at you. His eyes are a little pink from his tears, but his cheeks appear dry. The innocent curiosity in his expression tugs at your heart.
You reach up to run your fingers through his fluffy hair, combing out any tangles and gently massaging his scalp. This is probably how Taehyung feels when you worry about fans, paparazzi, and sasaengs.
“Well, you’re hot,” you say with a grin. You feel a bit lighter when Taehyung’s mouth curves slightly, too.
“Is that it?”
“Of course not.” You stick your tongue out. “You were my favorite in the vocal line. I loved how smooth your singing voice is, and how thoughtful you sound when you talk about how important the members and Army are to you. How could someone not love the inventor of I purple you?”
It feels weird to talk about how you liked Taehyung before you knew who he was. You never made your status as a fan obvious in the beginning. Professionalism is more important than fangirling. Even now, you only casually discuss your interest in the group before meeting them.
“Your sense of fashion made me laugh. You always seemed so happy, even though people like to focus a lot on how mean you can look. And I thought your relationships with Yoongi and Jimin were cute. You’re a great example of how men can and should be soft and loving.”
They’re all highly-simplified explanations for why Taehyung caught your eye in a group of seven, but they seem to put him at ease. He slides into the bed so he’s lying on his back under the covers. With his eyes locked on yours, he pats his chest.
“C’mere.”
You lie down under the covers next to him. It feels nice to rest your head on his chest and throw your leg over his waist. Ever since Taehyung came back from the tour, you’ve wanted to be attached at the hip. It’s not that you can’t handle being alone, but you don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to be with the people who bring you joy— especially when you live in a new country.
“You know I’m in love with you, not Yoongi or Jimin.”
“I know.”
“Do you actually?” You shift your head so you can look up at him.
Taehyung meets you halfway. You let your eyes close as he slots his lips with yours, allowing your body to melt into his. The desperation the two of you had for each other when Taehyung first returned to Seoul eventually died out. Now, you’re okay with taking things slow. You can savor the feeling of his body on yours, firm and warm beneath you. You can savor the smell of his cologne and his taste as you breathe him in and slip your tongue inside his mouth.
“I do,” he responds with a heavy exhale once you pull away. “I’m sorry I got upset. I just got so angry when hyung…” Taehyung scrunches his eyebrows and his nose scrunches along with them.
You massage his forehead and try to forcefully smooth the wrinkles there. “Yoongi is just being an ass. He loves you, too,” you point out.
Taehyung can’t argue that, so he leans down to kiss you again. You know how important physical contact is to him, especially when he’s upset. With that in mind, you slip your hands beneath his t-shirt. Splaying your hands flat against his chest feels nice. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and he’s here. He’s safe and healthy and yours.
“We both get pretty jealous, huh?”
Taehyung gives you a sheepish smile, all cheeks and pretty lips. You love his little lip freckle, but your favorite will always be the one under his eye.
“Not as bad as Jungkook, though.”
“Mhm, please don’t break up with me over a perilla leaf or anything.”
Taehyung giggles and you feel like you’ve got helium inside you. If you don’t hold onto him tightly enough, you might float away with how light and carefree being with him makes you.
“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says as he nibbles your earlobe.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
His hands find the hem of your t-shirt, and you sit up to allow him to undress you. It’s a delicate process because Taehyung wants to take his time, too. It might seem like the two of you use sex to solve your problems, but you never see it like that. For you, letting Taehyung take his time breaking you down, just to build you back up again, is an act of emotional intimacy, just as it is physical. When Taehyung gets comfortable between your thighs, dark eyes locked with yours as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the hold he has on your wrists grounds you. And when he hovers over you with your legs wrapped around his hips as he thrusts into you, you whisper gentle praises against his throat to remind him that you are his and he is yours.
You spend the rest of the afternoon in Taehyung’s bed. It feels good to snuggle with him while he talks to you about all the jazz clubs he forced Jimin to go to during the little free time they had on tour. It seems the tension in the house fades because the rest of the boys are loud and energetic; it’s impossible to tune them out when their laughter bleeds into the room despite the door being closed.
“Do you think Taehyung and Y/N are done having make-up sex?”
“It’s pretty quiet in there. Maybe they fell asleep.”
You groan and bury your face in Taehyung’s side. It’s almost as if Jungkook and Jin are purposefully talking outside of his bedroom to make sure you can hear them. Knowing them, it’s not a far-fetched idea.
“Probably tired themselves out. The screaming was really—”
“JUNGKOOK!” Taehyung sits up so abruptly that you fall back onto the bed. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
Jin and Jungkook’s laughter eventually fades down the hallway, but Taehyung gets out of bed anyway.
“Yoongi is probably almost done with dinner,” he grumbles. You watch him zip up his jeans and admire how tall and lanky he is. Sorry to Yoongi and Jimin.
He manages to get his arms caught in his t-shirt somehow, so you begrudgingly get out of bed to help. You tease him endlessly because obviously fucking you is so good that he doesn’t know how to use his limbs anymore.
Your teasing is nothing compared to the way the other boys drag you the moment you step out of Taehyung’s bedroom.
“You okay, Y/N? Sounded like you might be dying,” Jimin grins as he prepares the kitchen table for dinner.
Jin snickers, throwing out his own commentary. “Taehyung, you got it pretty good even though you aren’t her bias, huh.”
Before Taehyung has a chance to bite anyone’s head off, you chime in.
“Yeah, yeah, Yoongi was my bias when I was a fan,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You can practically see Jungkook registering that you said “was a fan”, and that makes him pout. As if you aren’t still a fan. What a baby, just like Taehyung.
Yoongi snorts as he retrieves a dish from the oven. “I cannot fathom why.”
“Me either,” Jimin agrees with a giggle. He’s completely unfazed by the dark look Yoongi shoots him.
You join in on Jimin’s laughter, and you’re pleased to see that Taehyung is smiling too. The whole thing is so ridiculous. Maybe you’re feeling a bit too comfortable because you start oversharing.
“And I was a Yoonmin shipper, I’m not gonna lie.” You’re laughing so hard that you don’t realize neither Jimin nor Taehyung are laughing anymore. After a few seconds pass, though, your smile slowly falls. Jimin’s face has turned bright pink and Yoongi has his back to the table.
“It was one time, okay?” Jimin’s eyes burn holes into Yoongi’s shoulder blades from across the room. “Okay, two times.”
The older man doesn’t comment.
You nudge Taehyung’s leg with your foot under the kitchen table. He presses his lips together as hard as he can, but the smile just gets pushed into his cheeks. A rush of air explodes from his lips in a loud raspberry, and that’s what triggers your laughter again.
“Oh my god, I really wish I was surprised but I’m not,” you confess with a wheeze.
You’ve clearly touched on a sensitive topic. Jimin blabbers away about how it’s not that big of a deal, all while Yoongi silently finishes arranging the dishes on the table. It would feel uncomfortable, but Jimin’s flushed face and the tiniest of smiles curving Yoongi’s lips make you think it meant a lot more than what Jimin wishes to admit.
And that’s really fucking cute.
As the rest of the boys come piling into the kitchen, Taehyung scoots his chair until yours are touching. You bump shoulders and tilt your face up so he can press a kiss against your jaw.
“I love you,” he whispers. “With all my heart.“
“I love you, too.” You lace your fingers with his and let your hands rest against his thigh. “You dork.”
The kitchen is chaos, but all you can focus on is the boxy smile Taehyung gifts you.
Summary: When Jungkook and Jimin, global pop star, walks into her small-town diner, neither of them expects more than polite smiles and a good meal. But one glance, one laugh, one unforgettable weekend changes everything.
A/n: it’s so smutty, they’re obsessed with each other. And sadly not the happiest ending.
The sun was just beginning to dip behind the trees in the sleepy little town of Marlowe Springs, a place so small it barely had a proper downtown. But what it did have was charm, and an old diner called Lila’s, with checkered floors, red leather booths, and the scent of fresh pie always hanging in the air.
Inside, the bell over the door jingled softly as two men stepped in. A few heads turned not because they recognized them, but simply because strangers were rare here.
Jungkook adjusted the collar of his oversized flannel shirt, glancing around curiously. Jimin followed behind, smiling brightly, the camera crew entering discreetly a few moments later.
“Is this okay to film in?” Jimin asked softly, his English clear but accented.
The manager nodded, already buzzing with excitement after recognizing who they were. “Of course! Just… please ask the waitress if she’s comfortable with it first.”
And then she appeared.
You, Y/N, walked out from behind the counter with a tray in your hand and not a hint of makeup on your face. Your hair was tied up in a messy loose bun that somehow made you look effortlessly stunning, and the tattoos peeking from your forearms matched the vibe of your loose band tee and worn-in jeans. You weren’t trying that was what made it work.
Jungkook’s breath caught for a second.
He turned slightly toward Jimin, who had already noticed the way Jungkook was staring. With a playful nudge, Jimin whispered, “Don’t be obvious, JK.”
But it was too late his gaze was fixed.
You walked up to the table, offering a shy smile, and even that seemed to light up the dim diner.
“Hey there. You guys need a table?”
Jimin stood up a bit straighter, putting on his most respectful tone. “Hi... yes, please. Um… also, we’re filming a travel show for Disney+. Is it okay if you’re in a few shots? You don’t have to speak or anything unless you want to.”
Your eyes widened just a little, surprised but not overwhelmed. “Oh. Uh… yeah, sure, I guess. That’s okay.”
Jungkook’s voice came in gently. “Only if you’re comfortable,” he said, voice low and kind. His Korean accent softened the words, and his eyes — warm, slightly nervous — met yours briefly before flicking away.
You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’m okay with it.”
They took a booth by the window. You handed them menus, and even that felt oddly important somehow. Jungkook watched you as you moved, quiet and graceful and completely unaware of just how much space you were suddenly taking up in his thoughts.
When you brought out their drinks iced Americano for Jungkook, sweet tea for Jimin they both stood up to take the tray from your hands, catching you off guard.
“Oh! You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay,” Jungkook said softly, smiling. “We help.”
Jimin chuckled. “He’s very polite when he wants to be.”
You laughed lightly, the sound making Jungkook glance at you again. He couldn’t help it. He noticed everything the way your tattoo wrapped around your wrist like a secret message, the small freckle near your collarbone, the way you moved like you belonged here and yet somehow didn’t.
As you walked away, Jimin leaned across the table. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not,” Jungkook muttered, clearly lying.
“She’s your type, huh?”
Jungkook just looked out the window, then back at the counter where you were chatting quietly with another server.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Exactly my type.”
Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, and inside, the camera rolled quietly as something entirely unscripted began.
The diner had settled into a soft hum — the clinking of silverware, quiet conversation, and the occasional laugh from the booth near the back where a group of older locals sat, sipping their coffee like they had nowhere else to be. You floated between the tables with practiced ease, balancing plates and filling mugs, exchanging inside jokes with the regulars.
Jungkook and Jimin had just placed their order: Jungkook chose the grilled cheese with tomato soup ,simple, comforting — and Jimin ordered the special of the day, a fried chicken plate with sweet corn and biscuits.
“You’ll love it,” you said with a little grin, writing it down. “Miss Edna in the back makes the biscuits fresh every morning. She’s seventy-nine and swears by Crisco and country music.”
Jimin laughed. “We trust her already.”
Jungkook gave you another soft smile. “You seem close with everyone here.”
You shrugged, eyes flicking to the booth where two old men waved at you with identical grins. “It’s a small town. We all kinda grew up in each other’s kitchens.”
As you walked away with their order, you couldn’t help glancing back. They weren’t what you expected when the crew walked in. Both of them — polite, low-key, curious. Jimin had already asked one of the locals for recommendations on where to find good vinyl. Jungkook was quiet, but not in a distant way he watched everything. Especially you.
Behind the counter, while you waited for their food to be ready, one of the regulars nudged you gently. “That boy keeps looking at you like you’re the main course, sugar.”
You rolled your eyes, flushing just a little. “He’s just being polite.”
“Polite?” the old man chuckled. “Maybe. But I’ve got eyes, and so does he.”
You laughed under your breath and shook your head. When the food was ready, you grabbed the plates, but before you could even reach their booth, they were both standing again.
Jungkook reached for the soup. “Let us help.”
“Seriously,” Jimin added, “We’ve been carrying cameras and gear all day. A couple plates? Easy.”
You blinked, a bit stunned. “You’re not supposed to carry your own lunch. That’s my job.”
“You’re helping us,” Jungkook said with a gentle smile. “So we help you.”
You surrendered the plates, and the three of you sat them down together. You lingered for a moment as they settled back in.
“You guys filming more after this?” you asked, casually wiping a hand on your apron.
Jimin nodded between bites. “We’ve got a few shots to get outside. The sunset, some walking around town kind of stuff.”
You hesitated, then said it before you could talk yourself out of it. “Do you… want help? I mean, I don’t know what you need, but if you want someone to show you around or hold a mic or, I don’t know, carry a tripod…”
Jungkook’s head lifted quickly, his eyes locking with yours. “You’d help?”
You nodded, feeling slightly shy. “I’ve got another hour on shift, but after that… sure. If you need.”
Jimin grinned at Jungkook. “Looks like we just hired a local PA.”
Jungkook’s voice was soft, but there was something more behind it. “We’d be lucky to have you.”
You felt heat rise in your chest, but you just smiled and nodded, then turned to check on another table — heart a little faster than before.
Back at their booth, Jimin whispered under his breath, “She’s gonna steal the show.”
Jungkook didn’t respond. He just watched you move through the room like gravity didn’t apply, like everyone in this diner spun quietly around you.
And maybe, for tonight, he did too.
An hour later, the dinner rush was over, and the neon sign outside Lila’s glowed softly in the deepening twilight. You untied your apron, tucked your hair up again, and met the crew outside, where Jimin and Jungkook stood under the golden light of a streetlamp, their jackets zipped and cheeks a little pink from the evening chill.
“You sure you’re not tired?” Jimin asked as you approached.
You shook your head. “I’m good. Long shifts are normal. Besides, I don’t get to show two world-famous guys my hometown every day.”
Jungkook smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “We’re lucky you’re up for it.”
You led them down the quiet main street, where the buildings were old but full of character. String lights wrapped around lampposts. A vintage record store closed, but glowing sat beside an old barbershop with checkered tiles and a spinning red-and-white pole.
“There’s a mural around the corner,” you said, pointing down a side alley. “A local artist did it after she lost her brother. It’s kind of beautiful, if you don’t mind graffiti vibes.”
They followed you, cameras rolling at a respectful distance. Jimin murmured a soft, “Wow,” when he saw it a painted swirl of sky and stars with handwritten messages scrawled around the edges from people all over town. Jungkook crouched down to study a part where someone had written, “Even the quiet ones shine.”
“She painted that part for him,” you said quietly. “He never said much, but he loved the stars.”
Jungkook glanced up at you. “Thank you for bringing us here.”
You shrugged with a soft smile. “I figured you’d want something real.”
From there, you showed them your favorite overlook just outside of town a short walk past the trees. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass as the last of the sunset dipped behind the hills.
Jimin took a deep breath. “This is like a movie.”
You nudged him gently. “You are in one.”
He laughed, and even Jungkook chuckled, eyes still scanning the sky like he didn’t want to miss a second of it.
As you all headed back toward the center of town, the energy had shifted calmer now, quieter, closer.
And then, like it was nothing, you said, “You know what you guys should do tomorrow?”
They looked over at you, curious.
“Kayaking,” you said with a grin. “There’s this river just outside town. Nobody ever goes during the week. It’s peaceful, clear water, trees all around. You’ll get insane shots for the show.”
Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Wait, really?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I know the guy who runs the rentals. I can talk to him. It’s safe, super chill. You won’t regret it.”
Jungkook looked intrigued. “You kayak?”
You smirked. “Better than I waitress.”
That made both of them laugh.
By the time you reached the diner again, you were already texting the rental guy and clearing the idea with the crew. The producers were hesitant at first, but after a quick call with the management team — and maybe a bit of convincing charm from you — it was greenlit.
“They’re in,” you said as you tucked your phone away. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you here and we’ll drive out together.”
Jungkook looked at you for a moment, longer than usual, like he was trying to memorize something.
“Thanks for doing all this,” he said.
You shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
But the way his eyes stayed on yours — gentle, curious, grateful — told you he didn’t think it was nothing at all.
The sky over Marlowe Springs had turned velvet black, scattered with a thousand stars. Out past the edge of town, the crew had set up camp at a quiet riverside spot, ready for an early start in the morning.
Jimin and Jungkook sat near the fire, bundled in hoodies, each with a tin mug of something warm in hand. The cameras were off now, the crew mostly tucked away in their tents. Crickets chirped softly in the background, the flames crackling in between lulls of easy silence.
