˙⋆✮ They say having feelings for your brother’s best friend is never a good idea…
But loving Jungkook feels like the easiest thing in the world.
He’s been by your side for as long as you can remember, so it’s only natural for you to feel devastated when your brother, Dohyun, tells you that Jungkook is about to get married.
For the first time ever, loving him doesn’t feel easy at all.
𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 : brother’s best friend!jungkook x f!reader
𝙘𝙬 : age gap (jk is 32, reader is 22 ops), tension, reader is WHIPPED, pining, initial unrequited love (my fav), eventual smut (!!adding new warnings when needed!!), slow burn
Genre: Romance • Angst • Healing • Slice of Life • Slow Burn • Strangers to Lovers • Smut
Sypnosis: At thirty-two, your wedding ends before it begins when your fiancé disappears without explanation. Still holding the honeymoon tickets, you leave Seoul alone and travel across Europe to escape the life that just collapsed. An unplanned journey brings two broken souls together, and in learning to heal as they move through unfamiliar places, they quietly find love in each other along the way.
A/N: Hi lovelies! Here’s another commissioned fic from one of my wonderful readers. I’ve been working on this for almost a month, and she’s been incredibly sweet throughout the whole process, so I’m really happy I can finally share it here for everyone to read. The story is now fully finished, and I’ll be posting everything here on Tumblr.
I’m also still open for commissions, so if you ever have a story idea in mind, feel free to reach out. You can also support me through Ko-fi if you’d like. Thank you so much for all your support, it truly means a lot.💗
By eight in the morning, your wedding was already circulating across Instagram stories before the ceremony had even begun.
Weddings in Seoul had simply become another kind of spectacle, beautifully staged proof that people in their thirties were still willing to gamble their hearts on forever.
The florist uploaded a reel with soft piano music and captions that read winter elegance meets timeless romance. Your makeup artist posted a blurry candid of you smiling in your silk robe with the caption:
“our gorgeous bride today 😭🤍”
Your cousins were filming TikToks in the hotel hallway. Somebody’s boyfriend had brought a drone. Your aunt from Busan was already asking the photographer if he could “make her look ten kilos thinner in editing.”
Everything looked beautiful online.
The bridal suite smelled like hairspray, coffee, and peonies expensive enough to cover two months of your rent. Garment bags hung from every chair. Half-open makeup palettes cluttered the vanity. Somebody had left a half-eaten egg sandwich beside a Dior lipstick worth more than your electric bill.
Outside the tall windows, snow drifted softly over Seoul.
Your mother stood behind you while the stylist adjusted your veil for the fifth time, both hands pressed over her chest as if she might faint from happiness at any second.
“My daughter is finally getting married,” she kept saying to anyone who walked into the room. “I thought this day would never come.”
You laughed every time she said it because what else were you supposed to do.
At thirty-two, marriage stopped being treated like a milestone and started feeling like a countdown people monitored publicly.
Coworkers stopped asking if you wanted kids and started asking if you still did.
Your relatives sent links to fertility clinics disguised as concern.
Friends who married younger spoke to you carefully, like you might break if they mentioned anniversaries too often.
Even your fiancé used to joke about it.
“Thank god I found you before your expiration date.”
At the time, you laughed.
Because love had a strange way of teaching women to humiliate themselves gently.
Your best friend Mina walked into the bridal suite holding two iced americanos and one look at your face made her stop mid-step.
“You okay?”
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“That’s normal.”
“No, I mean actually throw up.”
She handed you the coffee carefully before sitting beside you on the couch.
“You slept at all?”
“Maybe two hours.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m getting married.”
“That sentence sounds like you’re being drafted into war.”
You laughed weakly into your cup.
Across the room, your mother was crying again while showing your wedding photoshoot pictures to the makeup artist who clearly did not care but nodded professionally anyway.
Mina lowered her voice.
“Did he text you this morning?”
You glanced at your phone.
Still nothing.
Which wasn’t unusual.
Your fiancé hated texting. Hated calls too. Hated emotional conversations in general, honestly. For three years you convinced yourself it was because he was “logical.”
Now, sitting there in silk pajamas while strangers curled your hair, you realized logical had always just meant emotionally unavailable.
“He’s probably busy,” you said.
Mina gave you a look that lasted half a second too long.
That should’ve been another sign.
But denial was easier when you already spent eighty million won on a wedding.
The venue downstairs looked unreal in the cold morning light. Tall white flowers climbed gold pillars toward the ceiling while hundreds of candles flickered across mirrored tables, reflecting soft gold across the ballroom. Near the aisle, a live string quartet rehearsed quietly as hotel staff moved through the room with flawless precision, adjusting glasses, straightening chairs, fixing details no one else would notice.
Everything was stunning.
Everything was expensive.
Everything had been planned entirely by you.
Your fiancé barely cared about the details beyond what guests would think.
He cared about the prestige hotel.
The guest list.
The photos.
The optics.
You used to mistake that for excitement.
At eleven-thirty, guests began arriving.
Your phone exploded with notifications.
Friends posting mirror selfies.
Coworkers tagging the venue.
A cousin uploaded a video captioned:
"OUR BRIDE IS HOTTER THAN THE GROOM IDC 😭”
You smiled automatically while scrolling.
Then paused.
Still nothing from him.
No good morning.
No where are you?
No nervous excitement.
Just silence.
A weird coldness crept slowly through your stomach.
You stood from the vanity too quickly.
“I’m gonna call him.”
Mina immediately followed you into the hallway.
“He’s probably downstairs already.”
“He always answers before important things.”
“You said he barely texts.”
“Yeah but this is our wedding day.”
The call rang.
Once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
You swallowed hard.
“Maybe his phone died.”
Mina said it too fast.
You called again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Something ugly began crawling up your spine.
You suddenly remembered random things you ignored for years.
How he disappeared for hours after arguments.
How every conflict somehow became your fault.
How he once told you crying during fights was manipulative.
How relieved you felt whenever he acted affectionate because it happened so rarely.
Your wedding coordinator approached carefully.
“The ceremony starts in thirty minutes. We just need confirmation the groom has arrived.”
“He’s here,” you answered instantly.
Because the alternative felt impossible.
Right?
People didn’t just disappear from weddings.
That happened in movies.
In viral Reddit stories.
In humiliating TikTok confession videos narrated by robotic AI voices over Minecraft gameplay.
Not to you.
Not after three years.
Not after invitations were sent.
Not after deposits paid.
Not after your mother told every single person she knew that her daughter was finally marrying a successful man.
Your mother entered the hallway smiling brightly.
“His family is asking where he is.”
You stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“They said they haven’t seen him since last night.”
The silence afterward felt physical.
Mina looked at you immediately.
Your stomach dropped so hard it hurt.
“What?”
Your mother’s smile faltered slightly.
“He probably went somewhere. Men are careless.”
You were already dialing again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Your fingers started shaking so badly you nearly dropped the phone.
Mina took it from your hand gently.
“Hey. Hey. Don’t panic yet.”
But her face had already changed.
Because now she knew too.
Something was wrong.
Downstairs, the ceremony start time passed quietly at first.
Guests continued chatting politely while the quartet kept playing. Staff members whispered urgently into earpieces. Your father began sweating through his suit jacket while pretending everything was fine.
Then the gossip started.
A few glances.
A few phones coming out.
A few whispers behind bouquets.
“Where’s the groom?”
“Did they fight?”
“I heard he was stressed about money.”
“No, apparently his company’s struggling.”
“Imagine if he ran away.”
“Shut up.”
Someone laughed.
Your mother heard it.
That was when she started crying for real.
The kind that came from years of pressure exploding at once.
“I told her not to wait this long,” she sobbed at your aunt. “I told her men become unreliable after thirty.”
You stood frozen in the bridal suite while people searched hotel floors for your fiancé like he was a missing child.
His parents stopped answering calls.
His friends claimed they hadn’t heard from him.
One of the groomsmen looked genuinely terrified.
Another looked unsurprised.
That one hurt the most.
Mina locked the bridal room door.
Your hands felt numb.
“I don’t understand,” you whispered.
Your reflection stared back from the mirror looking absurdly beautiful for somebody being abandoned in real time.
Your makeup was flawless.
Your hair perfectly pinned.
Your dress tailored down to the centimeter.
You looked like a bride in a luxury campaign advertisement.
And somehow that made everything more pathetic.
Your phone vibrated.
Every person in the room froze.
You grabbed it so quickly your bouquet fell to the floor.
Not a call.
A message.
From him.
Your vision blurred immediately before you even opened it.
Mina whispered carefully, “What did he say?”
You stared at the screen.
Then read it again because your brain refused to process the words properly the first time.
I can’t do this anymore.
I’m sorry.
You deserve someone better than me.
Don’t contact me for now.
That was it.
Three fucking years reduced to four sentences that sounded copied from a breakup advice forum.
No explanation.
No apology worth anything.
No shame.
Just cowardice wrapped in fake kindness.
For a second, nobody spoke.
Then your mother started screaming outside the room.
Your aunt arguing with hotel staff.
Your father yelling at somebody on the phone.
Guests murmuring louder now that they knew.
Somebody downstairs had apparently already posted online.
A blurry photo from the ceremony hall with the caption:
“Ummm I think the groom ran away???”
Mina immediately grabbed your phone.
“Don’t look at social media.”
But it was too late.
Notifications flooded endlessly across the screen.
Missed calls.
Messages.
People pretending concern while hunting for gossip.
You sat down slowly in front of the mirror because your legs no longer felt stable.
The room became strangely quiet despite the chaos outside.
You looked at yourself for a long time.
At the expensive dress.
The pearl earrings.
The trembling hands resting in your lap.
Then suddenly, memories started rearranging themselves.
Every ignored instinct returned sharper now.
The way he never looked excited discussing your future.
How annoyed he seemed when you talked too long.
The way affection always felt like something you earned instead of received naturally.
The fact that he proposed right after his younger brother got married because he was afraid of looking behind.
You remembered crying once after asking if he still loved you and how exhausted he sounded when he answered:
“Why do you always need reassurance?”
Your eyes burned.
Because deep down, some awful part of you had always known.
You just kept hoping love would eventually arrive if you stayed long enough.
Outside the bridal suite, the wedding continued collapsing piece by piece.
Hotel staff began extinguishing candles.
Guests quietly started leaving.
The quartet stopped playing.
Somewhere downstairs, dishes clinked while workers dismantled the happiest day of your life before it had even begun.
And inside the bridal room, surrounded by white flowers already beginning to wilt under artificial heat, you finally understood something devastating.
You were never difficult to love.
He simply never loved you enough.
The first thing you noticed after being left at the altar was how violently quiet your apartment felt.
The kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel cruel.
Your heater clicking on.
Your refrigerator humming.
Your phone vibrating endlessly across the kitchen counter.
Outside your window, Seoul carried on normally. Cars moved through wet winter streets. Couples walked past convenience stores holding umbrellas together. Delivery scooters sped recklessly through intersections while people in oversized coats hurried home from work.
Meanwhile your wedding bouquet was rotting in your sink.
You still hadn’t taken off the dress completely.
Hours after the wedding disaster, the expensive lace hung halfway down your body while you sat barefoot on the kitchen floor eating cold convenience store kimbap Mina bought because apparently heartbreak still required calories.
You hadn’t cried in almost an hour now, which somehow felt worse.
There was mascara dried beneath your eyes. Your scalp hurt from the hundreds of pins the stylist used earlier that morning. One earring remained attached while the other sat forgotten beside an unopened bottle of champagne your wedding guests never drank.
Mina emerged from your bedroom carrying sweatpants and one of your old university hoodies.
“You need to change.”
“I live here now.”
“You smell like floral trauma.”
You let out a small laugh despite yourself.
That seemed to be the only emotion your body could still process properly.
Not devastation.
Not rage.
Just exhausted disbelief occasionally interrupted by inappropriate laughter.
Mina crouched beside you carefully.
“Can you stand?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You haven’t moved in like forty minutes.”
“I think my soul left my body around noon.”
“Fair.”
She helped peel the wedding dress off you slowly because the zipper got stuck halfway down your back.
The dress had been custom-made by a designer in Cheongdam. Your fiancé insisted it had to look “luxury but understated.” You remembered him criticizing another bride’s gown once because it looked “cheap on camera.”
At the time, you thought he just cared about aesthetics.
Now every memory felt infected somehow.
You stepped out of the dress carefully, staring at the fabric pooled around your feet.
Thirty million won.
Months of fittings.
Hundreds of photos saved on Pinterest.
And now it looked like evidence from a crime scene.
Mina quietly carried it toward the couch.
“You should sell it.”
You laughed again.
“Who the fuck wants haunted wedding dresses?”
Mina looked like she wanted to cry, which made you immediately look away.
People always talked about heartbreak like it arrived all at once.
Like a car crash.
But this felt different.
This felt like slowly waking up from anesthesia while realizing your entire life had been misdiagnosed.
Your phone buzzed again.
Mina grabbed it before you could.
“No.”
“What if it’s him?”
“If he suddenly grew a conscience he can wait another hour.”
She flipped the phone over anyway.
The screen lit up endlessly with notifications.
Friends asking if you were okay.
Relatives pretending not to ask for details while obviously fishing for details.
Coworkers sending awkward paragraphs full of exclamation marks and crying emojis.
And beneath all of that was the thing you were trying hardest not to think about.
Social media.
Because of course people posted about it.
Weddings in 2026 were barely private events anymore. They were content farms with floral arrangements.
Someone uploaded blurry footage of confused guests leaving the venue.
Another person posted a photo of the untouched wedding stage captioned:
“this is literally my worst fear omg”
You stared at the screen numbly.
Mina immediately locked your phone.
“That’s enough.”
You leaned your head back against the kitchen cabinet.
The ceiling above you blurred slightly.
“You know the worst part?”
“The fact that he’s a coward?”
“No.” Your voice came out quieter than expected. “The worst part is I think I knew.”
Mina didn’t answer immediately.
Because she knew too.
Not that he’d leave.
But that something had always been wrong.
The signs had been there for years.
You just kept repainting them into something prettier.
Your relationship replayed differently now, like someone adjusted the lighting in a movie and suddenly revealed all the hidden damage.
You remembered your third anniversary dinner when he spent most of the night answering work emails while you sat across from him in a restaurant too expensive for either of you to enjoy comfortably.
At one point you asked softly, “Can you put your phone away for one hour?”
And he sighed.
Like loving you properly was exhausting.
“You know how important this project is.”
“I know but we barely see each other lately.”
“We live together.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Then he smiled afterward and bought you dessert, which somehow convinced you the conversation ended well.
God.
The bar had truly been in hell.
You stood slowly and walked toward the living room while memories kept surfacing without permission.
The time you cried after a terrible day at work and he told you:
“You’re too sensitive for corporate life.”
The time you gained weight and he joked:
“At least marriage means I already secured you before the damage.”
The time you mentioned wanting children someday and he replied:
“Well your timeline’s getting serious now.”
Always jokes.
Cruel things wrapped in humor so you felt dramatic for being hurt.
That was his specialty.
Making you feel embarrassing for having emotions.
You sat on the edge of your couch clutching a blanket around yourself while Seoul glittered outside your apartment windows.
You suddenly remembered the proposal.
It happened at a restaurant overlooking the Han River. Candlelight. Expensive wine. A hidden photographer waiting nearby.
Everyone online called it romantic.
What they didn’t know was that you’d argued in the car beforehand because he forgot your birthday dinner the previous week.
What they didn’t know was how distracted he looked during the proposal itself.
What they didn’t know was that your first emotion wasn’t happiness.