Jimin poked at the fire with a stick. “So,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’ve been really quiet tonight.”
Jungkook took a sip of tea, not looking up. “I’m tired.”
Jimin gave him a look. “You’re never this quiet. Not unless you’re overthinking something.”
Jungkook didn’t answer right away, but the pause said enough. His gaze flicked toward the river, where the moonlight shimmered on the surface.
Jimin tilted his head. “You keep thinking about her, huh?”
Jungkook smiled slightly but didn’t deny it.
“She’s cool,” Jimin went on, more seriously now. “Different. Real. I can see why you’re… you know.”
Jungkook exhaled slowly, finally admitting it. “She just… she’s not trying. That’s the thing. She’s not trying to be anything, and that’s what makes her everything.”
Jimin raised his brows, impressed. “Wow. Poetic.”
“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered with a quiet laugh, rubbing his face. “I’m just saying—like… the tattoos, the way she wears that band tee like she’s been living in it for years, her laugh… She’s not trying to get attention. She already has it, and she doesn’t even know.”
Jimin’s expression softened. “She made you grilled cheese and then offered to carry your camera bag. You’re already doomed.”
They both chuckled at that.
Jimin leaned back, resting his head on his hands. “You know, the fans are gonna love her if she shows up on camera.”
Jungkook frowned. “She didn’t sign up for that kind of attention.”
“No, but she could handle it,” Jimin said. “She’s got that grounded energy. She wouldn’t care about clout. She’d care about you.”
Jungkook was quiet again, staring into the flames.
“I don’t even know her,” he said finally. “Not really.”
“Then get to know her,” Jimin replied simply. “Start tomorrow. Talk. Ask. Listen.”
Jungkook looked over, half smiling. “You sound like a therapist.”
“I’ve been your bandmate for over a decade. That is a type of therapy,” Jimin joked.
The fire popped softly. Jungkook poked at it this time, watching the embers fly.
“She said she kayaks better than she waitresses,” he murmured after a moment.
Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Jungkook nodded. “Guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
Jimin grinned. “I think you already know the answer.”
They both leaned back in their camping chairs, the sounds of the river and the night filling the space between them.
Tomorrow would bring water and trees and cameras again — but maybe something more, too.
And somewhere on the other side of town, you were brushing your teeth, unaware that the two men who’d walked into your world just hours ago were now sitting around a fire, talking about you like you were the best thing they’d seen since the tour started.
The morning air was crisp and clean, and a fine mist rose gently off the river as the sun crept over the trees. It was early — just past seven — but the crew was already halfway through setting up, cameras checking exposure against the soft gold light.
Jungkook stood near the van, adjusting the straps of his life vest when he saw you walking toward them.
And for a moment…
He forgot to breathe.
You wore black biker shorts that hugged your legs just right, a loose, faded oversized tee hanging just off one shoulder, revealing the strap of your sports bra — and the curve of a vine tattoo trailing up your arm. Your hair was braided into two long plaits, framing your face naturally. No makeup, just fresh skin and the morning sun catching the curve of your cheekbone. You wore beat-up white sneakers, the kind that had clearly lived through years of adventures.
You looked like a movie still.
No — you looked like you.
And that was better.
“Hey, stranger,” you called with a little wave, already in motion as you headed toward an older man near the dock.
“Gino!” you said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder.
The man — probably in his late sixties, tan with sun-worn skin and a salt-and-pepper beard — grinned when he saw you. “There she is! My best guide who refuses to ever officially work here.”
You laughed. “That’s because you don’t pay well and you still use paper receipts.”
Gino barked a laugh. “She’s got jokes today. Must be the company.”
You glanced back at the guys, and Jungkook was still watching you, one hand frozen halfway through tying his vest.
You turned back to Gino, dropping your voice just a little. “They’re filming, but I told them you’d be cool. We’ll be respectful. No faces unless people consent, and they’ll keep it low-key.”
Gino nodded easily. “If it’s you asking, it’s always a yes.”
Jimin walked over as you were finishing up, already camera-ready with sunglasses perched on his head and that easy smile that could get him out of a parking ticket in any country.
“Morning!” he said brightly.
You offered a smile in return. “You ready to paddle?”
Jungkook finally joined you both, quiet but warm, his eyes dropping briefly to the tattoos lining your thigh before he looked up at your face. “Nice shirt.”
You looked down — oversized MCR band tee.
You raised an eyebrow. “You know them?”
He nodded. “One of my favorites.”
You tried not to smile too obviously. “Good taste.”
The producer gave the go-ahead, and soon enough, you were helping load gear into dry bags, handing out paddles, and demonstrating how not to tip a kayak with the grace of someone who had done this dozens of times.
“Want to ride solo or double?” Gino asked, glancing between the three of you.
You looked at Jungkook.
“I’ll go with you,” he said quickly, then paused, realizing how fast he’d answered. “If that’s okay.”
You gave a little shrug, casual. “Sure. Hope you don’t mind a little steering.”
Jimin gave Jungkook a knowing look behind your back, mouthing smooth before walking off toward his solo kayak.
As you helped Jungkook step into the tandem kayak behind you, he hesitated for a beat, looking down at the black ink trailing across your calves and up your arm.
“Your tattoos…” he said quietly, adjusting his grip on the side of the kayak. “They suit you.”
You glanced back over your shoulder, braids swinging slightly. “Thanks. I got them all during some sort of emotional crisis, so I’m glad they at least look good.”
He smiled, really smiled this time. “I get that.”
With a push from the dock, the kayak slipped onto the water, smooth and quiet, gliding past the reeds as birds scattered overhead.
And just like that, you and Jungkook drifted into the river, away from town, away from cameras, and slowly, toward something neither of you had quite expected.
The kayak glided quietly along the river, the early morning stillness broken only by the dip of paddles in the water and the soft chirping of birds in the trees. Dew still clung to the grass along the banks, and a layer of fog shimmered above the surface like a veil.
Jimin wasn’t far behind in his solo kayak, occasionally paddling closer to snap a picture with the small film camera slung around his neck. Every now and then he’d grin and wave like the proud older brother capturing prom photos. You and Jungkook just laughed.
It didn’t feel like a show anymore. It felt like a break from the world.
You sat in the front seat of the tandem kayak, occasionally turning your head to speak to Jungkook, who was behind you and listening very intently.
“So…” he began, voice low but clear through the morning hush, “what’s your first tattoo?”
You smirked, glancing back at him. “You really wanna know?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I want to know everything.”
You raised a brow, amused. “Dangerous thing to say to someone you just met.”
He smiled. “I meant it.”
You looked ahead, thinking. “Okay. It’s this little one—” You lifted your left wrist slightly, showing a tiny, faded crescent moon. “I was seventeen. Total impulse. My mom was furious.”
He chuckled softly. “I like it. It’s… honest.”
You twisted slightly in your seat. “What about you? First tattoo?”
He hesitated. “The one on my hand. It was for ARMY. I got it when I needed a reminder of why I started. Not for fashion. For me.”
You turned back, letting that sit in the air for a moment. “That’s a really good reason.”
He nodded, then asked, “What would you be doing if you weren’t working at Lila’s?”
You exhaled, thinking. “I don’t know. Something creative, maybe. I sketch sometimes. I thought about learning graphic design but… life, you know?”
“You still can,” he said softly, like it was obvious.
You glanced back, and for a second, you weren’t on a river. You weren’t filming. You weren’t two people from completely different worlds.
You were just two people who liked each other, sitting in the same silence, paddling in the same direction.
“You ask a lot of questions,” you teased lightly, dipping your paddle again.
He shrugged. “I don’t get to talk like this much. Not about real stuff.”
You looked at him. “What don’t people ask you?”
He was quiet for a second. Then: “No one asks how it feels to be alone when millions think they know you.”
That hit deeper than you expected.
You didn’t say anything. You just let the silence fill the space between you again — warm, not awkward. Understanding.
Jimin paddled closer a few minutes later, camera raised. “You two look like you’ve been doing this for years.”
Click.
“Jimin!” you laughed, shielding your face.
He grinned. “You’ll thank me later. You’re glowing.”
Jungkook didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on you longer than usual.
After a while, the current slowed, and you rested your paddle across your lap. Jungkook matched your movement
You looked over your shoulder again, voice soft. “This okay for your show?”
Jungkook nodded. “Better. It’s the only part I’ll remember.”
You smiled, cheeks warm and not from the sun.
The kayak drifted, the cameras forgotten, and somewhere between the strokes of the paddle and the echo of quiet laughter, something started to settle into place.
The river had widened, curving gently through tall reeds and willows that whispered with the breeze. After an hour of calm paddling and slow, thoughtful conversation, you all drifted to a quieter stretch, where the water stilled and the sun broke through the trees in warm, golden streaks.
You stretched your arms overhead with a content sigh. “Alright, muscle man,” you said, glancing back at Jungkook. “Think you’re ready to try this on your own?”
He smirked, cocking a brow. “Obviously.”
Jimin, who had been floating nearby with his paddle across his lap, raised an eyebrow. “Oh? That was fast.”
You laughed, spinning your kayak gently with one hand. “You sure? It’s harder when you’re not in the front seat just cruising while someone else does the work.”
He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You trying to challenge me?”
“Not me,” you said, turning toward Jimin. “He might be.”
Jimin grinned, eyes already sparkling. “Okay, golden boy. Race you to the bend and back. You flip, you owe me dinner.”
Jungkook smirked, cocky now. “Deal.”
You paddled the tandem kayak to the side as they lined up near the middle of the river.
“One,” you called, raising your hand. “Two… three—go!”
And they were off — or at least, Jimin was. He shot forward with clean, steady strokes. Jungkook, on the other hand…
Two seconds in, he swayed too far to the left, tried to correct it too hard on the right, overcompensated with a fancy turn—
And then: SPLASH.
The kayak tipped violently and dumped him straight into the river.
You gasped, then burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that bent you in half. “Oh my God—!”
Jimin was already circling back, shouting, “I KNEW IT!”
You didn’t hesitate. You dropped your paddle, jumped out, and sprinted along the muddy riverbank, shouting, “I’m coming!”
Jungkook surfaced with a dramatic shake of his head, blinking water out of his eyes, hair dripping into his face, completely soaked — and still laughing.
“Are you okay?!” you called, skidding down the slope near the bend.
“I’m fine!” he shouted back, laughing, wiping water from his mouth. “But I want to die of embarrassment!”
You waded in up to your knees, extending a hand through the splash and current. “Come on, river boy. Let me save your dignity.”
He grabbed your hand, strong fingers wrapping around yours, and you both laughed as you pulled him up toward the shore.
The camera crew, still filming at a distance, caught every second — but somehow it didn’t matter. The laughter, the water, the ridiculousness of it all made everything feel weightless.
“Okay, maybe I wasn’t ready,” Jungkook admitted as he stood, water dripping from every inch of him.
You were still breathless with laughter. “You lasted thirty seconds.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Dinner and dessert,” Jimin called from his kayak, smug. “I want pie. A slice for every second you stayed upright.”
Jungkook groaned, but when he looked at you — cheeks flushed from laughter, eyes gleaming in the sun — he didn’t regret a thing.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d flip a hundred more kayaks just to hear you laugh like that again.
Back at the riverbank, Jungkook was standing in the grass, dripping wet, looking like a sad but very handsome golden retriever. His shirt clung to his chest, his jeans were soaked through, and his pride had clearly floated somewhere downstream.
You tossed him a towel — a big, faded blue one that smelled faintly of sunscreen and fabric softener.
“Thanks,” he muttered, running it through his hair, avoiding eye contact.
You crossed your arms, still grinning. “So, Mr. ‘Obviously,’ how’s it feel to lose to someone in sunglasses and a bucket hat?”
Jungkook looked up, gave you a mock glare, then smirked. “It was sabotage. You distracted me.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I distracted you?”
He nodded, deadpan. “Yes. With your tattoos. And your laugh. And the way you said ‘muscle man.’”
You blinked, caught off guard for half a second — and then laughed. “That’s not how distraction works.”
“Tell that to the kayak,” he mumbled, rubbing his neck.
You walked over and gently tugged the towel from his hands, then started drying his hair for him, ruffling the already-messy strands with care.
“God, you’re soaked,” you said.
“You pushed me in.”
“I ran to save you,” you corrected, still toweling his hair. “Big difference.”
He stood still, eyes fluttering shut for a second under your touch. When you stopped, he caught your wrist gently, holding it in his.
“Thanks for today,” he said quietly. “Not just the kayaking. For… being like this. Normal.”
You looked up at him, and for the first time, neither of you were laughing.
The air between you shifted. Warm. Curious. Charged.
“You’re easy to be normal around,” you replied.
“Maybe that’s the dangerous part,” he murmured.
Before either of you could say something else, Jimin called out from across the clearing. “Hey lovebirds! You done with your rom-com moment? I’m hungry!”
You rolled your eyes and stepped back, but you didn’t pull your wrist away until Jungkook let go first.
The towel hung around his shoulders now, and he looked at you like he didn’t want to blink. Like maybe this small town had just turned into the most interesting place he’d ever been.
“Come on,” you said, nodding toward the trail. “You owe Jimin pie.”
Jungkook chuckled. “I owe you more than that.”
And as you walked side by side up the dirt path, sneakers brushing, fingers almost touching, you had the feeling this day — this ridiculous, beautiful, soaked day — would stay with both of you long after the cameras stopped rolling.
The sun had already dipped low behind the hills by the time you all made it back into town. Marlowe Springs looked golden again, the same way it had the night before — but everything felt different now. Lighter. Closer.
Jimin had jokingly insisted on dinner at “the only restaurant that matters,” so of course you all ended up back at Lila’s Diner
This time, there were more people inside. Word had spread — not loudly, not in a fan-crazed kind of way, but in that small-town hush-hush manner that meant the locals were curious but respectful. A few cell phones peeked out. Some whispered. Most just smiled and nodded as the camera crew entered again.
You were already behind the counter, changed into a fresh tee, hair still braided, this time tied back with a pen stuck into the knot. The owners had been thrilled when you said you’d come in to help for the evening — even more thrilled when you casually mentioned you’d be filming with them again.
The “Are You Sure?” crew had set up two cameras, more subtle this time one tucked near the jukebox, the other by the pie case.
Jimin and Jungkook walked in to soft applause from the staff, and you couldn’t help but smirk when Jungkook immediately scanned the room for you.
You leaned on the counter when he approached. “Back for round two?”
He leaned forward a little, mirroring your posture. “Couldn’t stay away.”
“You’re dripping river water on the floor.”
“Worth it.”
Jimin cut in with a dramatic groan. “Can you two flirt after I get fed?”
You laughed and tossed a menu onto their usual table. “Sit. I’ll bring you something that doesn’t float.”
The camera caught it all — the way Jungkook watched you as you walked away, the way Jimin leaned in and whispered something that made Jungkook duck his head and smile behind his hand.
You moved through the diner like you always did, quick on your feet but grounded, unfazed by the lights or lenses. The regulars still cracked jokes. Gino came in and shouted, “You dry yet, hotshot?” to Jungkook, who just laughed and held up his towel like a white flag.
In between taking orders and refilling mugs, you’d wander back to their table.
At one point, you brought over two slices of peach pie.
“This is Jimin’s,” you said, setting the first plate down. “Three scoops of vanilla because he’s a diva.”
Jimin gasped. “You get me.”
“And this,” you said, placing the second plate in front of Jungkook, “is on the house. River tax.”
He looked up at you, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
The moment hung there for a beat too long. One of the crew cleared their throat. You both laughed nervously, breaking it.
As the night went on, you helped clear dishes, carried trays, even handed Jimin a notepad so he could take orders “for the bit.” The director loved it. The locals loved it. And you?
You felt something you hadn’t in a long time: seen. But not just by cameras.
It was late now. The “Open” sign had just flipped to “Closed,” and the crowd had thinned to only a few lingering regulars finishing up their pie and coffee. The soft glow of the diner’s hanging lights cast a cozy amber haze over everything, and the radio played faintly in the background — old vinyl-style soul music, just the right amount of scratchy.
You were behind the counter wiping down surfaces when the bell above the door jingled again.
“Last call already happened, Frank,” you called without looking. “But if you beg, I might find another slice of that pecan pie.”
The voice that answered was weathered and warm. “Didn’t come for pie. Came to steal a dance before your shift’s up.”
You looked up and smiled.
Frank , easily pushing 80, always in the same olive green jacket — stood near the jukebox with a grin and a gentleman’s hand extended.
You laughed. “You’re lucky I’m soft on you.”
You stepped out from behind the counter and took his hand, letting him lead you gently to the center of the floor. The music shifted to a slow, swaying tune — Sam Cooke — and Frank wrapped one arm loosely around you while the other held your hand just right.