It was relief.
Relief that someone finally chose you before time ran out.
The realization made you feel physically sick.
You walked into the bathroom and stared at yourself under harsh white lighting.
Your face looked unfamiliar without bridal makeup.
Swollen eyes. Smudged mascara. Exhaustion carved into your expression.
This morning you looked like somebody starting a new life.
Tonight you looked like somebody surviving one.
You opened your skincare drawer automatically because routine felt safer than thinking.
Cleanser. Toner. Moisturizer.
Your therapist once told you trauma made people cling to rituals because predictability created temporary safety.
At the time you thought she meant childhood trauma.
Turns out she also meant failed weddings apparently.
Your phone buzzed again from the bedroom.
Then again.
Then again.
Mina groaned loudly. “If one more relative asks whether he cheated, I’m gonna start committing crimes.”
You almost smiled.
Then your body suddenly remembered another moment.
Two months ago.
You were lying in bed scrolling through wedding videos on TikTok while showing him flower arrangements you liked.
He barely looked up from his laptop before saying:
“Honestly after thirty-two weddings stop being romantic anyway. At that point it’s more logistical.”
You remembered laughing weakly because the comment hurt.
You remembered asking:
“Then why are you marrying me?”
And without even glancing away from the screen he answered:
“Because this is the stage of life we’re at.”
You slowly slid down the bathroom wall until you were sitting on the floor.
And finally, finally, anger began replacing humiliation.
Not at him.
At yourself.
How many times had you abandoned your own instincts just to keep being chosen?
How many nights did you cry quietly in bathrooms because you were scared asking for more affection would make you seem needy?
How many conversations did you rewrite in your head afterward trying to convince yourself he didn’t mean the hurtful things he clearly fucking meant?
Women called it patience.
Therapists called it emotional neglect.
The internet called it “tolerating crumbs.”
You called it love because admitting otherwise would’ve destroyed you sooner.
Mina knocked softly before entering the bathroom.
“Hey.”
You wiped your face quickly.
“He still hasn’t called?”
“No.” She sat beside you on the floor. “And honestly? Fuck him.”
Silence settled between you.
Then quietly, carefully, Mina asked the question nobody else dared to.
“Were you actually happy?”
Your first instinct was to say yes automatically.
Defend him.
Defend the relationship.
Defend the years you invested.
But exhaustion stripped honesty out of you.
So instead, tears filled your eyes again.
And for the first time since the wedding collapsed, you answered truthfully.
“I don’t think I’ve been happy for a really long time.”
Three days after your failed wedding, Seoul already felt like a city trying to politely suffocate you.
Everywhere you went, people looked at you with the same expression.
Too careful.
Too curious.
Too fucking aware.
Even your apartment no longer felt safe.
The wedding gifts still sat unopened near the entrance like cursed artifacts. White envelopes stuffed with congratulatory money remained stacked on your dining table beside guestbooks nobody would ever read again.
The worst part was your phone.
Your phone had become public enemy number one.
Instagram suggested breakup healing reels every ten seconds. TikTok somehow knew you’d been abandoned and started showing tarot readings with captions like:
“if a man disappeared from your life recently this message is for you”
Your YouTube algorithm became aggressively depressing overnight.
“How to rebuild your life in your 30s.”
“Signs you ignored emotional neglect.”
One video literally used AI-generated wedding stock footage while a woman narrated:
“Ladies, if he says you’re too emotional, RUN.”
You threw your phone across the couch after that.
Mina walked into your apartment carrying takeout and immediately frowned.
“Was that the phone or are we under attack?”
“The internet needs to shut the fuck up.”
She placed the food down carefully.
“You checked social media again?”
“I accidentally opened TikTok and now the algorithm thinks I’m a divorced mother of three healing in Bali.”
“You do have the energy.”
You groaned loudly into your couch cushion.
The apartment smelled like jjigae and exhaustion. Outside, winter rain streaked softly against your windows while Seoul moved restlessly beneath gray skies.
You hadn’t gone outside properly in two days.
Mostly because you were terrified of seeing someone you knew.
The failed wedding had spread faster than you thought possible.
Your aunt apparently told her church group. Your mother’s friends kept calling to offer condolences like your relationship had died in a tragic boating accident. One of your old university classmates even messaged asking if the rumors were true “because people online exaggerate things.”
Mina sat beside you and handed over chopsticks.
“You need to eat actual food.”
“I had crackers earlier.”
“That’s not food. That’s depression.”
You picked at the stew quietly.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Mina finally sighed.
“So.”
“So?”
“What are you gonna do about the honeymoon trip?”
Your hand paused midair.
The honeymoon.
Right.
Somehow, between public humiliation and emotional collapse, you had almost forgotten about the winter Europe trip you planned obsessively for nearly a year.
Train rides through snow-covered cities. Boutique hotels. Michelin restaurants you saved TikToks about at three in the morning.
You planned everything yourself.
Your ex barely contributed beyond saying:
“Whatever you want is fine.”
At the time, you thought it meant he trusted your choices.
Now you realized it was because he emotionally checked out months ago.
“The flights are tomorrow,” Mina continued carefully. “You should probably cancel everything.”
You stared down at your soup.
The deposits alone made you want to throw up.
The luxury train passes.
The hotels.
The non-refundable excursions.
Thousands of dollars spent on a future that no longer existed.
“You’ll get some money back,” Mina said gently.
You laughed softly.
“No I won’t. Europe apparently believes heartbreak is not a valid cancellation policy.”
Mina reached over and squeezed your hand.
“You don’t need to prove anything.”
The thing was, you understood exactly what she meant.
People your age loved dramatic reinventions after breakups.
Move cities.
Cut bangs.
Book solo trips to Europe while posting blurry film photos captioned “healing.”
Social media turned emotional collapse into an aesthetic.
But this didn’t feel aesthetic.
You weren’t healing.
You were humiliated.
There was a difference.
That night after Mina left, you wandered through your apartment unable to settle down properly.
You folded laundry without thinking. Rearranged skincare products. Opened and closed the refrigerator four separate times despite not being hungry.
At midnight, you ended up sitting on the floor beside your packed honeymoon suitcase.
Still packed exactly how you prepared it before the wedding.
Matching airport outfit folded neatly on top.
You stared at it for a very long time.
Then suddenly started laughing.
Because the absurdity finally hit you all at once.
You were supposed to be flying to Europe as somebody’s wife.
Now you were sitting alone on your apartment floor wearing old sweatpants while your ex fiancé was apparently missing from the face of the earth like a fucking criminal.
Your eyes drifted toward the itinerary folder beside the suitcase.
You remembered how excited you felt while planning everything.
Not even for the marriage honestly.
For the trip.
For seeing snow in Switzerland.
For wandering foreign bookstores.
For eating pasta in tiny restaurants nobody on TikTok discovered yet.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
When was the last time you felt excited about your actual relationship the way you felt excited planning the escape from your life?
The realization sat heavily inside you.
You reached for the folder slowly.
Inside were printed reservations, train schedules, restaurant bookings, tiny handwritten notes from yourself.
Try the hot chocolate place near the cathedral.
Wear the black coat in Vienna pictures.
Sunset train route!!!
You suddenly burst into tears so violently it startled you.
Because somewhere along the way, your dream stopped being love.
Your dream became leaving.
The next morning your mother arrived unannounced carrying homemade side dishes and enough anxiety to power an entire neighborhood.
“You look terrible,” she said immediately after entering.
“Good morning to you too.”
She clicked her tongue while removing her shoes.
“You lost weight already.”
“It’s been three days.”
“Stress destroys women’s bodies.”
You watched her unpack containers into your refrigerator like feeding you aggressively might reverse emotional devastation.
For a while, she avoided mentioning the wedding entirely.
Then eventually, quietly:
“People are talking.”
Of course they were.
You almost admired Seoul’s commitment to gossip honestly.
A city of ten million people somehow operated like one enormous auntie group chat.
“I know.”
“Your uncle said maybe you should stay home for a while.”
“Why?”
“So people stop asking questions.”
You stared at her.
“What exactly am I supposed to be ashamed of?”
Your mother looked startled immediately.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
She hesitated.
And in that hesitation, you heard it.
The fear.
Not for your heartbreak.
For your reputation.
Because women were still expected to survive humiliation quietly.
Especially unmarried women in their thirties.
Especially women publicly abandoned.
Your mother sat beside you carefully.
“I just don’t want people being cruel.”
Too late.
They already were.
Cruel in subtle ways.
Curious ways.
People loved tragedies they could discuss over coffee.
Later that afternoon, after your mother finally left, you opened your honeymoon itinerary again.
Then you opened your airline app.
Then your hotel bookings.
Then the weather forecast for Switzerland.
Heavy snowfall expected next week.
Beautiful.
Your stomach twisted.
You imagined canceling everything.
Staying in Seoul.
Returning to work.
Pretending this entire disaster would eventually stop hurting.
The thought made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.
Suddenly your apartment felt unbearably small.
Too many memories.
Too much embarrassment soaked into every corner.
The couch where your fiancé used to sit scrolling through stocks while ignoring your conversations.
The kitchen where you meal-prepped together in silence.
The hallway where he once kissed your forehead absentmindedly while answering work calls.
Nothing here belonged to you anymore.
Your phone rang.
Mina.
“What are you doing?”
You looked around the apartment slowly.
Then answered honestly.
“Having a mental breakdown.”
“Cute. Want wine?”
“I think I want to leave the country.”
A pause.
“What?”
The words came out before you could reconsider them.
“If I’m gonna cry anyway, I might as well cry in Europe.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re serious.”
“I think I am.”
“You’ve never traveled alone before.”
“I know.”
“You’re emotionally unstable.”
“Also true.”
Mina laughed softly.
Then her voice gentled.
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“Are you running away or trying to find yourself?”
You looked toward the suitcase still sitting beside the couch.
Half packed.
Half abandoned.
Honestly, you didn’t know.
Maybe both.
That night you booked nothing new.
Didn’t change the reservations.
Didn’t cancel a single flight.
Instead, you slowly finished packing.
Thermal coats.
Passport.
Skincare.
The Europe guidebook you bought months ago.
At three in the morning, jet lag articles and train route videos played softly from your laptop while snow fell quietly outside your apartment windows.
And for the first time since the wedding, something unfamiliar appeared beneath all the grief.
Like your life had finally cracked open wide enough for air to enter again.
You stood inside Incheon Airport wearing an oversized black coat while dragging a suitcase originally meant for two people.
The airport buzzed with winter travelers and exhausted families. Luxury brands glowed beneath bright lights. Somewhere nearby, a child cried dramatically while his parents argued over passports.
Nobody here knew your story.
Nobody cared.
Strangely, that felt comforting.
Your mother cried before security.
Your father awkwardly handed you emergency cash even though you absolutely did not need it.
Mina hugged you longest.
“If you accidentally marry an Italian man, I’m blocking you.”
You laughed genuinely for the first time in days.
Then Mina grabbed your shoulders suddenly.
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Do not spend this entire trip crying over a mediocre man.”
Your eyes stung unexpectedly.
“I’ll try.”
“No.” She pointed aggressively. “I’m serious. You are too hot and too emotionally intelligent to waste Europe grieving over a man whose personality was basically Microsoft Excel.”
You burst out laughing right there in the airport.
People stared.
You didn’t care.
Minutes later, after the final goodbye, you walked alone toward immigration.
Your suitcase wheels rattled softly across polished floors.
And somewhere between security checks and departure gates, reality finally settled inside you completely.
You were thirty-two years old.
Recently abandoned.
Flying across Europe alone in winter with a non-refundable honeymoon itinerary.
And somehow, terrifyingly, your life finally belonged entirely to you again.
Airports always made you emotional.
Not in the poetic movie way where people ran dramatically toward lovers while orchestral music played in the background.
More in the deeply millennial way where standing inside an airport immediately triggered an identity crisis.
Everyone looked like they were becoming somebody else.
Businessmen flying to meetings in expensive coats. Students leaving for exchange programs. Couples documenting every second for Instagram stories with captions like catching flights not feelings.
Meanwhile you stood near Gate 22 carrying emotional damage and a seven-kilogram skincare bag.
Incheon Airport glowed beneath soft white lighting while snowfall drifted faintly outside the massive glass windows. Luxury boutiques displayed winter collections you couldn’t afford. A group of influencers in matching beige outfits filmed TikToks near a café while their exhausted boyfriend carried all their luggage silently behind them.
You sat near the charging station staring blankly at your boarding pass while trying not to spiral.
SEOUL → ROME
One-way.
Well, technically round-trip.
But suddenly the return flight felt theoretical.
Your honeymoon itinerary folder rested inside your tote bag beside emergency Xanax Mina forced you to pack “for emotional emergencies.”
Honestly, the entire trip already qualified as an emotional emergency.
Your phone buzzed again.
Mina.
boarded yet?
You typed back immediately.
not yet
Then another message arrived instantly.
remember if you accidentally meet a hot european man with generational wealth i support your healing journey
You smiled despite yourself.
Another notification appeared beneath hers.
Unknown Number.
Your stomach dropped violently before you even opened it.
For one humiliating second, hope still existed.
Maybe your ex fiancé finally regretted everything.
Maybe he’d apologize properly.
Maybe there was some explanation catastrophic enough to justify disappearing from your wedding.
You opened the message.
Your wedding looked beautiful regardless. Things happen for a reason.
You stared at the screen in disbelief.
Things happen for a reason.
What the fuck did that even mean.
People became absolutely unbearable around public heartbreak.
Everybody suddenly transformed into philosophers with access to Pinterest therapy quotes.
Delete him.
Choose yourself.
The universe removed what no longer aligned.
Meanwhile you were just trying not to cry inside an airport Pretzel shop.
You locked your phone aggressively and leaned back in your chair.
Across from you, an older couple quietly shared sandwiches while watching planes through the windows. The woman rested her head on her husband’s shoulder so naturally it looked unconscious.
Something about it hurt unexpectedly.
Because you realized how little tenderness existed in your relationship compared to ordinary people around you.
You spent years celebrating bare minimum affection like it was proof of devotion.
A text back within twenty minutes felt romantic.
Holding hands in public felt significant.
God.
The bar truly had been underground.
A sudden commotion near the boarding desk pulled your attention away.
At first, you assumed it was another influencer situation because airports in 2026 basically functioned as accidental fashion week now.
But this felt different.
More controlled.
A tall man dressed entirely in black stood near the airline counter wearing a baseball cap low over his face and a mask covering half his features. Even from a distance, something about him radiated exhaustion.
The kind of exhaustion people carried when they’d been perceived too much for too long.
One airport staff member spoke carefully while another kept glancing around nervously.
“I understand, sir,” the employee said quietly in English. “But we still need confirmation for the seat arrangement.”
You looked up instinctively.
His voice sounded familiar.
Not familiar familiar.
More like one of those voices your brain recognized from existing online too much.
The staff member lowered her voice further. “We’re trying our best, but there are limitations because of last-minute booking.”
“I specifically asked not to be seated near anyone.”
“I understand.”
“No offense but people photograph everything now.”
Honestly, fair.
Last month somebody went viral for secretly filming a man crying at an airport and turning it into an aesthetic breakup edit with Billie Eilish music.
Humanity truly lost the plot.
You glanced back toward your phone again, trying not to stare.
But something about him kept catching your attention.
Maybe it was the way he stood.
Shoulders tense beneath a black wool coat. Fingers tapping restlessly against the counter. Like he wanted to disappear from the room entirely.
Then the airline employee asked for his passport.
He reached into his coat pocket quickly.