You danced like you had a dozen times before: slow, comfortable, like two people who knew the rhythm of each other’s lives.
Near the booths, Jimin and Jungkook had just finished packing up for the night, but the second they saw you and Frank, they stopped in their tracks.
Jimin gave a soft chuckle. “She’s so cool.”
Jungkook didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.
You in your faded t-shirt, sneakers, hair still in two slightly messy braids moved like it was the easiest thing in the world. Nothing about it felt like a performance. It was just you being you.
He couldn’t take his eyes off you.
As the song came to an end, Frank dipped you slightly, and you laughed that full laugh again the one Jungkook had been thinking about since the river. You gave Frank a kiss on the cheek and helped him back to his booth.
While you poured him a decaf refill, someone else approached Jungkook from behind the counter.
Lila the diner’s cook and namesake short, strong, and always wearing a bandana and a no-nonsense attitude, plopped a fresh towel down in front of him.
“You dry yet, Romeo?” she said without looking up.
Jungkook smiled sheepishly. “Almost.”
Lila finally looked up at him and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“She’s one of the good ones,” she said calmly. “Been through enough in her life. She’s kind, but she doesn’t play.”
Jungkook blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m not sayin’ anything bad,” Lila continued. “Just sayin’ if you’re here to break her sweet heart with your shiny life and your pretty face, I will personally dump you back in that river and hold you under until you apologize.”
Jungkook blinked again wide-eyed, stunned and then let out a soft, nervous laugh. “No, ma’am. I… wouldn’t.”
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now eat the damn pie she saved for you. Before Frank asks for it.”
And with that, she was gone again, shouting something about burned hashbrowns as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Jimin leaned over, clearly having heard the whole thing. “You really made an impression, man.”
Jungkook didn’t answer. He just looked across the room at you, still chatting gently with Frank, smiling, tucking a stray braid behind your ear and something settled in his chest.
Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.
The clock above the pie case ticked past midnight. The last plates were cleared, the lights were dimmed to that cozy after-hours glow, and the final notes of a lazy jazz tune faded into silence. The diner felt like a sigh that warm exhale after a long, full day.
The crew had already packed up. Jimin was near the front counter, flipping through photos on his camera with a sleepy smile, and Jungkook stood by the door, hoodie on, hair still a little unruly from earlier, eyes soft as they followed you.
You wiped your hands on a towel, tossed it over your shoulder, and walked toward them.
“That’s it for me,” you said, sounding lighter than you felt. “Kitchen’s closed, show’s over, time for this waitress to go become a blanket burrito.”
Jimin grinned and gave you a gentle side-hug. “You were the highlight of the episode. And of Jungkook’s entire personality today.”
You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Good night, Jimin.”
Then you turned to Jungkook.
There was a moment just a breath where neither of you moved.
He didn’t step closer. You didn’t step back. You just looked at each other like there was something else being said that didn’t need words.
Finally, he spoke, voice soft. “Today was… one of my favorite days in a long time.”
You smiled, slower this time. “Mine too.”
A silence bloomed not awkward, but full. Something delicate resting between you.
You gave him a small wave, fingers brushing your braid as you reached for your bag.
“Well, I’ll let you guys get some rest,” you said, voice a little too casual. “We open at 6, so I better pretend I’m responsible.”
Jungkook hesitated. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
You paused in the doorway, hand on the frame, looking back over your shoulder.
“You’re not that easy to forget,” you said, lips curling. “I think we’ll manage.”
Then you stepped outside, into the cool night air, sneakers crunching softly on gravel as the diner door jingled shut behind you.
Jungkook stood there for another full minute, staring at the door like maybe you’d turn back around.
But you didn’t.
And yet somehow… it didn’t feel like an end.
Just the pause between chapters.
The motel room was dark, save for the low glow of a streetlamp leaking through the blinds. Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, damp hair still dripping from his shower, towel slung over his shoulder. He was dressed down — black shirt, jeans, his boots halfway on — and staring blankly at the wall like it was supposed to answer something for him.
Jimin was stretched out on the opposite bed, arms behind his head, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up when he said, casually, “You’re doing it again.”
Jungkook blinked. “Doing what?”
Jimin sighed. “Thinking so loud I can hear it.”
Silence.
Then, after a long pause, Jungkook exhaled and dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Jimin didn’t look surprised. He just turned off his phone and rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one arm. “Yeah. I know.”
“She’s not even trying. She’s just… real. I feel like I can breathe around her,” Jungkook muttered, voice low. “It’s not like other people I’ve met on the road.”
Jimin gave him a quiet smile. “You should go.”
Jungkook looked up, surprised. “Now?”
“Yes. You’ll regret it if you don’t,” Jimin said simply. “If you’re sitting here hoping tomorrow happens the way tonight felt? It won’t. Go make it happen.”
Jungkook stood before he even realized what he was doing.
⸻
Five minutes later, the motel door clicked shut behind him. The air was crisp against his damp skin as he swung his leg over the black motorcycle the crew had rented for him to get around town. The helmet glinted faintly in the moonlight, and the keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket.
Freshly showered, hoodie zipped up, and nerves twisting under his ribs, he started the engine.
The bike rumbled to life a low growl in the silence of the night.
No cameras.
No lights.
Just him, the road, and the feeling that he’d waited long enough.
⸻
It took less than ten minutes to reach your street. The town was still, sleeping. He slowed when he spotted your porch light — the only one still on. A cozy, yellow glow spilling out from behind gauzy curtains.
He parked the bike quietly and took off his helmet, hair tousled by the wind. He walked up the path slowly, hesitating only once at the bottom step before making his way up to your door.
His hand hovered over the wood.
Was this crazy?
Definitely.
Did he care?
Not even a little.
He knocked.
Soft.
Once.
Twice.
And then waited, heart pounding like he was about to walk onstage only this felt more important.
After a moment, there was movement behind the door. A sleepy shuffle. Then, the click of a lock turning.
You opened the door in a soft, oversized hoodie, shorts just barely visible, hair a bit messy from sleep, no makeup — still unmistakably you.
Your eyes widened when you saw him. “Jungkook?”
He swallowed. “Hey.”
“…Are you okay?”
He smiled, nervous. “I couldn’t sleep.”
You leaned against the doorframe, blinking at him in the porch light, taking in the motorcycle behind him, the way he looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
“…Did you just drive here to see me?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Your lips parted half-surprised, half-something else.
“I keep thinking about you,” he said softly. “And I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see if you were thinking about me too.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stepped back and opened the door wider.
“…Come in.”
And with that, he stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
You stood there for a second, just breathing. The air between you had shifted warmer now, heavier, expectant.
Jungkook’s hoodie was still zipped, his hair damp and curling a little at the edges, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady himself.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
“I will be,” he said, voice low, “once you tell me this isn’t a mistake.”
Your throat tightened — not with nerves, but with something hotter, deeper.
“I’m not the one who knocked.”
He took a slow step forward.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he repeated, softer this time. “The way you laugh. How you talk with your hands. Your tattoos. You dancing in the diner like you didn’t care who was watching.”
You swallowed, pulse hammering.
He reached up and gently brushed one of your braids behind your shoulder. His fingers lingered on your collarbone, grazing the edge of your hoodie.
“You make it really hard to think straight,” he whispered.
“Then stop thinking,” you whispered back.
That was all it took.
In a breath, he closed the space between you. His hands cupped your face with a reverence that felt like worship, his lips brushing yours like a question — and when you answered by kissing him back, the kiss turned urgent, deeper, real.
You clutched the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, walking backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch. He followed, kneeling between your legs as you sat, his hands sliding under your hoodie to your bare waist, fingertips skating over skin like he wanted to memorize you.
You broke the kiss only to whisper, “Take it off.”
He obeyed without a word hoodie hitting the floor, revealing inked arms, toned chest, damp skin still warm from the shower. Your hoodie joined his a heartbeat later, leaving you in just your shorts and the faint moonlight pooling through the window.
His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin as he looked at you like really looked.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice wrecked. “Even more now.”
Your breath caught as his mouth found your neck slow, open kisses that left heat trailing down your spine. His hands slid up under your thighs, lifting you gently, laying you down on the couch with care that made your chest ache.
His mouth traveled lower, exploring like he had all night to learn every sound he could pull from you — and when your hands gripped his hair, when you gasped his name in that cracked, breathless way, he smiled against your skin like he’d just found his favorite song.
You lost count of how long you stayed tangled together whispering, kissing, breathing each other in like it was the first and last time.
And afterward skin warm, hair mussed, limbs wrapped around each other in the hush of early morning he tucked a blanket over you both, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered:
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the two of you breathing uneven, shallow, tangled.
Jungkook hovered over you now, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other spread warm against your stomach. His pupils were blown wide, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.
“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, voice low and husky. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Your hips shifted against his, and the way he exhaled sharp, shaky made your core tighten.
“I know,” you breathed. “I can feel it.”
That pushed him over the edge.
His mouth found yours again, but this time there was no hesitation, no sweetness just need. His kiss was hot and claiming, tongue sliding over yours, teeth catching your bottom lip until you whimpered into him. That sound soft, real, raw made him groan low in his throat.
“Say that again,” he muttered against your mouth, moving his hand beneath your shorts, fingers skimming higher and higher. “That little sound you made. It—”
You arched into him. “Jungkook—”
Your name on his lips was reverent and filthy all at once as he dipped his head to your neck, mouthing at the sensitive skin just below your ear. His hands were everywhere now — palms dragging up your ribs, fingers tracing every line of ink on your body, thumbs brushing under your breasts like he wanted to memorize you by touch alone.
You were already trembling when he finally slipped one hand between your thighs, cupping you over the thin fabric. You gasped, hips rolling into his touch desperate now, breathless.
He grinned darkly against your throat. “So wet for me already?”
You pulled his hair in response, just hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. He kissed you harder — open-mouthed, biting, like he needed to taste how much you wanted him.
Then he leaned back, just enough to look at you, chest heaving, fingers still teasing.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “If you don’t… I won’t.”
You didn’t say a word
Instead, you lifted your hips, pulled your shorts down and off, and reached for his belt with a boldness that made his breath stutter.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Don’t you dare.”
And when he finally pressed into you — slow, deep, with a growl that came from somewhere primal your body arched into his like you were made for this. For him.
You moved together like you’d been waiting forever. No rush. No lights. Just sweat-slick skin, quiet moans, and the sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
And when you came nails digging into his back, head thrown back, thighs shaking around him he followed with a low, broken groan of your name that he buried against your neck.
The silence afterward was intimate.
Sated.
Sacred.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, just breathing with you. Kissing your shoulder. Your jaw. Your lips, softly now.
Then, quietly:
“Still think I should’ve waited until morning?”
You smiled, eyes still closed, hand resting over his heart.
“No,” you murmured.
“You came exactly when you were supposed to.”
The morning sunlight filtered lazily through the half-closed blinds in your bedroom. Outside, birds chirped and the world began to stir — but inside, the house still felt wrapped in night. Warmth. Secrets.
You were already gone from the bed when Jungkook blinked awake, hair tousled, arm outstretched over the spot you’d filled.
He sat up slowly, the blanket slipping down his bare back. He could hear the faint sound of water running the bathroom door slightly ajar, steam curling out like an invitation.
And he didn’t hesitate.
Quiet, barefoot, he crossed the room and pushed the door open just enough to see you through the fogged glass of the shower. You didn’t see him at first — your back was to the door, water cascading down your spine, gliding over your tattoos, your braids now unwrapped and clinging to your wet skin.
He exhaled, soft and reverent.
He couldn’t not touch you.
Jungkook peeled off the shirt he’d thrown on in the night yours, actually, still smelling like you and stepped into the shower behind you. The moment the steam hit his skin, he let out a low sigh, sliding his arms slowly around your waist.
You gasped softly then relaxed, smiling without turning. “Took you long enough.”
His lips were already at your neck. “I wanted to see you like this. Thought I was dreaming.”
You turned in his arms, letting his gaze travel over you in full now — wet skin, flushed cheeks, hair clinging to your collarbone. His hands found your hips instinctively, pressing you gently into the tiled wall.
“You’re unreal,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, your shoulder, down your collarbone. His voice dropped, gravelly from sleep. “How am I supposed to leave after this?”
You kissed him this time slower, deeper, with that same heat from the night before but now with something softer threaded in between. Your hands slid down his chest, water streaming between you, and when your fingers curled around him, his head fell back against the tile with a groan that echoed through the steam.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You smiled against his throat. “You’ll die happy.”
Then you dropped to your knees.
He watched you one hand bracing against the tile, the other gently tangling in your wet hair, a string of soft curses falling from his lips as your mouth moved on him with slow, devastating control. The heat of the shower, the sight of you on your knees, the feel of your tongue, your hands — it all blurred together until he was cursing your name, low and wrecked.
When you stood again, he pulled you to him with almost no strength left, kissing you hard, breath ragged.
“My turn,” he rasped, spinning you gently to face the wall.
You braced yourself as his hands slid down your sides, fingers spreading over your thighs before gripping your hips. His voice was in your ear a promise and a warning all at once.
“Hold on.”
And when he pushed into you, slow but deep, your hands pressed to the tile, breath catching in your throat. He moved like he wanted you to feel every second, every inch, every part of him — and you did. Over and over.
Your moans bounced off the walls. His name fell from your lips again and again, echoing through the steam, matched only by the low, breathless curses in Korean spilling from his mouth as he buried himself deeper.
By the time you both came — bodies shaking, water long forgotten — you were clinging to each other, foreheads touching, lips brushing with every gasp of breath
You stayed like that, quiet, water washing everything else away. His hands tracing lazy lines along your waist. Your fingers tangled in the damp hair at his neck.
Eventually, he kissed your shoulder again.
“You ruin me,” he whispered.
You smiled.
“Good.”
The scent of coffee filled the kitchen, mingling with the soft crackle of toast and the faint drip-drip-drip of water still trailing down your hair from the shower.
You stood at the counter in an oversized shirt — Jungkook’s, again — bare legs peeking out, skin still warm from his touch. You were making coffee like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just been thoroughly ruined in the shower twenty minutes ago.
Jungkook sat at the table, hair damp, cheeks flushed, eyes lazily tracking your every move like you were the sunrise and he’d waited all night to see it
He had one hand wrapped around a steaming mug.
The other was resting on the back of your thigh, thumb stroking your skin like he needed constant contact. He hadn’t stopped touching you since he woke up.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
“Y/N?” a familiar voice called, far too cheerful for 9:00 a.m. “You up? I brought breakfast!”
You froze.
Jungkook’s eyes widened. “Shit.”
You mouthed, Jimin?!
He mouthed back, Don’t panic.
But you were already panicking.
The knock came again, followed by the front door creaking open. You forgot you hadn’t locked it last night.
“Yah, you told me to show up early,” Jimin called, stepping inside. “I got those egg sandwiches you like and—oh.”
He turned the corner into the kitchen.
And stopped. Dead.
Jungkook was sitting shirtless at your kitchen table.
You were standing barefoot in his oversized shirt, cheeks red, hair still wet, with Jungkook’s hand suspiciously disappearing behind your thigh.
Jimin blinked once.
Twice.
Then:
“…Are you serious right now?”
Jungkook didn’t move. Just slowly, slowly, slid his hand back onto the table and picked up his mug like nothing had happened.
“Morning, hyung.”
Jimin stared between the two of you. “Morning? Bro. You’re half-naked. She’s in your shirt. I’m holding hot coffee and trauma.”
You burst out laughing, covering your face. Jungkook grinned shamelessly.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice cracking from trying not to wheeze. “We were gonna tell you…”
“You were gonna tell me eventually, or were you just hoping I’d never wake up and put things together like an adult?”
Jungkook shrugged, unapologetic. “I figured you’d guess when I didn’t come back last night.”
Jimin blinked. “I thought you two went for a walk. Not a—home visit.”
Then he paused. Narrowed his eyes.
“Wait. Is this why you were staring out the window all yesterday like a lovesick golden retriever?”
You choked on your coffee.
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Hyung.”
Jimin just held up the breakfast bag like a peace offering. “Alright, alright. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything through these very thin walls later. For now, everyone eat something before Y/N passes out from… calorie loss.”
You and Jungkook both groaned at the same time.
Jimin just grinned.
The morning moved faster than either of you wanted.
The breakfast Jimin brought turned into laughter. Into lingering looks. Into shared glances that said more than either of you could put into words.
But then the crew van pulled up outside.
And reality returned — not cruel, just quietly inevitable.
The show had to go on.
The next town, the next shoot, the next miles on the road.
You stood by the front door with Jungkook, the sunlight casting soft lines across your face as he zipped up his hoodie. Jimin waited outside, already giving you space.
He looked down at you and smiled — a little crooked, a little sad.