And that was when you noticed the tattoos.
Dark ink stretched across his hand and fingers before disappearing beneath his sleeve.
Your eyes paused there for a second too long.
Because suddenly recognition brushed against your thoughts.
You’d definitely seen those tattoos before.
Online maybe.
Instagram.
TikTok edits.
Your brain immediately rejected the possibility because there was no fucking way.
Still, curiosity lingered.
The man noticed you looking accidentally.
Your eyes met for less than a second.
Even partially hidden beneath the cap and mask, his gaze felt startlingly sharp.
You looked away immediately, embarrassed.
God.
The last thing you needed was becoming one of those creepy airport people secretly identifying celebrities.
Especially when the man clearly looked miserable already.
The interaction at the counter continued quietly.
“We can move you closer to first class partition seating,” the staff member offered carefully.
He exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand over his face.
That tiny movement revealed more tattoos briefly.
Your stomach flipped strangely.
Not attraction exactly.
Recognition.
Like seeing somebody from another life unexpectedly.
A group of college girls suddenly passed nearby dragging carry-ons and immediately slowed down.
One of them gasped softly.
“Oh my god.”
Another grabbed her arm aggressively. “Don’t stare.”
Too late.
They were already staring.
The man noticed instantly.
You watched something in his posture shift immediately.
Like his body learned to brace automatically whenever people recognized him.
The girls whispered frantically among themselves while pretending not to look obvious about it.
One quietly opened her phone.
You almost physically felt the man’s irritation from across the terminal.
Honestly, airports must be hell if you’re famous.
You couldn’t even have a breakdown in peace.
The girls eventually walked away without approaching him, but tension still lingered around the boarding desk afterward.
The airline employee apologized repeatedly.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“It’s fine.”
Except it clearly wasn’t.
He sounded exhausted down to his bones.
A few minutes later boarding announcements echoed through the terminal.
Passengers began standing slowly, collecting luggage and passports.
You grabbed your tote bag and joined the line absentmindedly while checking your seat number again.
22A.
Window seat.
At least if you cried during the flight nobody would notice immediately.
Ahead of you, the man in black adjusted his cap lower while airline staff quietly escorted him toward priority boarding.
Definitely famous then.
Or hiding from a murder investigation.
Honestly fifty-fifty these days.
As the line moved forward, your phone buzzed again.
This time from your mother.
Did you board safely?
You stared at the message.
Then another arrived seconds later.
Eat properly on the plane.
You almost smiled sadly.
Your mother still sounded worried in every text now, like heartbreak turned you fragile permanently.
You typed back:
i’m okay mom
It was a lie.
But easier than explaining the truth.
The truth was you still felt untethered from your own life.
Like none of this belonged to you yet.
The failed wedding.
The solo honeymoon.
The strange freedom.
You stepped forward slowly with the boarding line.
Then paused.
Because the man in black was suddenly right beside you.
Close enough now that you noticed details more clearly.
Broad shoulders beneath his coat. Silver rings against tattooed fingers. A faint smell of clean laundry and expensive cologne lingering in the cold airport air.
He looked taller up close.
Tired too.
Like somebody carrying too much noise inside their head.
One of the airport employees accidentally spoke louder than intended.
“Mr. Jeon, your passport.”
The name hit you instantly.
Jeon.
Your brain connected the tattoos first.
Then the voice.
Then the eyes.
And suddenly realization crashed into you so hard your breath caught.
No fucking way.
You stared before you could stop yourself.
Because standing three feet away from you at Gate 22 wearing all black and looking profoundly unhappy was none other than Jeon Jungkook.
And judging by the way he immediately pulled his cap lower after hearing his own name out loud, the last thing on earth he wanted right now was to be recognized.
The first thing you noticed about Italy was how loud everything felt.
Scooters screamed through narrow streets like they had a death wish. Church bells echoed across old buildings older than your entire bloodline. People spoke with their whole bodies here, arguing dramatically over coffee while cigarette smoke curled into cold winter air.
Even the train station in Rome felt emotional.
Meanwhile you stood in the middle of it wearing an oversized black coat and looking like somebody recently escaped a psychological thriller.
You hadn’t slept properly during the flight.
Every time you closed your eyes, memories kept replaying behind your eyelids.
Your wedding dress pooled on the hotel floor.
Your mother crying in front of relatives.
The message.
I can’t do this anymore.
At some point somewhere above Turkey, you gave up trying to sleep and watched terrible in-flight movies instead while drinking tiny cups of airplane wine like a divorced businessman.
By the time you landed in Rome, your body felt disconnected from reality entirely.
The airport smelled like espresso and expensive perfume. Tourists dragged giant suitcases over tiled floors while exhausted parents negotiated with screaming children in six different languages.
Nobody looked at you twice.
Nobody knew.
That was the first beautiful thing.
Back in Seoul, your humiliation had become public property. Here, you were just another tired woman trying not to miss a train.
Honestly?
Kind of freeing.
You pulled your suitcase through Roma Termini Station while clutching your phone with frozen fingers. Your train to Florence departed in forty minutes, which would’ve been fine if you weren’t operating on emotional collapse and two hours of sleep.
Google Maps betrayed you immediately.
“Why are European train stations built like escape rooms?” you muttered while dragging your luggage down another hallway.
An older Italian man bumped your suitcase accidentally before yelling something passionately at another commuter.
You blinked at him.
He shrugged dramatically like this interaction somehow involved destiny.
Europe was exhausting already.
By the time you finally boarded the train to Florence, your hair looked terrible and your expensive airport outfit had lost all dignity.
You collapsed into your seat beside the window and stared outside while the train slowly pulled away from Rome.
Gray skies stretched endlessly over the countryside. Tiny villages blurred past. Winter fields rolled quietly beneath soft afternoon light.
For the first time in days, nobody called you.
No relatives.
No coworkers.
No pity disguised as concern.
Just silence.
Your phone buzzed once.
Mina.
survived?
You smiled tiredly.
barely
Three dots appeared instantly.
any hot italians yet
mina i almost died in the train station
so thats a no
You laughed softly under your breath.
The woman seated across from you glanced up from her book briefly before smiling politely.
You looked away toward the window again.
Somewhere during the train ride, exhaustion finally overpowered adrenaline.
Your thoughts slowed.
Just softened enough for breathing to stop feeling difficult.
Outside, Italy unfolded quietly beneath winter skies while your old life remained thousands of kilometers away.
And somewhere deep inside yourself, hidden beneath heartbreak and humiliation and grief, another feeling began surfacing carefully.
Relief.
You hated yourself a little for it.
But it was there.
No more pretending.
No more begging somebody to love you correctly.
No more shrinking yourself into “easy” and “understanding” and “low maintenance.”
You spent years trying to become digestible enough for somebody emotionally unavailable to keep.
Maybe that was the real exhaustion.
Florence looked unreal at sunset.
Warm golden lights glowed against ancient buildings while winter fog settled softly over narrow streets. Couples wandered hand in hand beneath hanging lights. Tiny restaurants overflowed with people drinking wine loud enough to make entire sidewalks feel alive.
Your hotel room overlooked a quiet street lined with bookstores and leather shops.
It was beautiful.
And devastating.
Because this was supposed to be your honeymoon.
There should’ve been another suitcase beside yours. Another toothbrush in the bathroom. Somebody laughing with you while struggling to unpack winter coats.
Instead, the second half of the closet remained painfully empty.
You stood in the middle of the room for several minutes before finally whispering:
“Well. Fuck.”
Then you cried again.
Just quietly while sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing your coat.
Jet lag made emotions feel unstable. Everything hurt sharper when you were tired.
After twenty minutes, your stomach growled aggressively enough to interrupt the breakdown.
Right.
Food.
An hour later, you found yourself sitting inside a tiny restaurant near Piazza della Signoria pretending not to notice literally every other table contained couples.
Actual couples.
Not emotionally distant corporate men who treated affection like a quarterly business investment.