“Wish I met you somewhere else,” he murmured
You laughed under your breath, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Somewhere without a tight schedule and five cameras?”
“Exactly.”
You hesitated, heart tugging. “If you weren’t… who you are. And if I wasn’t here—”
He nodded, gently tucking one of your braids behind your ear. “I’d ask you to come with me.”
That made your throat tighten.
“And if I said yes?”
He swallowed. “I’d find a way to make it work.”
You both knew it wasn’t that simple.
You had your life here. Your job. Your quiet, rooted world.
And he was in motion. Always.
You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. His lips pressed to the crown of your head, and for a long second you just held each other. No plans. No promises. Just the weight of what was and what wouldn’t be.
Finally, you whispered against his chest, “This was more than just a moment for me.”
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “Me too.”
Then he kissed you — slow, deep, like a goodbye and a thank you all at once.
When he finally let go, he stepped back, eyes lingering
“I’ll remember this,” he said.
You smiled softly. “So will I.”
⸻
He walked out the door and into the sun, where Jimin waited by the van.
You stood at the threshold, watching him go.
And he looked back once, hand raised in a wave, eyes lingering like he was trying to memorize your silhouette one last time.
Then the van door closed.
And they were gone.
Five months passed like a quiet tide.
The days at the diner rolled on, familiar and warm. Locals came and went. Coffee was poured, playlists looped, the kayak season faded into fall — and the memory of him… stayed.
He’d become something unspoken, tucked between pages of your days. Not haunting. Just there. Soft and heavy in the chest.
Then, one Tuesday afternoon, you found the envelope.
It was waiting for you on the counter at the end of your shift, slipped between your apron and the guest check pad. Gino, grinning ear to ear, just said, “Some fancy courier dropped it off. Said it was urgent.”
Your name was written in his handwriting — that distinct, fluid way he signed autographs, but this time, just for you.
Inside was a flight ticket.
Departure: LAX ➝ ICN
Date: Friday, 2:45 PM.
Passenger: Y/N [your full name].
Tucked beside it: a simple white card.
A short, neat message in black ink.
⸻
Y/N,
I meant it when I said I’d remember. And I haven’t stopped.
We’re premiering the show. It’s loud and messy and everything I used to want — but it’s missing one thing.
Come if you can.
No pressure. Just… hope.
The fitting is at 2pm. Seongsu, address below.
I’ll be there.
— JK
You sat on the breakroom bench for a long minute, rereading it three times before you smiled — the first real one in weeks.
There was no if. You were going.
You called in two weeks’ leave. Gino covered your shifts without question. You found your passport in the bottom drawer and stared at it like it was a key.
Three days later, you were on a plane.
The lights dimmed. The hum of the cabin filled your ears. You rested your head against the window and let yourself picture it.
Him.
In Seoul.
Waiting.
And somehow, all the distance between you began to feel smaller.
Seoul was crisp in the early evening — the kind of weather that hinted at autumn, but the city’s pulse kept you warm. Fast, beautiful, and humming with life. It had been years since you’d left the country, and you’d never come here.
But now you were walking through Seongsu’s narrow, stylish streets, past art galleries and quiet cafés, until you reached a discreet black door with your name taped in small letters on white paper.
You buzzed once. It clicked open immediately.
Inside: white walls, soft jazz playing low, and racks of clothing that looked like they belonged in a magazine spread. A woman with sleek hair and red lipstick looked up from her tablet and smiled warmly.
“Ah—Y/N-ssi? Welcome,” she said in practiced English. “We’ve been expecting you.”
You followed her inside, where a team — makeup artist, hair stylist, and a quiet, confident designer named Haneul — greeted you like you were royalty. You tried to apologize for being a little overwhelmed, but Haneul just waved a hand and said:
“Jungkook told us to take care of you. So, we will.”
Your heart skipped at the mention of his name.
They led you to a pedestal platform near a large mirror. The room smelled faintly of fresh fabric and green tea.
Haneul returned with a gown draped carefully across her arms — deep midnight blue silk, strapless, with a dramatic slit and structured bodice that looked impossibly elegant but effortless. Like something made just for you.
“You ready to try it on?” she asked, smiling.
You nodded, and within minutes you were stepping into it, the team gently adjusting the fabric, pinning it just right, whispering to one another in quick Korean.
When you finally looked in the mirror — you barely recognized yourself.
And the transformation had only just begun.
⸻
An hour later
You sat in the styling chair, bare-faced, hair wrapped in a soft clip, robe tied loosely as the makeup artist studied your features.
“I love your skin,” she said softly. “Natural. We’ll keep it soft. Let your face speak.”
She worked with a light hand — no heavy foundation, just a touch of glow. A soft champagne shimmer on the eyes, lashes curled, brows brushed and lifted. A nude-rose lip. Just enough to highlight what was already yours.
Then the hairstylist took over, unraveling your braids from earlier and weaving them into a loose, intricate updo with a few tendrils framing your face.
You stared into the mirror as they finished.
And for a second — you didn’t see the small-town diner girl.
You saw someone he might be proud to stand next to.
“You ready?” the stylist asked, smoothing your shoulders.
You nodded slowly. Your voice was quiet.
“Yeah… I think I am.”
Just as you stood, the studio door creaked open.
You turned — heartbeat wild.
And there he was.
Black suit. No tie. Loose waves brushing his jaw, earring glinting softly. He looked freshly styled but not overly polished — like himself.
He stopped when he saw you. His jaw twitched. His eyes swept over you once, then again, slower.
His voice dropped.
“Damn.”
You laughed, cheeks flushing. “That bad?”
He took a step closer. “That beautiful.”
You stood there, breath catching as he reached out, brushing one of the curls near your ear. He didn’t say anything more — just looked at you like he’d finally found something he’d lost months ago.
Then he leaned in and whispered, “I was scared you wouldn’t come.”
You smiled, heart racing.
“I never even hesitated.”
The last stylist smiled knowingly as she packed up her brushes. “I think we’re done here,” she said softly, glancing between the two of you. “We’ll give you a minute.”
You barely heard her leave — the room had shrunk around just the two of you.
Jungkook stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he still wasn’t convinced you were real.
And you?
You couldn’t stop staring either
The way his black suit hugged his frame, effortlessly sharp and soft at once. The way his collar sat open just enough to tease. His lip ring. The way his eyes held yours like there was no one else alive.
You exhaled a laugh, nervous and low, trying to ease the tension curling like heat beneath your ribs.
“God,” you said, stepping a little closer, “you look so damn good in that suit…”
You looked him up and down once more, slowly, then locked eyes with him.
“I have to be careful not to lose control immediately.”
He grinned — lazy, dangerous.
“Immediately?”
You shrugged, pretending to be casual, but your voice was lower now, silkier. “It’s the way you look at me.”
He took a step closer. “How do I look at you?”
You swallowed, heart thudding. “Like you already know what I’m thinking.”
He tilted his head, smiling now with that devilish softness that always made your knees weak. “I do.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm.” He leaned in, close enough for his breath to graze your cheek. “And if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, we’re not making it to the red carpet on time.”
You laughed — half breathless, half wanting to test that theory
But then you caught your reflection in the mirror.
The two of you, side by side. Radiant. Powerful. Like the start of something that couldn’t be kept secret much longer.
You touched his lapel gently, grounding yourself. “We should probably… behave. At least until after the cameras.”
Jungkook smirked. “You behave.”
He took your hand in his.
“I’ll be busy staring at you.”
The premiere hall was glowing — velvet ropes, soft spotlights, glimmering floor-to-ceiling posters of Are You Sure? lined the entrance. The crowd was a mix of industry insiders, fans, press, and a select few guests personally invited by the cast.
You weren’t here to be seen.
But all you could see… was him.
Jungkook stood near the step-and-repeat with Jimin, both suited up like they belonged on the cover of every magazine in the world. They were laughing, answering questions, doing interviews with ease — polished, charming, natural.
But every few minutes, he glanced around the room like he was looking for something.
For you.
You stayed back at first, slipping through the space quietly, not ready for the flashbulbs or the questions — not yet. You grabbed a champagne glass from a passing tray, nerves fluttering, and wandered toward the artfully lit lounge near the edge of the venue.
That’s when you heard a familiar voice.
“Didn’t expect to see you here. But I’m glad I did.”
You turned.
Namjoon.
Soft smile, sharp suit, hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. There was something grounded and deeply kind in the way he looked at you.
“I’m Y/N,” you said, almost awkwardly, offering your hand.
“I know,” he said gently. “Jungkook talks about you like you’re a song he hasn’t stopped listening to.”
That made your breath hitch — unexpectedly, but deeply.
“He does?” you asked.
Namjoon gave a small nod. “Not in many words. But I know that look. It’s rare. For someone like him… that kind of connection sticks.”
You didn’t know what to say — so you just smiled, heart full.
He nodded toward the hall. “Come. It’s starting soon.”
⸻
Inside the screening room, it was warm and quiet — lights dimmed low, anticipation humming in the air. You found your seat behind Jungkook and Jimin, your name carefully printed on a small card.
He turned as you sat.
His eyes found yours immediately, his smile soft but deep — like this whole night was just for this moment. Just to have you here.
You didn’t speak. You just let your hand brush the back of his chair as the lights went dark.
And then — the screen lit up.
“Are You Sure?” — Episode 1
A montage of their road trip began. Rolling countryside. A map with red pins. The show’s voiceover, warm and full of banter.
And then—
There it was.
Your little diner.
You.
No makeup. Loose bun. Tattoos peeking from your sleeves. The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. The moment you looked up at him for the first time. The way he looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.
The room was still.
And then the next scene: You suggesting the kayak trip. The boys teasing each other. Your voice, soft and sweet on camera. Your laugh when he tipped over.
It was all there — unfiltered, tender, real.
You watched it unfold, stunned. You hadn’t known how much they had captured — how gently, how honestly.
And when the episode ended, and the lights came up, Jungkook turned again in his seat.
His eyes searched yours, just for a second.
Then he whispered, so only you could hear—
“You were my favorite part of all of it.”
The air backstage was electric — the buzz of success, the smell of champagne and designer perfume, the occasional clatter of a camera lens being changed out.
Everyone was glowing.
Jungkook and Jimin were surrounded by staff, stylists, and executives beaming with pride. The first episode had been a hit — raw, human, funny, and unexpectedly emotional. People were calling it “the softest side of BTS yet.”
And somehow, you were part of it.
You stood to the side, letting them have their moment, until Jungkook caught your eye through the crowd. He didn’t say anything — just gave a small tilt of his head, that familiar “come here” signal — and your feet moved on instinct.
The flash of a camera caught you mid-smile as you slipped between them.
“Can I steal one?” you asked, sliding next to Jimin.
He grinned. “Steal two. Get in here.”
The three of you posed together — you in the center, the boys on either side, beaming.
Click.
Then Jimin slung his arm around your shoulders, glanced at the photo, and smirked. “Okay, now one just you two. Come on.”
You hesitated.
But your heart whispered, Do it.
You turned to Jimin and asked softly, “Would you mind taking it?”
He winked. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
Jungkook turned toward you immediately, smile widening.
You stepped closer, his hand instinctively finding your lower back, the warmth of it grounding you like always. The world around you faded a little.
Jimin lifted the phone. “Okay. Look at each other.”
You turned.
Jungkook was already looking at you.
And not like a friend. Not like someone remembering something.
He looked at you like you were his.
Click.
“Cute,” Jimin said, glancing at the screen. “Now one more. Serious.”
You turned again — this time your hands slid across Jungkook’s chest lightly, resting just under the lapel of his suit. His jaw tensed at the touch. He leaned in just enough for your foreheads to brush.
The camera flashed again.
Jimin lowered the phone, shook his head, smiling. “Yeah… this one’s going to break a few hearts.”
You turned away, shy but happy — something fluttering low in your belly.
Jungkook leaned in close, voice low in your ear.
“Can you send that to me?”
You smiled up at him.
“Only if you promise to send me one back. From your camera roll.”
He grinned.
“I’ve had a folder with your name on it since the diner.”
The celebration rolled deep into the night — glittering lights, pulsing music, a blur of voices and champagne flutes. Every few minutes, someone clinked a glass and toasted Are You Sure?, the team, the bond between Jimin and Jungkook, or just… the magic of the night.
But somewhere between laughter and the third glass of something sweet, your eyelids started to feel heavy.
You were standing near the back balcony of the rooftop venue, a cool breeze brushing against your skin, when you felt a warm presence at your side. Jungkook.
He leaned against the railing, his sleeve brushing yours, eyes watching you more than the skyline.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You gave him a tired smile. “Yeah… just fading a little.”
He nodded, thoughtful, then tilted his head. “You heading out?”
You nodded, glancing at your phone. “Think I’ll call a car back to the hotel.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Or…”
You looked up.
“…come with me,” he said gently. “To my place.”
He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t teasing.
His voice was low, honest — almost a question.
You blinked.
Your heart picked up pace.
“You sure?” you asked quietly, though the answer was already curling warm in your chest.
He gave you a soft half-smile. “I’ve wanted to be alone with you since you walked into that fitting room.”
You laughed under your breath. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”
“Didn’t want to be.”
He reached out, brushing a hair from your cheek, fingertips lingering.
“You don’t have to,” he added, voice steady. “I’ll send a car with you, if that’s what you want.”
You shook your head slowly, heart loud in your ears.
“No,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I want to come with you.”
His eyes softened, then darkened just slightly — something unspoken passing between you.
And without another word, he took your hand.
The drive to Jungkook’s apartment was quiet — the kind of quiet that’s thick with tension, not awkwardness. Your hand rested lightly on your thigh, while his lingered near yours between the seats, occasionally brushing — warm, deliberate.
Neither of you spoke much
But every time your eyes met in the passing streetlights, it said enough.
By the time the elevator opened to his floor, your chest was fluttering.
He unlocked the door, stepped aside to let you in first, and you took in the space: minimal, clean, bathed in soft, dim lighting. A few art pieces. His guitar resting by the wall. The faint smell of cedar and vanilla.
The moment the door clicked shut, you turned slowly.
He was watching you again — the same way he had at the diner. At the fitting. On the red carpet. Like you were something he couldn’t touch too quickly… or he’d lose himself.
You whispered, “Are you nervous?”
He shook his head, stepping closer.
“No,” he said quietly. “I just don’t want to rush something I’ve wanted for too long.”
Then his hand found your waist — warm and grounding.
Your fingers slid up his chest, finding the collar of his suit, loosening it gently. You felt the tension in his body as he leaned in, mouth ghosting over yours.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispered.
“Yes,” you breathed.
He did.
And it wasn’t soft. It was slow, but deep — all tongue and heat and tension finally let loose. His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, your bodies pressing together in sync. You gasped softly into his mouth when he backed you gently against the nearest wall, lips trailing to your jaw, your neck.
You tugged his jacket off and let it fall to the floor.
He kissed down your throat, voice hoarse against your skin.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes — dark, blown wide with want.
“I really don’t want to stop.”
That was all he needed.
Clothes came off piece by piece — your fingers in his hair, his hands mapping every inch of your body like he wanted to memorize it. You laughed softly when he groaned at the sight of your tattoos — like he’d been imagining it this whole time.
“You’re unreal,” he muttered, lips at your collarbone.
You whispered his name as he laid you back onto the bed — his body over yours, strong and slow and careful at first. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more.
And he gave you more.
Every thrust, every touch, was a conversation — months of distance, longing, and that quiet “what if” melting into movement and sound and skin. You whispered his name like it was yours to claim. He moaned against your ear when he came, chest trembling against yours, fingers clutching your hips like he never wanted to let go.
Afterward, your bodies tangled together, slick with sweat and soft laughter.
He kissed your temple. Your shoulder. The curve of your spine.
And when you turned to face him in the low light, you found him already watching you — eyes tender, voice raw.
“You wreck me,” he whispered.
You smiled, brushing your fingers over his lips.
“Good.”
The morning light was soft — golden and diffused through half-closed blinds. His sheets were warm, wrapped around your bare legs, your body still humming with the memory of the night before. You stirred slightly, your cheek against the pillow, the scent of him still clinging to your skin: musk, cedar, and something warm and uniquely Jungkook.
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
But you remembered everything before it.
A slow breath against your shoulder pulled you from the edge of dreams. Then… lips. Gentle, lazy kisses trailing along your upper back. Your spine arched instinctively, a soft hum escaping your lips.
He smiled against your skin. You felt it.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Jungkook whispered, voice rough and thick with sleep.
“You didn’t,” you murmured. “Not really.”
But then his hand slid beneath the sheets — down your side, slow and warm, until he found the curve of your hip. He pressed himself closer behind you, and you felt just how awake he already was.
“Mhm,” you sighed, teasing, “guess I’m not going back to sleep, huh?”
“No chance,” he murmured against your neck.