These people touched each other absentmindedly.
Hands resting on knees.
Foreheads brushing together during conversation.
Smiling mid-sentence because they genuinely liked one another.
Your waiter approached warmly.
“One?”
The question hurt less this time.
“Yes,” you answered.
He led you toward a tiny table beside the window overlooking the street.
At first, embarrassment sat heavily inside your chest.
You felt visible.
Pathetic.
Like everybody around you somehow knew you weren’t supposed to be alone here.
You ordered wine immediately.
Then pasta.
Then tiramisu because honestly your life already collapsed so calories no longer mattered.
Around you, conversations swirled in languages you barely understood.
A couple beside you argued affectionately over dessert. A family laughed loudly near the back of the restaurant. Somebody outside played violin beneath soft yellow lights while snow drifted gently through Florence.
You took your first bite of pasta absentmindedly.
Then paused.
Holy shit.
Maybe heartbreak truly enhanced flavor because the pasta nearly made you emotional.
You actually laughed quietly to yourself.
The waiter noticed.
“Good?”
“Incredible.”
He grinned proudly before disappearing again.
And somehow, slowly, something strange happened.
The loneliness stopped feeling humiliating.
You looked around the restaurant again.
Not comparing yourself this time.
Just observing.
People were simply living.
Eating. Laughing. Existing.
And for the first time since the wedding, being alone didn’t feel like evidence that something was wrong with you.
It felt peaceful.
Temporary.
Even beautiful.
You poured yourself more wine while snow continued falling softly outside the windows.
Maybe solitude only felt pathetic when you were waiting for someone who kept failing to love you properly.
Maybe being alone wasn’t the tragedy.
Maybe staying in the wrong relationship was.
Back in Seoul, however, another disaster unfolded across every screen imaginable.
News articles exploded hourly.
Entertainment channels.
TikTok gossip accounts.
Anonymous forums.
Every headline carried the same name.
Jeon Jungkook
Videos from a nightclub in Gangnam circulated online relentlessly. Blurry footage showed Jungkook shoving a man aggressively while security intervened nearby.
Different stories spread every hour.
Some claimed he was drunk and violent.
Others claimed he attacked a businessman unprovoked.
One viral post accused him of having anger issues for years.
Nobody knew the full story yet.
The truth was much uglier.
Three nights before leaving Korea, Jungkook attended a private industry gathering he never wanted to attend in the first place. Halfway through the night, he noticed a CEO’s son cornering one of the female staff near a hallway while drunk enough to think money erased consequences.
The staff member looked terrified.
Jungkook intervened.
Words escalated.
Then the man grabbed the woman again while laughing.
After that, Jungkook stopped thinking.
The punch happened fast.
Too fast for somebody constantly watched by cameras.
Unfortunately for him, somebody filmed only the aftermath.
Not the harassment.
Not the woman crying afterward.
Just Jungkook looking furious while security restrained him.
Public opinion turned vicious instantly.
Because people loved building idols into gods almost as much as they loved destroying them afterward.
Inside a luxury hotel suite, Jungkook stared blankly at his phone while another article refreshed across the screen.
“Global Star Under Fire Following Violent Incident.”
He tossed the phone onto the couch immediately.
Silence filled the room afterward.
Heavy silence.
The kind that followed years of exhaustion finally catching up with someone.
His manager called again.
Ignored.
Another message arrived seconds later.
Please contact us. The company is panicking.
Jungkook rubbed both hands over his face before walking toward the hotel window.
Outside, the city glittered beautifully beneath winter rain.
He felt nothing.
That was the problem lately.
Not sadness.
Numbness.
His entire life had become performance management.
Smile correctly.
Apologize correctly.
Disappear correctly.
Even breathing required strategy now.
He glanced toward the television where entertainment news replayed the scandal again.
Muted footage.
Slow-motion edits.
Talking heads debating his personality like they knew him personally.
One panelist actually said:
“Perhaps fame changed him.”
Jungkook laughed bitterly under his breath.
Fame didn’t change him.
Fame just made every mistake permanent.
He grabbed the remote and turned the television off violently.
Then silence again.
The hotel room suddenly felt unbearable.
Too expensive.
Too empty.
Too lonely.
His eyes drifted toward the passport tossed carelessly across the table beside train tickets booked impulsively hours earlier.
No schedules.
No staff.
No cameras.
Just Europe in winter.
He didn’t even know where he wanted to go yet.
He only knew he needed to disappear before the noise swallowed him completely.
Meanwhile, few kilometers away, you sat alone inside a tiny Italian restaurant drinking wine while snow fell softly beyond glowing windows.
And for the first time in years, loneliness no longer felt like failure.
☆summary: when you move to Seoul to do some research on your upcoming book, your life gets tangled with the city's celebrity scene. It leads to you crossing paths with Jeon Jungkook, whose confusing behaviour convinces you that he hates you. Only, you might have misread his intentions from the beginning...
☆status: next update on June 12th, 2026
☆pairings: drummer!Jungkook x writer!female reader, Jennie x Taehyung, Hoseok x OC, Namjoon x OC, Seokjin x OC, Yoongi x OC
☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, some chapters have mature content)
☆genre: enemies (annoyances?) to lovers!au, celebrity!au, rockstar!au, smut, angst (make it dramatic), fluff
☆total word count: 188.3k
☆a/n: following a bad heartbreak last year, I fully lost my interest in writing. until I stumbled upon this fic that I had started like two years ago and never touched again. after reworking the premise (it initially was fully idol!au), this baby was born and gosh do I love it and its characters. I hope you guys enjoy it, as it was my way of healing from that bad break up and also as it taught me how to love writing again <3 it goes through dark stuff, and as per usual, each chapter will be appropriately labelled with its own warnings. Please be on the lookout for those!
☆Thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing this fic <3 i am so thankful for you and your work, as always!
☆add yourself to the taglist here!
☆☆☆☆☆
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Iris, The Goo Goo Dolls
☆☆☆☆☆
➳Teaser: the first time he sees you (1.7k)
Just give her the fucking NDA so we can go back to partying.
➳Chapter one: when you meet Jeon Jungkook (8.1k)
I didn't expect him to be rude.
➳Chapter two: when your paths cross again (12.4k)
You're not still thinking she'll start rumors?
➳Chapter three: when you go to the same afterparty (12.4k)
I was in love with you as a teenager.
➳Chapter four: when you and Jeon Jungkook clash (11.7k)
Some people just don't get along, and that's okay.
➳Chapter five: when he starts texting you (10.8k)
Goddamn. Jeon Jungkook.
➳Chapter six: when you go to his concert (14.8k)
I just wouldn't get attached if I were you.
➳Chapter seven: when you spend a day with him (10.1k)
So you're not denying it?
➳Chapter eight: when you witness love breaking and blooming (8.5k)
Just friends, huh?
➳Chapter nine: when you find out how hard goodbyes are (13.1k)
What am I doing here then, Jungkook?
➳Chapter ten: when you break (12.9k)
You lied like it was nothing.
➳Chapter eleven: when you wake up (10.3k)
Leave.
➳Chapter twelve: when you let go (12k)
But I promise I will heal, and I really want you to heal, too.
➳Chapter thirteen: when you meet again in Okinawa (15.8k)
Heartbreak is one of the most universal things there is.
➳Chapter fourteen: when you go back to Seoul (15k)
I've been thinking about you a lot.
➳Chapter fifteen: when you give each other a second chance (9.3k)
Love doesn't come without risk, ever.
➳Chapter sixteen: when you love him, and he loves you too (11.2k)
You're the love of my life.
☆☆☆☆☆
All right reserved to @oddinary4bts, 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
Pairing: Kim Namjoon x f!reader (with a side of Hoseok x reader and Taehyung x reader)
Summary: Namjoon never wanted a Sugar Baby, no matter what Yoongi and Hoseok said. You never wanted a Sugar Daddy, despite the insistence from Jimin. Until your life takes a turn and you really need the money, fast. What was supposed to be a one night thing, a birthday present for a big time rapper and producer, turns into so much more when you find in each other what you never thought you had been looking for.