His hand moved lower — between your thighs now — and he kissed your shoulder again, open-mouthed, as two fingers slid gently through your already-sensitive warmth.
“Still so ready for me,” he whispered, voice strained now, like he was trying to hold himself back.
You pressed your hips into his hand, back arching again. “You’re really gonna start like this?”
He chuckled darkly, kissing just below your ear. “I’ve been hard since you rolled into me twenty minutes ago.”
His hand kept moving — just enough pressure, just enough rhythm. Your breath hitched, and your legs spread instinctively. He slid two fingers inside you slowly, groaning quietly at how soft and warm you still were.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel even better in the morning.”
Then he shifted behind you, pulling your thigh up gently, opening you to him.
No words this time — just movement.
He slid inside you with a deep, slow thrust that made both of you groan. Your eyes fluttered closed, his hand wrapping around your waist as he rocked into you from behind — slow, deep, like he wanted to stretch it out as long as possible.
You bit your lip to muffle the sounds, but he wasn’t having that.
“I want to hear you,” he whispered. “All of it.”
You gave him what he asked for — soft moans, quiet gasps, breathless curses as he moved deeper, harder now, chasing the edge for both of you. His hand found your chest, then your throat, then your hand — fingers laced as he pushed you both over.
You came first, tightening around him, your body trembling with the wave. He followed a moment later, groaning into your shoulder, burying himself deep.
The room went still.
Heavy breath. Damp skin. Your body wrapped around his, chest to his back, hearts thudding in sync.
You smiled lazily, eyes still closed.
“Good morning to you too.”
He kissed your shoulder again. “We should do mornings more often.”
You thought it might end there — tangled in each other, lazy kisses and post-high whispers.
But Jungkook didn’t move.
Not far. Not away.
He stayed pressed against your back, his chest rising and falling slowly. And then you felt it — subtle at first…
But unmistakable.
Him.
Already getting hard again.
You turned your head slightly, a teasing smile curling on your lips. “Already?”
His voice was deep, husky, sleep still clinging to the edges. “Couldn’t help it. You make these little sounds…”
He rolled onto his back, pulling you with him, your bare thighs straddling his hips now. Your hair fell around your face in messy waves, and his hands found your hips like he’d been waiting for this position all night.
You leaned down, kissing him slowly — dragging your tongue across his lower lip before pulling away just enough to murmur, “Then don’t help it.”
He growled softly under his breath, fingers tightening at your waist.
“You sure you can take it?” he teased, eyes darker now, more dangerous.
You rocked your hips forward, brushing yourself against the length of him — slick, ready. “I’m not breakable, Jungkook.”
His hands slid up your thighs, gripping you just tight enough to feel owned. “That’s exactly the problem.”
You reached between you and lined him up, sinking down slow, letting him stretch you inch by inch, until he filled you completely again. His head fell back with a sharp breath through his teeth, one hand flying to your hip, the other splayed across your lower back.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel… unreal.”
You rolled your hips deliberately, taking your time. “So take your time with me.”
He did.
But it didn’t stay slow for long.
You rode him harder now — the slap of skin, your breathy moans, his low, broken groans every time you clenched around him. His thumb found your clit between your bodies, rubbing tight, fast circles, and your legs started to shake.
“Look at me,” he said, voice like gravel.
You did.
And he looked wrecked. Flushed. Jaw clenched. Watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real and also like he was about to lose every last bit of control.
When you came again, it hit fast — intense — curling you forward into his chest, your moan sharp and raw against his neck. He flipped you over before you could even come down from it, pinning your hands above your head with one arm and pounding into you hard, fast, filthy.
“Say my name,” he demanded, voice tight.
You gasped, breathless, overwhelmed — “Jungkook—”
That broke him.
He came with a deep groan, buried so deep inside you, his body trembling with the force of it.
The room fell quiet again.
But this time, he didn’t roll away.
He hovered over you, his forehead resting against yours, still breathing hard.
And when you finally opened your eyes, he was already staring.
Still breathless.
Still wanting.
“Round three,” he whispered, smirking, “after coffee?”
You laughed, body wrecked but heart full. “You’re insane.”
“I’m insatiable,” he corrected, and kissed you again.
The apartment smelled like soap and skin and something unspoken. You were wrapped in one of Jungkook’s oversized black shirts, no pants, your legs bare against the cold tile. His scent clung to the fabric like a second skin.
You both had finally made it to the kitchen — exhausted, glowing, and definitely starving — only to find his fridge was… embarrassingly empty
“Hyung left me nothing,” Jungkook muttered, head in the fridge like he expected it to magically fill. “Literally expired kimchi and a protein shake.”
You laughed from the counter, scrolling through a delivery app. “Okay, we’re ordering. You want sweet or savory?”
He leaned over your shoulder, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower, voice low in your ear. “Both. Just like you.”
You smacked his chest playfully, blushing. “Behave. You’re not getting a fourth round if you keep that up.”
“Noted,” he grinned.
You’d just hit “place order” when the front door clicked open.
Jungkook froze.Then came the bark
Your head whipped toward the hallway just in time to see a massive brown Doberman galloping in — all muscle and speed — a leash dragging behind him, tongue lolling out of his mouth like he’d just been released from a race.
“Wait, Bam!” Jungkook called, too late.
The dog didn’t slow down — just launched straight at you.
“Whoa—!” was all you managed before Bam skidded into you at full force, nearly knocking you off your feet.
You stumbled back, catching yourself on the counter, laughing hard as the Doberman licked your thigh, your hand, your arm — tail wagging like a propeller. You knelt, ruffling behind his ears as he panted happily in your face.
“Okay, okay! You’re very enthusiastic!”
Jungkook rushed over, face somewhere between horrified and embarrassed, barefoot and shirtless.
“I’m so sorry,” he groaned. “Bam’s just—he’s friendly, he’s not usually—he never jumps like—”
“Are you kidding?” you laughed, letting Bam nuzzle into your lap. “He’s perfect.”
“Good,” came another voice from the doorway.
Low. Amused.
You looked up to see a tall guy with sharp features and broad shoulders — similar eyes to Jungkook’s, dressed in sweats and holding the now-useless leash.
Jungkook groaned. “Hyung. Seriously?”
“Hey, you told me to drop him off,” his brother smirked, tossing the leash on the hook. His gaze flicked from you — barely dressed — to Jungkook, then back again. “I didn’t realize you’d be… occupied.”
You flushed a little but stood up confidently, scratching Bam’s head.
“Hi,” you said warmly, smiling despite the very revealing state you were in. “Sorry for the outfit. I didn’t expect to be tackled before breakfast.”
He grinned, offering a small bow. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jung Hyun.”
“Y/N,” you replied.
Jungkook finally stepped in between you like some flustered human shield.
“This is Y/N,” he said, glancing between the two of you with a breathy laugh. “She’s… someone special.”
That made your stomach flip.
His brother raised an eyebrow but smiled knowingly.
“I can see that,” he said. “Alright. I’m out. Bam’s all yours.”
As he left, Jungkook wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you close again as Bam flopped dramatically at your feet.
“Sorry about the chaos,” he whispered.
You leaned back against his chest. “Please. That was the best welcome I’ve ever gotten.”
The apartment was suddenly alive — not just with movement, but with laughter, fast footsteps, nails skidding across the floor, and the thump of a hundred-pound Doberman chasing after the only person he seemed to love more than Jungkook.
You darted through the living room barefoot, still in that oversized black shirt and nothing else, squealing as Bam chased you with pure joy radiating from his whole body. Every few seconds, you’d stop, crouch, and let him pounce — tongue out, tail wagging so hard it slammed into the couch.
“Okay, okay!” you gasped, trying to dodge him as he came around again. “You’re fast! Too fast!”
Jungkook leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, fresh coffee in hand, utterly still.
Watching you.
Completely gone.
You were glowing — wild hair, flushed cheeks, eyes full of light. You didn’t seem self-conscious in the slightest. Not even half-dressed. Not even sweaty and barefoot in his home. You laughed with your entire body, holding Bam’s massive face in your hands like he was your own, talking to him in that soft, teasing voice that even he was jealous of.
“He’s obsessed with you,” Jungkook finally said, chuckling.
You turned to glance at him, breathless. “He’s perfect. He’s got good taste.”
Bam barked happily, jumping up to nudge your shoulder with his nose.
“He doesn’t do that with strangers,” Jungkook added, quieter now.
Your smile softened as you sat down cross-legged, letting the dog settle into your lap — which was absurd considering his size. He rolled onto his side dramatically, letting out a groan like he’d been waiting all his life for this moment of attention.
“I’m not really a stranger anymore, am I?” you said softly, fingers stroking through Bam’s silky fur.
Jungkook’s heart thudded in his chest.
“No,” he admitted. “You’re not.”
He took a sip of his coffee, but his eyes never left you. You were the calm after the storm — after the chaos of touring, of filming, of holding your breath between deadlines. You hadn’t asked for anything. You didn’t try to impress him. You weren’t chasing his fame — just playing with his dog barefoot in his living room like you belonged there.
And something about that scared the hell out of him.
Because it felt like he was already losing you — even though you hadn’t left yet.
You looked up at him, as if you felt him thinking too hard.
“You okay?” you asked, voice light, but your gaze serious.
He smiled softly and nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m just watching the two loves of my life fall for each other.”
You blinked.
But didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
Instead, you leaned down, kissed the top of Bam’s big head, and murmured, “Good boy. You picked a good human.”
You were still on the floor with Bam, smiling lazily as he dozed against your thighs, when you felt it — that heat in the air again. Not from running. Not from laughing.
From the way Jungkook was looking at you.
When you glanced up, his expression was darker than before. His coffee forgotten. His jaw tight.
You raised an eyebrow, breath slowing. “What?”
He didn’t answer.
Just set the mug down.
Took a slow step forward.
Bam’s ears perked up, sensing a shift. But one look from Jungkook and the dog, somehow, understood. He stood, stretched, and trotted calmly out of the room.
You swallowed. “Okay, that was hot.”
Jungkook reached you, crouched, his hand sliding beneath your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.
“You think I didn’t notice,” he murmured, voice low, “the way you look when you play like that. All wild. No pants. My shirt barely covering your ass.”
Your breath caught as he leaned closer, nose brushing yours.
“You were driving me insane.”
Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer, your voice a whisper. “What are you gonna do about it?”
A wicked smile tugged at his lips.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He stood in one smooth motion and reached down, lifting you easily into his arms. You yelped, laughing into his neck.
“Where are we going?”
“Bedroom,” he said simply. “But you don’t get to choose what happens next.”
Your breath caught. “Oh?”
He laid you down gently on the bed, but his touch was firm now — claiming.
“You want soft?” he asked, kneeling above you, eyes burning. “Or do you want me to wreck you again?”
You pulled him down by his necklace, lips brushing his. “I want both.“
That broke him
He crashed into you — mouth hungry, hands everywhere. He tugged his shirt from your body in one rough pull, tossing it somewhere into the dark. Your legs wrapped around his hips, needy and aching already.
His mouth moved down your neck, biting softly, then harder — marking you. Worshipping and ruining all at once. His fingers slid between your legs and found you soaked.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You were ready before I even touched you.”
“Because I knew what was coming,” you whispered, grinding up against his hand.
He didn’t make you wait long.
He slid into you slowly, deeply — eyes locked to yours — until you couldn’t breathe.
Then he set a rhythm.
Hard, deep, possessive.
You clawed at his back, gasping, your moans getting louder with every thrust. His hand found your throat, thumb resting against your pulse point — not squeezing, just feeling you. Feeling how hard he was making your heart race.
“Say it,” he growled, voice thick. “Say who’s making you feel this good.”
“You,” you gasped. “You, Jungkook—fuck—don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
He kept going until you were crying out beneath him, body arching, coming undone with a wave so sharp it ripped the air from your lungs.
And only when you were clenching tight around him, wrecked and trembling, did he finally let himself go — spilling inside you with a hoarse groan, head buried in your shoulder, both of you completely undone.
He stayed there, body heavy on yours, both of you breathless, hearts pounding in sync.
After a long pause, you whispered, “So… that was soft and rough.”
Jungkook chuckled, pulling back just enough to kiss you.
“You haven’t seen rough yet.”
The sun filtered through the half-open blinds, casting golden streaks across the hardwood. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped only in one of Jungkook’s soft black hoodies. It swallowed you whole, the hem brushing your thighs, his scent clinging to every inch of fabric.
You were sore. In all the best ways.
Still warm between your legs from how he’d wrecked you last night — and again, half-asleep, when he’d pulled you into his arms before dawn, whispered something low and filthy into your ear, and slid inside you slow.
Now, it was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Jungkook stood by the stove, shirtless, hair a wild mess, tattoos flexing along his back as he poured coffee. He hadn’t noticed you yet.
You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, lips curving into a sleepy smile.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who said he doesn’t cook… this looks dangerously domestic.”
He turned with a slow smirk, eyes raking over your bare legs. “And you look dangerously distracting.”
You padded toward him, fingers brushing along the counter as you passed. When you reached him, he handed you a mug without a word, then stepped in behind you — chest pressed to your back, arms sliding around your waist.
“You smell like me,” he murmured into your neck. “That should not turn me on as much as it does.”
You took a sip, lips curling. “Might have something to do with the fact that you kept me up all night.”
He chuckled, hand slipping under the hoodie, palm spreading low over your stomach.
“Not sorry.”
You turned slightly, resting your mug down on the counter, and looked up at him.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
There was too much to say.
And not enough time.
He lifted a strand of your hair from your cheek, tucking it gently behind your ear.
“You leave today,” he said quietly. “And I have to go too. Next city.”
You nodded, eyes soft. “I know.”
Silence again.
Then he stepped forward, pinning you gently to the counter, his hands finding your hips. His voice dropped into a whisper.
“One last time?”
You met his gaze.
No teasing. No cocky grin. Just… need. Yours. His.
You set the mug aside.
“Yes,” you breathed. “One last time.”
⸻
He didn’t rush.
This wasn’t the desperate kind of heat from the night before. This was reverent. Slow. His hands slid beneath the hoodie, pulling it over your head until you stood bare in front of him, back arched against the cool edge of the counter.
He kissed you — long, deep, tongue sweeping over yours as his fingers traced every curve, every freckle, every place he wanted to remember.
When he lifted you onto the counter, you gasped softly, legs parting instinctively for him. He stood between them, chest pressed to yours, his length hard against your thigh. You reached for him, wrapping your arms around his neck, eyes locked to his.
He sank into you slowly, forehead pressed to yours.
You both exhaled at the same time.
He moved inside you with a rhythm that was all feeling — soft moans, trembling hands, breathless kisses between each thrust. It was slow. Deep. Intimate.
He whispered your name like a secret.
You whispered his like a promise.
And when you came — clinging to him, eyes shut tight, every muscle shaking — he held you close, mouth at your ear, whispering “I wish I could keep you.”
Moments later, he followed — hips stilling, body trembling, a low groan against your skin.
Neither of you moved for a long time.
You just stayed there, wrapped around each other in the kitchen light, breathing the same air, memorizing everything.
Because this morning… was the last one.
You stood by the window, coffee in hand, wrapped again in that hoodie — his hoodie. The bed behind you was a mess of sheets and memory. The morning had been soft, slow, real… but now?
Now, it was quiet in that other way.
The way that comes before a goodbye.
Jungkook moved around the room, quietly packing the last of his things into his bag. You watched him in the reflection of the glass. Focused. Careful. Avoiding your eyes.
You swallowed hard and finally said it — the question that had been clawing at your throat since you woke up in his arms.
“What happens now?”
He stopped.
Just stood there for a second, back to you, shoulders stiff.
Then he turned.
His face wasn’t cold — just honest. And that somehow hurt more.
“I don’t know,” he said.
You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You do. You just don’t want to say it.”
He exhaled slowly. “I can’t promise anything. My life…” He gestured vaguely toward the air. “It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t slow down. You saw it.”
You nodded. “I know. And I’m not asking you to change it. I just… wanted to know if this—if we—was something that lives past this weekend.”
Silence stretched between you.
And in that silence, you already had your answer.
He stepped closer, cupped your cheek with one tattooed hand. His eyes were soft now — that kind of soft that comes with regret.
“You made me forget everything else,” he whispered. “But we both know this can’t last. Not with the lives we have.”
You leaned into his touch anyway. Just for one more second.
“I know,” you said.
He kissed you — slow and final, like he wanted to remember the taste of goodbye.
Summary: Co-presenting an award with your boyfriend Joe should be easy, but nerves and sex send your night spiraling into disaster.
Word count: 9.3k
Warnings: +18 MDNI. SMUT (unprotected p in v, riding, kinda breeding kink, sorta lovemaking), more plot than porn tbh, established relationship, basically FLUFF because joe is deeply in love with you, reader is famous af, jacob elordi being a menace to society.
Everyone was obsessed with Joe and you separately, but when you two started dating? No other couple could compare. You had been universally labeled as ‘Hollywood’s IT Couple.’
Even though the absurdly big amount of support had been a surprise, you tried to keep your privacy as much as possible. Supermarket runs were over, TikToks had to be double-checked before posting, and gossip pages were constantly trying to stir up drama. But only Joe and you knew how genuinely incredible your relationship was, and you refused to let fans or media break you apart.
So you didn’t hesitate in accepting the Golden Globes offer to present an award together. You were already nominated for Best Actress in a Television Series, and Joe would obviously be your plus one. People would probably accuse you two of milking your relationship by going to all the red carpets and events together, but after almost a year of dating, you didn’t really care about anyone’s opinion anymore.
So what if you wanted to post a picture of shirtless Joe making you breakfast right before promoting his new album? You knew people were going to run to your Instagram stories, so you might as well get some new fans for The Crux.
'They are so PR!' was the funniest comment you received. If only they knew how devoted you were to each other.
Your manager was ecstatic about the increasing popularity of the Stranger Things season 5 finale and 'End of Beginning.' She wanted you to date someone as famous as you, and even though Joe had a hundred million fewer followers than you, he was unproblematic, well-liked by the media, and growing in popularity.
You had attended the Golden Globes for the last five years, even winning two awards for Best Actress for your main role in your famous HBO tv show, Crashing Waves. Everyone loves to win, but you were feeling a bit shy of possibly winning a third time for the same show. You didn’t want your peers to resent you or think that the show’s producers had a contract with the academy.
Joe thought you were delusional. “Nobody hates you for it, babe. That’s, like, everybody’s favorite show. We all want you to win because you fucking deserve it.”
Maybe he was right, but deep down you hoped somebody else would take the award home.
After a year of constant communication, your managers had become best friends—although Joe and you were sure they were dating—and had chosen the perfect matching outfits for the event.
Joe looked incredibly handsome with a white suit, black pants, and his new blond hair, while you represented the ‘epitome of sexiness’ (Joe’s words) with your sheer black dress.
“How is this matching?” you asked your managers. “We’re wearing opposite colors.”
“Exactly!” Jane exclaimed. “Everyone loves the ‘opposites-attract’ narrative you two have going on.”
Laura, your manager, nodded. “While he looks like an angel, you look like a hot, tempting devil.” She slapped your ass playfully, making Joe glare at her. “No one would be able to look away from you, dear.”
They weren’t wrong; the dark aesthetic of your makeup and dress made you seem as if you would slap anyone who took the award from you.
“You look beautiful,” Joe mumbled on the limousine’s backseat, kissing your hand. “Like you’re gonna spank me and tell me to shut up.”
You smirked. “I don’t have to look like a Disney villain to do that.”
Joe snorted. “You don’t look like a villain at all. More like… a hot vampire.” He scooted closer and kissed your neck. “I need you, baby.”
It was barely seven o’clock, and with the entire event and after party, you’d probably be back at the hotel around three a.m.
You gently pushed him off. “Behave. I can’t have hickeys now.”
“Why not?” he whined and playfully bit your shoulder, making sure to not leave a mark. “That’ll keep the men away.”
“Your presence will be enough for that, honey.”
Joe jokingly gasped, placing a hand on his chest. “What do you mean? Are you calling me possessive?”
Your boyfriend was the least toxic man in the world. Many would even describe him as the sweetest person in any room. But whenever a man would get too close, smile too widely, or eye you a bit too much…
You sighed. “That would be an understatement.”
The red carpet was pretty chaotic, as usual, with camera flashes blinding you, interviewers begging for your attention, and fans screaming for selfies. You used to hate that part, but doing it with Joe reduced all the stress. He kept a supportive hand on your lower back all the time and constantly whispered compliments in your ear. You two had reached enough peace and shamelessness that when fans chanted ‘kiss, kiss, kiss,’ Joe pleased them with a soft, lingering peck on your lips.
“I love you,” he whispered, but everyone read his lips and screamed like crazy.
You just blushed and chuckled as your managers took you inside.
“Oh, my children,” Jane whined with a happy smile while watching the pics she had taken of you on her phone. “If you ever break up, I’ll lock you in a cabin on a remote island until you solve things.”
Joe and you froze, looking at his manager with wide eyes, but an event assistant arrived to escort you to your seats.
Most people were already in their seats, chatting with their colleagues, so there were only two chairs available on your table. Well, of course you were awkwardly sort of late…
Everyone looked up when you arrived.
Joe and you smiled politely at your show’s director, producers, and—
“Oh my god, Jacob Elordi,” you shrieked at your celebrity crush sitting right there, a few meters from you, next to the Frankenstein cast.
They all laughed, bringing you back to reality. You blushed deeply and looked embarrassed at Jacob. “I’m just— Wow. Hey, hi.”
The handsome man’s cheeks were a light shade of pink too. He shook your hand. “Nice to finally meet such a superstar.”
HE KNEW YOU?!
Joe’s squeeze of your hip unfroze you. He knew of your fangirl crush on Jacob Elordi, but having him in person, in front of you, looking a bit flushed too… It wasn’t cute or funny anymore.
You cleared your throat and sat down nervously, looking everywhere but at Jacob. For years, you had seen him from afar in every event, too shy to ask him for a picture, and now he was next to you.
“What the hell!” you mouthed to your boyfriend, discreetly pointing at Jacob. “He’s real?”
Before Joe could reply, Jacob spoke, sending a shudder down your spine. “I’m a big fan of Crashing Waves.”
Oh, you were in a dream. Joe nudged your knee, quietly reminding you to reply.
You looked at Jacob and tried to smile. “Yeah? Y-you’ve seen it?”
Jacob scoffed. “Of course. It’s my favorite. And you? Wow. Amazing performance every damn minute.”
You grasped Joe’s hand beneath the table. It wasn’t the cold air conditioner that was making you tremble.
“Hey, Y/N,” your director called across the table. “You look like a tomato.”
All eyes turned to you before they snickered softly. You covered your face, absolutely embarrassed.
Joe forced a chuckle and soothed your back. “She gets like that with compliments.”
“And how are you gonna receive that award, then?” teased Guillermo del Toro.
Guillermo del Fucking Toro was talking to you. You quickly looked up and hurriedly said, “Mr. del Toro, oh God, pleasure to meet you. Big, big fan of Pinocchio.”
He chuckled and shook your hand. “Most people say ‘Shape of Water,’ but it’s nice hearing something different.”
“We loved Frankenstein,” Joe added, also staring at the man with awe. “I—”
Jacob cut him off. “We were talking about you, actually.”
Your jaw dropped. “M-me?”
He nodded and smiled charmingly. “I was telling Guillermo that you should audition for his next movie.”
You almost stood up from the surprise. With a stoic face, you said, “It’d be the honor of my life, Mr. del Toro.”
The table guests laughed, but Joe knew you were serious. The director waved his hand. “You can just call me Guillermo, dear. Give me your number.”
As you exchanged numbers with the widely awarded man, Joe noticed Jacob’s eyes shamelessly raking all over you, lingering on your cleavage.
Was he fucking serious right now?
Joe put an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple, trying to discreetly remind Elordi that you were his girlfriend. “Are you still nervous about the award? Because I think I just saw Ayo Edebiri gushing about you with her friends.”
You looked around for your fellow nominee, almost breaking your neck.
But it seemed Joe was invisible to Jacob as he grabbed your hand over the table and talked before you could. “Please, just between us, tell me the end of Crashing Waves.”
Your eyes widened. Jacob Elordi was touching you. Your inner fifteen-year-old, who hated The Kissing Booth saga but watched it a million times because of your favorite actor, would be crashing out right now.
Your tv show’s main producer, Gary, shook his head. “Don’t do it, Y/N. He already tried with me.”
You giggled and… didn’t move your hand away, Joe noticed.
“My contract forbids me to. Sorry,” you said. “Not even my boyfriend knows it.”
Gary snorted. “I don’t believe that one bit.”
You blushed and looked conspiratorially at Joe. “I probably would’ve told him, but he doesn’t wanna be spoiled.”
Joe nodded and took advantage of the table’s attention. “She’s always on the verge of telling me the ending in bed, in the shower, in the car, everywhere!”
Hopefully, the discreet sexual innuendo sent a clear message.
Jacob looked at him for the first time and forced a smile. “Djo, right? ‘Endings of Beginnings’ is a great song.”
Oh, Joe wanted to jump over you and choke the tall man. Every fucking person in the world knew his song. It had been number one on spotify for over two consecutive weeks. But a discreet squeeze on his thigh brought him back to the present.
You had noticed Jacob’s jab and didn’t like it one bit. The excitement about meeting your celebrity crush was gone. Your jaw tightened and your smile turned pursed.
Next to Jacob, Mia Goth chuckled. “I told you it’s ‘End of Beginning’! I played it all the time at my trailer.” She waved excitedly at you two. “While y’all were chatting, I was looking for this.”
She passed you her phone with a wide smile. Joe and you gasped at the screenshot of her Spotify Wrapped having both of you as her top two artists.
“I definitely did not beg the Golden Globes producers to put you two at our table,” she teased with a wink. “Can we take a picture at the commercial break?”
Joe and you nodded eagerly. “Of course!”
Even after years of making music and acting, meeting fans always filled your hearts, especially if they were your Hollywood colleagues.
“She’s working on her new album,” Joe pointed at you, making Mia gasp.
You chuckled and shook your head. “Not really. I’ve written, like, fifty songs but nothing concrete.”
Mia couldn’t care less about Jacob as she scooted her chair closer and grasped your hand over the table. “Is it a love album? I mean, your depressive ones are my faves, but I’m sure you’ll do great romantic songs.”
“They are,” Joe quickly said, loud enough for a certain giant man to listen.
You chuckled and squeezed Mia’s hand. “How can I not write love songs when I have such a muse?”
It was Joe’s turn to blush as everyone—except Jacob—‘aww’ed. But he wasn’t ashamed in the slightest; he was filled with joy. For a long time, he had wished for someone to love him as hard as he did, with the silly love songs and irrational, sporadic love acts.
And he finally found you, a poet wanting to be the muse of another poet. Your love languages matched and there wasn’t a paper in your apartment without a love poem written on it.
He kissed your cheek and whispered, “I love you.”
“A picture!”
A flash blinded you two. An event photographer had approached the table and was now asking the Frankenstein cast to get together for a general picture.
Joe and you scooted your chairs back to avoid appearing on the photo, finally getting a peaceful second for yourselves.
But an assistant suddenly appeared behind you with a clipboard and a pen. “Mrs. and Mr. Y/L/N, you’re the sixth presenters. I’ll come look for you in… twenty minutes. Be ready.” Then rushed to the next table.
You paled, randomly forgetting which award you were presenting for. But Joe smirked and said, “I loved that he called me ‘Mr. Y/L/N.’ I can get used to it, to be honest.”
So focused on your work, you hadn’t even noticed the assistant’s slip. You beamed and pinched his cheek. “But I want to be Mrs. Keery so bad, honey. I love your last name.”
“Okay, then you be Mrs. Keery and I’ll be Mr. Y/L/N,” he teased, causing you to chuckle.
“That defeats the whole purpose!”
Joe gasped, startling you, as his eyes found his table’s name card. He picked it up and showed it to you. “I’m ‘Joe Keery-Y/L/N,’ and you’ll address me like that from now on.”
Your jaw dropped too. What were the Golden Globes’ assistants playing at? Yours didn’t include his last name, so it had definitely been on purpose.
“This is coming home with me.” Joe kept looking at it with awe. “Take a pic of me holding it, please.”
Your cheeks hurt from how much you were smiling at his cute reaction. In another universe, your ex-boyfriend would’ve been pissed by it. You took the photos with your phone, already wanting them as your new wallpaper.
But behind Joe, in the background of the pic… You gasped and almost dropped the phone. Joe turned around confused. “What?”
“Ariana Grande looks wonderful!” you screamed in a whisper.
The singer/actress was on a faraway table, calmly chatting with Selena Gomez. Joe raised his eyebrows. “She’s brunette. Wasn’t she blonde, like, yesterday?”
You sighed and patted his back. “Just because we rewatched Wicked For Good yesterday doesn’t mean it was filmed yesterday, baby.” He rolled his eyes, but you weren’t done. “You’re the newest blondie in town. No one will take your crown.”
He looked deadpan at you but couldn’t help smiling at your joke. “Be thankful you’re cute and I love you.”
You sent him a flying kiss and looked back at your phone. “She’s nominated for a Wicked song.”
Joe leaned closer to see the list too. “Uhh, the one I like? She’ll sing it?”
Oh, you were so in love with your chronically offline boyfriend. “No, babe. Popular is from the first movie.” You scrolled down and sighed. “Forget it. Golden will definitely win.”
He frowned and naively asked, “The Harry Styles song you like?”
You stared at him quietly for half a minute, then nodded. “Yeah, his 2019 hit is so nominated.”
Joe rolled his eyes at your teasing and leaned back on his chair. “I’ll never ask you anything again ever.”
“You’re not gonna speak to me anymore?” you smirked. “Give me this, then.”
When you reached for his name card, Joe quickly shielded it from you, keeping it close to his chest. “No, no. Don’t steal the highlight of my year.”
“It’s January 12th.”
“Enough days to know that I want to marry you this year,” he joked.
But your heart stopped. A man can’t just… joke about something like that! You cleared your throat and tried to act nonchalant. “I’m busy this year. Too many projects. Try in 2027.”
Joe’s arms encircled your hips to pull you closer. He kissed your cheek and whispered in your ear, “I’ll kidnap you, then. Fuck the movie industry.”
“It’ll fall apart without me,” you shrugged, pretending to be inspecting your nails.
“Oh, so true. They’ll lose their best actress,” he mumbled between kisses. And this time, you knew he wasn’t joking, which just flustered you more.
“Hey, loverbirds!” Gary, your show’s producer, threw a balled-up napkin your way. “Shut up. Shit’s starting.”
Blushing, you two pulled apart and pretended to pay attention to the host’s speech. Yet as the woman talked and joked, Joe’s hand suddenly found its way under your dress’s crease and started caressing up your thigh. You discreetly side-glanced at him.
“Don’t…” you muttered as his thumb reached the edge of your underwear.
But he didn’t move his hand away and you didn’t want him to stop, so you clapped and smiled while presenters announced winners and they gave their speeches.
By the third award, you discreetly leaned closer to Joe and muttered with a hand covering your mouth “What the hell are you—?”
His fingers grazed your clothed clit, making you flinch. You covered it with a cough while he just smiled calmly at the stage, paying all the attention in the world.
Casually, you placed an arm on his chair and ghosted your nails across his back. It seemed like a normal, loving action, but Joe knew better. His smile wavered as he tried to push your hand away without being too obvious.
“Dont play…,” he mouthed.
You smiled innocently and looked back at the stage. He wanted to play dirty? Well so could you.
But the challenging vibe left you when he pressed your clit hard. An inevitable gasp escaped your lips, catching your table’s attention.
You forced a smile and lied, “Sorry. I just love that movie.”
Hamnet’s trailer was playing on the screens… It hadn’t even hit theaters in America. But they believed you and returned their direction to the show.
Joe quickly whispered in your ear. “You’re so wet already.”
You pushed him off instinctively, then faked a smile and squeezed his shoulder, just in case a camera was on you.
Joe smirked and tried to move your panties to the side. Alright, enough. You scooted closer to the table, grabbed his wrist, and mumbled, “I’ll murder you if—”
“Excuse me.”
You both gasped at the sudden squeaky voice, jumping away from each other as if electrified.
Standing awkwardly behind you, the assistant raised her hands and whispered, “Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you, guys. I need to take you backstage.”
Joe discreetly wiped his fingers on the chair and nodded. You forced a smile and stood up, hoping there wasn’t a wet spot in your dress.
“What is wrong with you?!” you whispered to Joe as the woman guided the way.
He put an arm around your waist and shrugged. “I… honestly don’t know. You look so hot and fucking Elordi was hitting on you—”
“He wasn’t.”
But not even you could deny it. You smirked as your cheeks turned pink. “He so was, right?”
Joe rolled his eyes but smiled at your cuteness. “Who wouldn’t? You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”
The second the backstage doors closed behind you, your hands found the nape of his neck as you pulled him down to a kiss. He grabbed your hips to press you closer and opened his mouth to deepen it.
“Hey, hey. Don’t mess up the makeup,” your manager appeared to ruin the moment.
Behind her, various assistants and crew were rushing around, making sure the show was running perfectly. Laura pulled out a small mirror and your lipstick. “Re-apply. Joe, don’t forget your glasses. Follow the woman; you have to be on stage in three minutes.”