Genre: Fluff, angst, so much smut, strangers to lovers, sugar daddy au.
Warnings: TIME AND DATES MAKE SENSE DURING THE STORY! Keep an eye out for them. Non idol au. Sugar Daddy/Sugar baby themes. It started as porn with plot and ended having a lot of plot and even more porn (seriously, there’s smut in every chapter). Daddy!Namjoon, BrokeStudent!Reader. Some angst sprinkled, so much fluff (these two are perfect for each other). SugarBabyBestFriend!Jimin. Idol!Seokjin. ArtStudent!Tae, FilmStudent!Jungkook. RapperProducer!Yoongi, RapperProducer!Hoseok. Side parings: Yoonmin and Taekook.
Summary - For years, they existed in the space between friendship and love, too close to be platonic, yet never enough to be real. He treated her like she was his in private, only to pull away the moment things became too serious.
The night she finally chose to walk away from the man who once consumed her entire world, she carried something else with her too.
Four years later, a little girl, or fate perhaps—bring them back to each other.
Genre : second chance romance, unrequited love (at first), slow burn, accidental pregnancy, Friends → strangers → lovers, angst, fluff
Themes : emotionally unavailable! Jungkook , unlabeled relationship, friends with benefits(kind of), fear of commitment, one-sided devotion, accidental pregnancy, absent father (he doesn’t know), girl dad! Jungkook, second chances, yearning, found family, angst with happy ending
Chapters :
Chapter1 - The Gravity Between Them
31.05.26 wc: 4.7k
Chapter2 - In Another Life.
04.06.26 wc: 4.2k
Chapter3 - The Life She Built
coming 10.06.26
Chapter4 -
Chapter5 -
Taglist : Please comment, dm or ask to be in the taglist <3.
Note : Hii! so happy to be back:) How are you guys doing? This story might flop but it is what it is. I hope you all like it.🫶🏼
˙⋆✮ They say having feelings for your brother’s best friend is never a good idea…
But loving Jungkook feels like the easiest thing in the world.
He’s been by your side for as long as you can remember, so it’s only natural for you to feel devastated when your brother, Dohyun, tells you that Jungkook is about to get married.
For the first time ever, loving him doesn’t feel easy at all.
𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 : brother’s best friend!jungkook x f!reader
𝙘𝙬 : age gap (jk is 32, reader is 22 ops), tension, reader is WHIPPED, pining, initial unrequited love (my fav), eventual smut (!!adding new warnings when needed!!), slow burn
namjoon's younger sister has been beside bts since their trainee days. everyone treats her like family. everyone except jungkook, because somewhere between endless bickering, shared beds after exhausting schedules, hidden midnight conversations...things stopped feeling platonic. unfortunately for them, the internet notices first.
pairing: idol!jungkook x y/n warning/genre: fluff | friends to lovers slow burn idol!au clingy jungkook | reader&jungkook are annoying asf| they are very intimate | they practically all live together
teaser | chapter1 | chapter2 | chapter3
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆𓂃🖊
Chapter1
The world knew them as BTS.
Global superstars. Record breakers. History makers.
But long before sold-out stadiums and flashing cameras, before the screaming crowds and luxury brand deals, there had only been seven boys cramped inside a tiny company building with impossible dreams, and Y/N.
Y/N had been there since the very beginning.
She was there when they recorded their first song, nervously stumbling over lyrics in a studio far too small for seven teenagers and their ambitions. She was there during their first performance, standing backstage with trembling hands while the members tried to hide how terrified they were. She was there for their first award, crying harder than all of them combined while Seokjin laughed at her through his own tears.
And now, years later, she was still here.
When the world called them worldwide icons, Y/N remained exactly where she had always been, beside them.
It had started with RM.
The day Namjoon first walked into BigHit as a trainee, he had brought his little sister with him. At first, Y/N trained too, awkwardly practicing choreography and vocal exercises alongside the others, though it quickly became obvious that her interests wandered elsewhere.
While the others obsessed over music and performance, Y/N found herself more fascinated by fabrics, sketches, makeup palettes, and stage concepts.
She liked creating things.
Fixing torn sleeves moments before evaluations. Styling hair between practice breaks. Turning cheap accessories into something expensive looking with nothing but creativity and steady hands.
Over time, she became part of the team in a different way.
By the time BTS debuted, BigHit had officially hired her to assist the styling staff. A few years later, she became one of BTS’s main stylists, a decision many considered one of the company’s greatest accidents of luck.
Because Y/N was talented.
Not just talented enough to dress idols prettily, but talented enough to create identities through clothing. She could look at a concept once and already imagine textures, silhouettes, colors, moods. She could sew, alter, sketch, paint, and somehow turn chaos into art.
Most importantly, she understood the members better than anyone else. She had grown up with them. And the fans knew it too.
To ARMY, Y/N was never exactly a member of BTS, but she was never separate from them either. She existed beside them so naturally that people simply accepted her presence like a permanent part of their story.
Where BTS went, Y/N followed.
Award shows. Concerts. Airports. Behind-the-scenes videos. Always somewhere nearby.
The members treated her like their shared little sister, despite her being the same age as Jungkook. They looked after her constantly, sometimes lovingly, sometimes dramatically, often while yelling.
But Jungkook was different.
Jungkook and Y/N operated on a language nobody else fully understood.
They fought over everything. Food, blankets, phone chargers, hoodies, skincare products, who was more annoying, which, according to both of them, was always the other person.
They complained about each other endlessly, snitched on each other to the members, and sometimes act like married couples who are divorcing. Yet somehow, they were inseparable.
Jungkook followed her around like instinct.
Y/N reached for him without thinking.
They shared hoodies, shared secrets, occasionally shared beds after exhausting schedules, and defended each other viciously whenever staff or members scolded one of them.
To outsiders, it looked strangely intimate. To them, it was simply normal.
Some fans shipped them. Most fans thought they behaved more like chaotic siblings than anything romantic. Honestly, even the members weren’t completely sure anymore.
Jungkook showed up at her apartment more often than his own.
Half his hoodies lived there permanently. His favorite protein drinks filled her fridge. He fell asleep on her couch so often that Y/N eventually bought an extra blanket specifically for him.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
____
By seven in the morning, Y/N already regretted giving Jungkook her passcode.
“Who used my face wash?”
Her voice echoed through the apartment while she stood in the kitchen, hands on her hips and her hair still messy
From the living room, absolutely nobody answered.
Cowards.
The apartment was unusually crowded today. Most of the members had stayed over after a late-night schedule and apparently decided leaving was too much effort. Typical. At this point, Y/N’s apartment had unofficially become a second home for BTS years ago.
“I didn’t use it,” Yoongi said calmly from the couch, not even bothering to look up from his phone.
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even know which one I’m talking about.”
“That’s exactly how I know it wasn’t me.”
A laugh escaped Taehyung somewhere behind him.
Across the kitchen island, Seokjin slid a plate of toast toward her with the careful expression of a man trying to prevent violence before breakfast. “Eat first,” he advised wisely. “Then continue threatening people.”
Y/N accepted the plate immediately. “Thank you. I’ll resume my anger in five minutes.”
“Seven,” Hoseok corrected while pouring himself coffee. “You’re scarier when you’re hungry.”
Namjoon barely looked up from the emails open on his tablet. “Did you check Jungkook’s bag?”
The apartment fell suspiciously quiet. Slowly, Y/N turned toward the hallway leading to her bedroom.
“Oh, I’m going to kill him.”
Almost instantly, a loud crash sounded from somewhere inside her room.
“JEON JUNGKOOK!”
“No—listen—”
“YOU USED MY FACE WASH?”
“It was an emergency!”