Joe stared with hunger as you applied the expensive lipstick. Pretending not to notice him, you sent a kiss to the mirror and pouted. He distracted himself by focusing on the assistant leading them.
“Remember: you can drift from the teleprompter words, but not completely, okay?” she said.
You nodded and gave her your lipstick and mirror. “Can you please give this to that woman, the one that looks constipated?”
A few feet behind you, Laura mouthed, “I can hear you!”
The assistant left you two on the entrance spot behind the curtain and next to the stage. From there, you could see the Heated Rivalry actors chatting excitedly with Michael B. Jordan.
“There are only, like, six songs nominated. We could’ve listened to them,” Joe sighed.
You shrugged. “I did.”
“What?!” he gasped. “When?”
“This morning while you were showering.”
Joe feigned sadness as he shook his head. “You should’ve waited for me. Now I can’t judge the Oscar dudes that never watch all the nominated movies.”
You rolled your eyes. “Joe, we won’t choose the winning song. It’s completely different.”
Your boyfriend put an arm around your waist to pull you close and whispered, “I was joking. Laugh or I’m breaking up with you.”
You pressed your lips in a line, refusing to give in… but he started tickling you. “Stop! Joe—”
“Shh!” The assistant was back, looking a bit angrier, and gave Joe an envelope. “We’re coming back from commercials in thirty seconds. The camera is already on you. Good luck!”
You both stayed quiet until she had walked out of listening range, then looked at each other nervously.
“I’m shaking,” Joe confessed, showing you his trembling hands.
You whined, “Joe, you’re supposed to calm me!”
He put on his glasses and sighed. “We got this…”
“I love your sluttly little glasses,” you whispered in a shaky voice.
“Thanks,” he mumbled with his eyes glued to the camera. “We should’ve taken a shot before this.”
“We’re fine…” You grabbed his free hand. “Let’s enter like this instead of the elbow-holding thingy. We look like the Hunger Games tributes when they—”
“Coming to the stage,” a thundering voice came from the speakers. “you know him from Stranger Things and she’s the two-time Golden Globe winner… it’s Joe Keery and Y/N Y/L/N.”
That was your cue, of course. Joe and you walked hand in hand to the stage and towards the microphone. Everyone applauded as the chorus from End of Beginning played on the speakers. You could already imagine millions of fans shrieking excitedly at their screens.
As you mentally reminded yourself to not trip over your feet, your eyes found the teleprompter. Joe and you had already practiced two days ago in that same spot, something along “Music is an art that—”
…That wasn’t on the teleprompter. What? Joe and you stopped right behind the microphone, his eyes on you since your line was the first. Hadn’t he realized the changes?!
Oh, shit. The words were moving fast. You smiled and started, “Uhm… Showtunes, k-pop, blues, pop, rock, americana, this year’s nominees for Best Original Song are truly all over the place.”
Even though you sounded out of breath and rushed, Joe talked smoothly, “Seriously. If you show up at a party and they play all six of our nominees in a row, you'd be psyched because they are all incredible…”
You discreetly side-eyed him. Joe hadn’t even listened to them. Well, maybe he vaguely remembered the Wicked ones… although you had heard a light snore coming from him during The Girl in the Bubble.
“But you'd also have a few questions,” Joe’s line was the cue to yours.
You quickly looked back at the teleprompter just as your line went away. “Eh… Yeah, a million,” you improvised. “Like, damn, who wrote that masterpiece?”
Joe blinked, his plastered smile wavering. Your improv wasn’t really a match with the original “What are you on?” line.
He forced a chuckle and quickly saved it. “Yeah, or what are you on?”
“How much—” you started, then realized it was his line.
“...are you on?” Joe continued, trying to make it look like it had been on purpose. Oh, the cute couple are completing each other's lines!
“And can I please have some?” you finally read correctly.
Joe smiled proudly at you and said the last line, “All great questions. Now here is one more: Who is taking home the Golden Globe tonight?”
The camera’s red light disappeared as the show started displaying the nominees section. Your smiles disappeared instantly.
You grasped your boyfriend’s arm and whispered, “They changed that or am I schizophrenic?!”
“Both.” Joe tried to sound reassuring. “I mean, yeah I think they did. And it was going so fast. It wasn’t your fault, baby.”
“I never said it was…”
A three-second countdown appeared in the teleprompter. Joe squeezed your hand warningly and both of your charming, fake smiles came back.
“And the Golden Globe goes to…” you exclaimed.
Joe tried to open the envelope, but his fingers had turned sweaty from the nervousness, and it fell to the floor. You gasped dramatically at the worst case scenario happening.
Just as you leaned down to help, Joe stood up, crashing the back of his head into your collarbone.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry!”
You took a step back and collided with the microphone. “Ah!” you screamed as you quickly reached for it.
Joe winced, but managed to help you keep the mic stand straight. “Shit. I mean, oh—” He covered his mouth when one of the only curse word he was told not to say slipped out.
You leaned into the mic and yelled, “And the Oscar goes to…!”
“Golden Globe,” Joe corrected before squinting his eyes to read the envelope, “Uhm… Golden, The Hunters—”
“Kpop Demon Hunters,” you tried to correct, but the loud music and applause overshadowed your voices.
Joe gently grabbed your elbow and dragged you to the side of the stage. An assistant hesitantly looked at Joe before deciding to give you the award.
“They’re never calling us for this again,” Joe whined, rubbing the nape of his neck stressfully.
Before you could reply, the winner climbed up the stairs. You smiled widely and gave her the Golden Globe.
“Congrats!” you both exclaimed.
The woman briefly thanked you before walking to the microphone. On cue, you two rushed to the backstage.
“That was a mess. I’m not entering twitter for a week,” you whined.
Joe soothed your back. “Okay, people laughed… maybe with us and not at us?”
“Hey! Stop!”
You jumped at the desperate whisper behind you. The same assistant that had led you to the stage was running towards you.
“You have to present a second award! The best score!”
“Ohh!” Joe and you gasped as realization dawned in your faces.
You almost slapped your forehead at the collective loss of memory happening between both of you. Maybe spending too much time together was making your brain cells mix into just a big, stupid one.
“Here you go.” The woman gave Joe the result envelope.
He grimaced and shoved it into your hands. “Not doing that again.”
You stared at it as if it were a boiled potato. “But why me?!”
“Hurry up!” the woman yelled in a whisper. “Get on stage now!”
The previous winner was ending her speech in tears while you two tried to discreetly stand behind her. Applause aroused as the singer stepped away with her award, your sign to present the second nomination.
“Congratulations to Golden, Kpop Demon Hunters,” you said with a smile.
“Alright, everybody, now the award for Best Original Score Motion Picture,” Joe followed. “And the nominees are…”
You both released a breath of relief as the show switched to list the different movies and musicians.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Joe whispered.
Biting your lip, you carefully tried to open the envelope. You suddenly froze and said, “Oh my God… What if I say it wrong?”
Joe frowned, taking a quick look at the screen to make sure they weren’t on air. “What? How?”
“I don’t know! Look at the La La Land/Moonlight scandal and—”
The red dot reappeared on the camera. You two smiled again and Joe said, “And the Golden Globe goes to…”
You finally opened the envelope and forgot all professionalism as you gasped excitedly, “Ludwig Goransson from Sinners! Yeah!”
Joe applauded along with the crowd. He did remember that movie… “We went to that premiere, right?”
“Yeah, the one where my sister threw up after three margaritas.”
You received the award from an assistant and waited eagerly to give it to the artist.
The winner shook Joe’s hand before accepting the award and giving you a kiss on the cheek.
“Congrats! I love the Oppenheimer score,” you hurriedly told him.
“Oh, thanks!” He chuckled and walked to the mic.
Joe found your hand and intertwined your fingers. He squeezed it before whispering in your ear. “I think we did pretty good.”
But your manager didn’t think the same.
As the show finally went to a commercial break, Laura met you backstage with an exasperated face.
“They cut the Best Score one from the main broadcast,” she said.
You gasped. “What?! But we ate on that one!”
“Well, they only played the horrible one,” Laura grunted. “How could you forget to read the fucking teleprompter, Y/N? It’s there for a reason!”
While your manager and you bickered about the recent mess, all sound from the room vanished for Joe as he stared at you lovingly. He couldn’t get over how perfect that dress fitted you. It hugged you in all the right ways… especially your ass.
His pants were getting tighter. He mentally thanked his manager for choosing black pants that could make his hard-on barely noticeable.
Joe’s arms engulfed your waist as he pressed behind you. To anyone, it looked as if he was giving you a casual romantic hug, but you understood the message. Or, well, felt it.
You stopped fighting with Laura at the familiar feeling of your boyfriend’s big hard cock. Your cheeks turned red and you quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Laura sighed deeply as she typed on her phone. “Whatever. People think you’re funny and cute. That’s all I need. See you later.”
“Bye!” Joe exclaimed in a teasing tone only for you.
You patted his arms and muttered, “Didn’t realize the Sinners score could be so arousing for you?”
He pressed closer and whispered. “No one will notice if we disappear.”
“Uhm, literally everyone will,” you fought back as you tried to push him off. “Babe, it’s too risky. There’s always eyes on us.”
On you, Joe wanted to say. No one cares that much about him, maybe the Stranger Things fans, but he doubted most of the awarded, famous artists in that room respected his show.
You on the other hand? Joe was aware of how heads turned whenever you passed, how most artists were nervous of talking to you and wouldn’t even try most of the time.
If they only knew how approachable and down-to-earth you were. If they could see you fangirling over romance books at one in the morning in nothing but an oversize shirt of his and a skincare mask.
Although… in all honesty, Joe was glad he was the only one with the privilege to know you like the back of his hand. To know the real you, not Y/N Y/L/N the most famous young actress and singer of this century.
Joe held you tighter and kissed your cheek. “Baby… please. Look at what you’re doing to me.”
You almost moaned when he rubbed his hardness against your ass.
“But we’ll only have, like, five minutes to do anything.”
Joe’s whisper in your ear sent shivers down your spine. “You know I can make you come in less time, honey.”
Fuck… Lust was clouding your mind. Maybe no one would notice the empty spots on your table.
“Fine. Go to the second floor men’s bathroom and wait for me until the next commercial break.”
He pulled away before tenderly kissing your lips. “You’re the best.”
“I know,” you mumbled and watched him rush to the closest elevator. “Damn…” you said to yourself, entertained by his eagerness.
Joe was so pathetic for you.
— — —
It had been ten minutes with no news of you. Joe was walking around the small space anxiously with his jeans and boxers bunched down to his knees, his hand teasing his cock with short strokes.
“Where the fuck are you?” he muttered to the quiet air.
Meanwhile, in the grand salon, the winner finished his speech and the show took a commercial break. A five-minute countdown started on the screens.
You cursed internally as you ran out of the room before anyone could try speaking to you.
On all the past breaks, people had bombarded you, asking about your future projects, about your relationship, about Crashing Waves… These events were for networking, but you were sort of done with the small talk and forced chuckles.
You lowkey needed dick.
Fine, you were craving Joe, but you had tried being more discreet and patient.
Waiters and assistants were running all around the venue, taking drinks, aiding people, and making sure the show was going perfectly. They were too distracted to notice you slipping behind the bar to the elevator… except for the two young bartenders who frowned at your obvious attempt at discretion.
They wouldn’t say anything, so you paid them no mind and pressed the button marking ‘2.’ The doors closed and displayed your reflection. You sighed nervously and brushed your hair with your fingers. Why were you even doing that? It was going to get messy after your ‘activities’ with Joe.
The hallways on the second floor were quietly empty, as you had expected. Why would people go anywhere but the bar during the breaks? You took off your heels and ran to the men’s bathroom.
Your heart was thumping from the adrenaline, your pussy getting wet from the danger of it all. The last stall’s door was just closing. You smirked and put the heels on; you cleared your throat and made sure your steps sounded as you approached it.
“So naughty, so desperate, so pathetic,” you filled the silence. “You just can’t keep it in your pants, huh? Maybe a blowjob would make you behave.”
You pushed the door hard, but your smile vanished in an instant, replaced by a horrified gasp.
Kevin Hart had his hands frozen on his unbuckled belt. He looked scared until he recognized you. He raised his hands and smirked. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m happily married, dear.”
You took a step back and looked away, even if he was dressed. Your face was burning as you stumbled over your words. “Oh my— I’m so, so sorry. My boyfriend… Shit, I… This is—”
“Hey, it’s fine. I supposed you were looking for somebody else,” Kevin chuckled. “I’m glad you met me instead, to be honest. I’m a big fan of your work!”
The clock was ticking as you wondered where your boyfriend could’ve gone. You had been very clear: the second-floor men’s bathroom. How could he get confused at that? Had the horniness messed with his head?
You finally turned your eyes back to Kevin Hart and smiled nervously. “Thanks. I loved…” You couldn’t really remember any of his work. “...when you slapped Will Smith.”
He snickered and sat down on the toilet. “I know probably everyone tells you this, but, man… Crashing Waves is the best tv show in history. I have, like, ten thousand Tiktok edits on my gallery. Oh, and my family loves it. We sit together to watch every season and— Wait…” He pulled out his phone. “Can you make a short video for my daughter? She loves your music.”
Thoughts of Joe disappeared the moment he mentioned his daughter. You gasped excitedly. “Of course! What’s her name?”
After you recorded various videos saying hi to Kevin Hart’s kids (then to his siblings, cousins, and nephews), you promised him tickets to your next tour and refused his insistent offer of giving you his brother’s phone number. You could’ve just walked out, but your people-pleasing self didn’t want to seem rude.
The speakers had announced the ending of the break in thirty seconds, but you couldn’t go back without finding Joe. Kevin Hart gave you a grateful hug and finally let you escape.
The women’s bathroom was empty, so you ran downstairs and threw open the first-floor men’s bathroom. “Joe?” You were never repeating the mistake of opening stalls without asking. “Are you here?”
A hand came up from a stall. “Here!”
The second he saw your heels outside his door, Joe opened it and pulled you into a fierce kiss. “What took you so long?”
You fell back into the closed door and tried to kiss him back while talking. “I went to the bathrooms upstairs but you weren’t there.”
He frowned, pulling back. “You said second floor.”
“Yeah, and this is the first one.”
“No, it’s the second. The elevator didn’t work, so I climbed a set of stairs and…” He stopped as realization dawned on him. “And that floor was the Lobby, so this is the first, and the second is—”
“Upstairs,” you muttered. “I walked in on Kevin Hart almost taking a shit.”
But instead of laughing, Joe shut you up with another kiss. “Don’t talk about other men while I’m trying to fuck you,” he joked.
“Yeah ‘cause I was definetly gonna blow Kevin Hart.” You rolled your eyes.
Joe’s kisses dropped to your neck as his hands wandered to your butt. “I don’t know. You like slaps and kinky shit like that.”
You pushed him to the closed toilet and straddled him. “Alright, the commercial break is over, but we should make this quick anyway.”
Joe’s arms wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him. You started to grind your hips, making him moan. “Fuck…”
He had his jeans and underwear hanging on his knees, his hard cock leaking against his tummy.
You licked your lips and stood up. After bunching up your dress, you tried to kneel, but Joe stopped you. “No, wait. I don’t want that. I need to be inside you, baby,” he pleaded.
“But I’m not prepared enough.” You pulled down your thong to show your semi-wet pussy.
If he didn’t eat you out before penetrating you, his cock would hurt you terribly. It was difficult getting used to such size.
“It’s okay.” Joe casually pulled out a condom and a small bottle of lube from his pants’ pocket.
Your jaw dropped. “Have you been carrying that all night?”
He shrugged, smirking. “After I saw you trying on that dress, I knew I wouldn’t control myself all night, sweetheart.”
You blinked, frowning, then snorted. “Joe, that could’ve fallen out of your pocket mid-presentation!”
Joe opened the condom and carefully put it on. He uncapped the bottle and poured lube on his fingers. “And? Is not as if people don’t know couples have sex.”
You caressed his blond hair. “Baby, the Golden Globes is a PG-13 show. You would’ve traumatized more than just our family.”
Joe froze and grimaced. “Can we go back to sexy talk? It’s odd thinking of our families while I’m touching my dick.”
You opened your mouth but just chuckled. “I’m sorry! Uhm…” You spat on your clit and rubbed it. “Wait, did you just say ‘sexy talk’? What are you? Fifteen?”
Joe shut you up by inserting three lubed fingers inside you. Normally, he could get you wet in seconds, but for the sake of time, lube will have to do.
You moaned as he moved them quickly, preparing you. “Fuck, Joe… Just like that.”
But he took them off, wiped them on his thigh and pulled you back to straddling his lap. Obediently and on instinct, you tried to get comfortable enough to ride him. Joe leaned back, his hands dropping to caress your thighs as he looked up at you with darkened eyes.
“You look so hot, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna ride me good?”
You grabbed his protected cock and aligned it on your prepared entrance. “Gonna give you what you want so you can shut up.”
His hips flexed slightly as his tip grazed you. “I’ll never shut up about you. You’re too beautiful. My pretty girl.”
You held onto his shoulders while sinking down on him. Joe threw his head back with a choked groan, the grasp on your hips tightening like a vise, like he needed to remind himself you were really on top of him.
“Oh, God!” you whined at the size. You were barely sitting on half of it.
Joe kissed your collarbone and soothed your hips. “It’s okay, baby. Take your time.”
“We don’t have time,” you muttered. Closing your eyes, you sank down completely. “Fuck!”
His breath turned uneven, his voice already wrecked. “Baby, I’m not lasting long. F-feels so good. Y-you feel… P-please move.”
You braced yourself and started riding him fast, ignoring the pain and focusing on your boyfriend’s pleasure. His hands slid up to your lower back, squeezing your ass hard.
“You’re so perfect. Making me insane just by just existing… I’ve needed you since we got into that limousine,” he murmured into your neck, his teeth scraping over the perfumed skin at your neck. “So good for me. Only me.”
You moaned and threw your hair back to give him more access. “Only yours, Joe. I’m yours.”
His nails were marking your skin as he helped you ride him. Joe knew he was on the verge of finishing, but he wanted you to do it first. And he knew exactly how.
Joe spanked you hard before gripping your chin and angling your face back to him. “Damn right you’re mine. This pussy was made for me.” He pressed a messy, possessive kiss to your lips, biting the lower one. “I’m not letting you go. Not even if goddamn Elordi tries to charm you again.”
You smirked and rolled your hips harder. “I knew you would get jealous about that. He was just being friendly.”
He gripped your hair and pulled you closer. “Don’t play. He was flirting with you.”
You had no patience to tease him, so you shoved down your dress straps. “I don’t care about him. He’s nothing compared to you, Joe.” You arched your back and pushed his head down to your breasts. “The only one that I want inside me, the only one that can touch me.”
Joe’s eyes turned darker before he started to press open-mouthed kisses across your chest.
“No marks,” you reminded him.
He groaned and captured one of your nipples in his mouth. His hand gripped your waist as he moved you up and down his length, his hips flexing up to meet yours.
“So pretty. So soft… Fucking obsessed with you,” he murmured against your skin.
His thumb brushed over the other nipple, delightfully watching your reactions. You gasped and moaned as your legs burned from the effort of riding him in such a small space.
You were getting close, but it wasn’t enough. Rubbing yourself wouldn’t be as pleasurable.
“Baby…” you whined. “Take off the condom.”
Joe’s entire body went still. He released your nipple and looked up at you hesitantly. “Honey—” His voice was rough, and he was trying to not show too much eagerness. “Are you sure? You aren’t on the pill.”
You were too horny to think straight. “Whatever. I’ll take a Plan B tomorrow. There’s a pharmacy in front of the hotel.”
Joe knew he had to think rationally, but it was too difficult with you half-naked on top of him, begging him for something he had dreamed of since the moment he met you.
You noticed his hesitation, so you pressed yourself closer and kissed his jaw. “I need to feel you completely, Joe. Need you to fill me up—”
You hadn’t even finished talking when Joe was already standing up with you in his arms. Who was he trying to lie to? He would always give you anything you wanted. Anything.
He pressed you against the door and pulled out. His shaky hands took off the condom, throwing it to the floor, and sank back into you.
“Holy shit,” he whimpered, his fingers digging painfully into your thighs. “Fuck— Feels great.”
Your pussy clenched at feeling him raw for the first time, welcoming him. There was no going back after this. Now, you finally belonged to each other. Your legs wrapped against him as he accelerated his thrusts.
“Fuck, Joe! Yes, yes!” you moaned loudly and shamelessly.
The door rattled behind you with each rough snap of his hips against yours. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. Moan my name again.”
You threw your head back as he buried his face against your neck. “Joe! L-love you too. Don’t s-stop, baby.”
The overwhelming feeling of your bare pussy around him was attacking all of his body. In that moment, Joe knew he never wanted to be inside anyone else ever again.
“I’ve loved you ever since I met you,” he confessed. “Ever since I saw you singing at that Christmas party, I knew I was ruined.”
He looked at you, pressing his forehead against yours as he kept fucking you.
“I’m so fucking ruined. You’re it for me, Y/N. You’re my everything,” he murmured before kissing you firmly. “My all, my world… I’m never letting you go. No point in living if I’m not loved by you.”
You were sort of taken aback by his sudden romantic words; he was usually more of a dirty talker during sex, leaving the cute poetry for his songs. But it seemed that romance was getting you closer to the edge as you clenched around him.
“Yeah? You’re obsessed with me?” you joked with a breathy moan.
“So much,” he said without hesitation. “Can’t believe every day I wake up with the prettiest, smartest, most talented woman by my side.”
You chuckled and kissed him softly. “Rub my clit, honey.”
He obeyed instantly, holding your body with an arm and finding your weakest point with his right hand. “I mean it, babe. I’m devoted to you. You have me wrapped around your finger.”
“And my pussy,” you teased before biting your lip hard.
You were on the verge… just a tiny bit more.
“Let me come inside you,” Joe whimpered in a shaky voice. His pupils were blown in lust, looking feral and drunk. His thumb was rubbing your clit with all his might. “Please… I can feel you close. Need to fill you up, baby. Need to make you mine…”
With just a brief nod from you, Joe gripped your hips hard and let himself come undone deep inside you. Feeling his cum painting your insides made you follow him over the edge. Your body trembled as a broken moan escaped your lips.
He kept you close as both tried to recover your breaths. You could feel each other's rapid heartbeats filling the quiet bathroom. Joe pressed gentle kisses on your neck and jaw.
“Don’t take the pill tomorrow,” he murmured.
You froze.
Joe slowly kissed around your face as he kept going. “I meant everything I said. I’m yours, and I wanna be yours forever. Don’t take it and let’s start a family. Together. Ours.”
When he pulled back and noticed your shocked face, he knew he had fucked up. Joe gulped and pulled out. He quickly pulled out his coat’s handkerchief and pressed it on your leaking pussy to avoid a mess on the floor.
“I, uhm… I meant that if you want to take the pill or not, it’s your choice, and I’ll be okay with whichever,” he whispered, trying to calm you or get a different reaction from you. “But it’s your choice, okay? Didn’t mean to sound like I was pressuring you or—”
“No, no. It didn’t feel like that at all,” you quickly reassured him.
“It’s just… I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind cancelling the tour to have a baby with you,” he confessed but quickly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I must be overwhelming you. I just —”
“And here are the nominees for Best Actress in a Television series,” was heard on the hallway’s speakers.
The show had continued, of course, but you hadn’t paid mind to it until now.
Joe and you paled, going still for a second, before quickly rearranging your clothes.
“Please not me, please not me,” you whispered nervously.
Joe helped you tidy your messy post-sex hair as you ran out of the bathroom. You hadn’t even taken a look at your reflection, but you were sure there was no lipstick on your lips and that your mascara had probably gotten mushy around your eyes.
“Do I look like I just got fucked?” you asked him as you ran down the last set of stairs to the main lobby.
Joe took a long glance at you and pressed his lips in a line. He lied, “No. Just…” He rubbed your under-eye nervously. “Uhm…”
“And the Golden Globe goes to…”
Joe and you grabbed each other’s hands instinctively as you stood outside the doors. He had rooted for you all season… but now he was sort of wishing for Ayo Edebiri to win.
“Y/N Y/L/N!”
“Fuck!” you both yelled.
Joe brushed your hair one last time before pushing you to the door. “Go, go!”
“I’m on it!” you groaned and hesitantly entered the theater.
There were three cameramen frantically looking for you near your table. You held the bottom of your dress up and rushed across the tables with shaky ‘excuse me’s.
“She is here!”
“Over there!”
You waved and smiled awkwardly as a camera found you and the crowd could finally applaud. People were standing up—oh wow—and patting your back as you passed by them.
“Congrats!”
“You were great!”
“So deserved!”
You thanked back and shook as many hands as you could until you reached the stage’s stairs. Why were they made of crystal? Ugh. You carefully climbed them, but at the last one, you stumbled.
Gasps filled the room. An event’s assistant ran to your side before you could fall, but you were already covering your face from the embarrassment. Well, maybe you could blame your messy state on the almost-fall.
Jason Bateman gave you the award. “Congrats! You alright?”
You forced a smile and nodded. “Yeah, thanks!”
People sat down as you finally reached the microphone. Out of habit, you brushed your hair out of your face and behind your shoulders. “Oh God… I’m never going to the bathroom mid-show again!”
Laughter ran across the place while you were internally panicking because the speech you prepared was in your purse. Time to improvise.
“Thank you, Golden Globes. I know this was a hard decision since all my fellow nominees were great. And I mean that, I watched all their shows. And uhm… Yeah. Uhm… My Crashing Waves family, thank you for the support, for trusting me with this wonderful character through every season, since I was only twenty-one and inexperienced and… a nervous mess, just like I am right now!”
On your table, your show’s producer laughed along with the crowd. Right behind him, Joe was discreetly reaching his seat.
And everything made sense again.
You smiled warmly and held the award closer to your chest. “I also wanna thank my partner of almost two years, Joe.” You sighed and looked directly at him. “This was a hard season with all the messed-up things that my character went through, and I know I wouldn’t have survived without you. You who always had pancakes and scrambled eggs ready every morning I had to go to set. You who missed many music events to be with me on set. You who helped me escape my mental monsters every night in your arms.”
Joe was looking up at you with adoration as he mouthed an ‘I love you.’
You giggled, your eyes getting tearful. “I love you more.” There were so many things you wanted to pour out of your heart, but maybe they were for your boyfriend’s ears only.
“Uhm, so yeah,” you turned back to the crowd. “Thanks to everyone I didn’t mention but knows I appreciate them. Bye!”
This time, an assistant was already ready to escort you down the stairs. You held his arm and whispered, “Sorry that I got you doing this too. I bet you have a lot to do already.”
He shook his head and smiled widely. “Having you touching my arm is the highlight of my life!”
“Oh!” you chuckled and patted his arm. “Want a selfie?”
After taking a picture with a few more assistants, you went back to your table. Gary, your show’s producer, hugged you tightly. “Oh, my darling Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”
You thanked everyone at the table and, finally, walked to your boyfriend. He was waiting for you with a smile and a rose. You frowned. “Where did you get this?”
Joe placed an arm around your waist, pulled you close, and kissed your head. “Stole it from a vase on the bar. The waiter said it was fine if it was for you… then she asked me if we were secretly married and I said yes just for fun.”
Your frown deepened, but you laughed and kissed him on the lips. “You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he corrected, murmuring against your lips. He gave you the rose and stroked your cheek with his thumb. “Congrats on the award, honey. I kinda cried with your speech.”
“I had so much more prepared!” you whined and looked for the crumbled up paper on your purse. “I was gonna thank my family, your mom, my high school art teacher, every girl around the world who dreams to be an actress, and our dog.”
Joe blinked as a smile slowly formed on his face. “Every girl who dreams to be an actress?”
“Yeah! I wanted to tell them to follow their dreams and not let men step on them,” you sighed sadly. “I’ll just put it in my Instagram post caption.”
Joe opened his mouth to speak, but he forgot everything when he noticed a very visible red mark below your jaw, at the left side of your neck. It hadn’t been noticeable while you were on stage due to the various spotlights… but on camera.
You frowned at his sudden silence. “What—?”
He covered the hickey with your hair and shook his head. “Nothing. Just… don’t move your hair from there… and we should probably skip the after-party.”
You paled as you slowly understood. Instinctively, you dove your hand in your purse for your phone. Joe stopped you. “Don’t… it’s been buzzing a lot and I’m not sure if it’s because of the award.”
Joe and you sat down as people scrambled around the place to enjoy the break. “I don’t have the patience,” you admitted and unlocked your phone.
There were over a thousand mentions on Twitter, more than five hundred messages from your friends, and a single one from your manager.
Laura: I’M STERILIZING JOE TOMORROW.
Joe sighed. “Don’t enter Twitter—” You ignored him. “Babe…”
He had deleted the app years before dating you, but screenshots sent from friends informed him how much people talked about you two.
Your jaw dropped at the first tweet that popped up. It had gotten over two hundred thousand likes in less than five minutes.
There were four attachments: one of you two on the red carpet, with Joe staring hungrily at you as you posed; another one of him grabbing your ass behind the stage while you applied your lipstick; then you two walking out of the men’s bathroom, looking incredibly messy and obvious with your dress’ straps hanging off your shoulders; and the last one… you on the stage with a red circle drawn around your neck, signalling the hickey.
On top, the tweet read: STEVE HARRINGTON LIVING MY DREAM AGHHH @ joe_keery CAN YOU FIGHT?
---
a/n: jacob elordi is my husband and joe keery is my baby daddy i love them and need them to fight over me aghh anyway i wanna write a pt.2 where she is deciding between taking the pill or not... we'll see!
where in ' ever since you posted the engagement ring, everyone started thinking you're engaged to this driver and it drove max crazy and decided he wanted to reveal it himself.
fc; none + random pics in pin :))
‘ how my heart yearns for him is he far away? is he okay? this man is testing me ’ - where is my husband , RAYE
ynln
liked by alexandrasaintmluex, iamrebeccad, and 687K others
tagged: f1
ynln just got engaged! :) i look good in white, dont i?
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alexandrasaintmluex so so pretty❤️ liked by ynln
iamrebeccad can't wait to see you in wait ❤️🔥
f1 👀
user1 WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEANNN ???
user2 okay.. f1 driver, got it
user3 it has to be lewis from her insane outfits
user4 RIGHTT. AND I'VE SEEN THEM INTERACT MULTIPLE TIMES.
user5 PLS BE MAXY/N
user6 no way they literally have no chemistry
user7 betting on lando rn no joke
user8 no way orange doesn't fit her
user9 idk if you're insulting y/n or lando..
user10 I NEEDAAA KNOWW.
maxverstappen1
liked by ynln, redbullracing, and 987K others
maxverstappen1 simply lovely.
( view all comments )
user5 IM TELLING YOU ALL MAXY/N IS REALLLLLLLLL
user11 its just a coincidence lol
redbullracing simply lovely indeed, congratulations! liked by maxverstappen1
user12 Spill the tea ??
redbullracing 👎
user13 y/n getting engaged and him also getting engaged and winning?? this is heaven news
user14 WHO'S THE LUCKY GIRL.
user5 im literally serious that's y/n
user15 dont force that ship💔👎 they have no chemistry
user16 ITS OKAY I BELIEVE IN YOU
user5 thank god
lando wait what 👀
maxverstappen1 keep your mouth shut
lando okay...
user17 lando knowing ?????
ynln congrats! ❤️❤️❤️ liked by maxverstappen1
user5 notice how she put 3 for ily
user18 dont be delusional
f1
liked by lewishamilton, ynln, and 897K others
tagged: @/ynln
f1 it looks like someone is visiting the paddock!
( view all comments )
user19 AHHH MY LEWISY/N HEART.
user5 he's lit 40 why yall shipping him with y/n ?
user20 no one is gonna feed your maxy/n delusions
user16 REAL MAXY/N FOREVER
redbullracing hey! that's our guest !
scuderiaferrari not anymore :))
user16 the concept of y/n being seen with max and in the redbull garage cures me.
lewishamilton a very fashionable guest!
maxverstappen1 ❤️🔥
ynln love being here!
user5 "maxy/n is real!" i yelled as i got dragged into a familiar white padded room.
user21 they're not subtle about ITTTT 😛
f1wagsupdate
liked by 456K others
f1wagsupdate the look of love !!
user22 ACK MY PARENTS!!
user5 this is so not it they're literally just bestfriends !!
user23 PEAK.
user24 THEY KEEP FEEDING IN MY LEWISY/N FANTASY
maxverstappen1
liked by ynln, danielricciardo, and 689K others
tagged: @/ynln
maxverstappen1 don't 'ship' her with another driver, it's not simply lovely. 🙃
( view all comments )
danielricciardo FINALLY.
ynln acting like you're the engaged one here..
danielricciardo oh cmon i saw those lewis and you edits 💔
maxverstappen1 😐
user5 I KNEW IT. TO THOSE WHO DIDN'T BELIEVE CAN SUFFER (thanks user16)
user16 YUHHH
user20 bruh
user25 OH.
user26 ig everyone jus delusional 💔
lewishamilton i guess the cat's out of the bag, can't believe someone called her my wag lol
origamiaround
ellievsbear
yousharknotpass
amandla
vaporwave
gummygunk
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