“What emergency requires my skincare products?”
“My skin was dry!”
The entire apartment burst into laughter.
A second later, Jungkook appeared from the hallway wearing black sweatpants and one of her hoodies this time, hair messy from sleep, holding her face wash in his hand and absolutely shameless.
“It smelled expensive,” he defended.
“Because it is expensive!”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You used half the bottle!”
Jungkook grinned lazily before stealing a piece of toast directly off her plate.
Y/N gasped in betrayal.
Hoseok sighed. “Divorced couple.”
“We are not a couple,” both of them answered immediately. That only made everyone laugh harder.
⸻
By noon, the apartment had settled into familiar chaos. Music played quietly from a speaker somewhere in the background while garment bags and accessories covered nearly every surface of the living room.
Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor sorting jewelleries for an upcoming performance, occasionally making notes on her tablet.
Three belts. Two rings. One missing silver chain.
Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Where’s Hobi’s chain?”
Silence.
Slowly, she looked up.
Across the kitchen, Jungkook froze mid-motion with a strawberry halfway to his mouth.
Y/N pointed at him immediately.
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Why are you looking at me?”
“Because last time you said stealing accessories counted as styling.”
“It does count as styling.” He argued.
“Where is it?”
With the deepest sigh imaginable, Jungkook reached into his pocket and tossed the silver chain toward her. “Criminal,” she muttered, catching it easily and returning to her work.
Two minutes later, Jungkook dropped onto the floor beside her hard enough to shake the coffee table.
“Move,” she complained immediately.
“No.”
“You’re laying on imported fabric.”
“Then I’m improving it.”
Y/N shoved his shoulder. Jungkook shoved her back. She shoved harder. He grabbed her wrist. Without hesitation, she grabbed his ear.
“OW—”
“Let go.”
“You first.”
“No.”
“Then no.”
They glared at each other stubbornly while the others ignored them with the exhaustion of people who had witnessed this exact interaction thousands of times before.
Hoseok glanced up briefly from the couch.“Should we stop them?”
“No,” Namjoon answered calmly without looking away from his laptop. “Remember this is their natural habitat.”
As if proving him right, Y/N released Jungkook’s ear and then Jungkook let go of her wrist.
Without warning, he stretched out across the floor and dropped his head directly into her lap. Nobody reacted. Not even Y/N.
Instead her fingers moved automatically into his hair while she continued organizing with one hand. Jungkook’s eyes closed almost instantly.
⸻
That night, the apartment was finally quiet. Most of the members had already gone home after schedules ended, leaving behind empty coffee cups, forgotten jackets, and complete silence for the first time all day.
Y/N walked into the living room to find Jungkook asleep on her expensive silk and viscos rug which Taehyung presented her as a house warming gift.
The television still played softly in the background. Shaking her head, Y/N bent down to switch off the TV.
Before she could move away, Jungkook’s hand wrapped around her wrist instinctively. Even half asleep.
“Sleep here tonight,” he mumbled quietly. Her expression softened immediately. Almost instantly, his grip relaxed again.
Without opening his eyes, Jungkook shifted slightly to make room for her beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was.
Y/N settled onto the floor beside him, shoulders brushing lightly in the small space between them.
Not quite cuddling. Not distant either. Just familiar. Comfortable. The kind of closeness built over years instead of words. Within minutes, both of them had fallen asleep.
Later that night, Namjoon stopped by to pick up a folder he had forgotten earlier. He paused at the entrance of the living room when he noticed them. Jungkook and Y/N asleep under the dim light of the living room, leaning unconsciously toward each other like gravity itself kept pulling them closer.
Namjoon only smiled softly.
Then he draped a blanket over them, switched off the lamp, and quietly left the apartment.
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆𓂃🖊
a/n : chapter 1 yayyy!
still can’t believe this many people were interested from just the teaser omg thank u sm.
i was thinking of adding little fan/twitter interactions throughout the story (like fans reacting to their moments, edits, rumors, etc.) but idk should i?
also if you want to be tagged in future chapters let me know!!
— summary: you stopped expecting anything from love a long time ago. four years on your own taught you that much until you crossed paths with jungkook at yoongi’s birthday party. what begins as a chance encounter quickly becomes something real. and now, are you ready to close your eyes and trust him?
— pairing: jungkook x fem. reader
— genre: strangers to lovers, ceo au, biker au, slow burn, angst, fluff, and smut
— total word count: around 40k in total
— author’s note: soo this happened... this started completely naturally, i never expected to write a fanfic this soon, but i've been having so much fun working on it, and i wanted to share it with you all 🥰 i'm still working on it, but as i've been writing a lot the past few days, i already know that by mid-may both parts will be over. jungkook was used as a visual only on the fic, as this had no chosen member at the beginning 🤗 i guess this puts some kind of an end to my hiatus (still not sure though), and i hope you'll enjoy this as much as i'm enjoying writing it ❤️ thank you so so much for your support guys!! means always so so much ❤️
18+ | warnings listed in each part
join the taglist ✨
PART I: release on Sunday 17th May 2026
⤷ meeting jungkook at yoongi’s birthday was unexpected, but in less than twenty-four hours, he made you feel more alive than you have in years. letting him into your life felt just natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. as you slowly get to know him, you find yourself trusting him more… but should you really? or is he hiding something from you?
PART II: release on Sunday 24th May 2026
⤷ finding out about his secret from someone else hurts more than expected. you’ve always hated lies, and he knew it, which made it even harder. his intentions were never meant to hurt you; he just wanted to be seen for who he truly is. despite it all, your heart burns for him. you’ve never loved anyone this intensely, but are you truly ready to trust him again?
I'm sorry for late posting, I'm really very very busy even now but i can't keep you waiting when already three days have passed, so here you are love. i hope you like them. Enjoy.
Idol!Jungkook Fanfics
➛ The Mask of Purity by @lostinbangtan7 (on-going)
➛ Amor Genuino by @kalisburnerphone
➛ Out of Breathe by @bangtanfanfiction
➛ Yearning by @soft4gguk
➛ Hit Me Up by @jjksmagicshop (on-going, smau series)
➛ Late-Night Convenience Store by @97linelover
➛ To Be Loved Is To Be Seen by @twilghtkoo
➛ Creamy Pasta, Heated Love by @kittenan
➛ Just One Night by @smoljimjim
➛ After Hours by @kooggukk
➛ Terms and Condition by @jeonettefics
➛ One Song Too Many by @joonam
➛ Beyond The Camera by @ggukool
➛ Overdrive by @jjksdoll
➛ Encore by @youthguk
➛ The Golden Cage by @97linelover
➛ I'm Sure by @kooksure (on-going)
➛ Makeup Artist by @kooksdollyy
➛ The Rival Idol Experiment by @hvlplvss (on-going)
➛ Forgiving is just one aspect of loving someone by @moodysfn
➛ Don't Get Caught by @kooksdollyy
➛ Daddy Kookie by @jkwrites-m (on-going)
➛ Push and Pull by @awrkive
➛ Decay by @youthguk
➛ Angel by @kooksdollyy
➛ The Surprise by @directionernullneun
➛ Opposite of Sun by @euphorajeon
➛ Light of the Morning by @euphorajeon
➛ Off the Beam by @euphorajeon
➛ If it's a Dream (I'll Come Around) by @euphorajeon
➛ Reckless by @sparklingchim
➛ Not in the Job Description by @jooniesthigh
➛ All Over Again by @delugguk
➛ ADHD Kisses by @zerocoded
➛ Denial by @girlygguk
➛ The Boy with Galaxies in his Eyes by @oddinary4bts
starstruck (first) mentioned ayee. thank you for adding this silly fic here pretty >_<. i hope ure all enjoying this one cause its been really fun to write!!<333
—historical au, romance, angst, royal guard jungkook x princess reader.
i ugly sobbed while reading this masterpiece, i still remember being awake at two a.m and i went to bed at like seven in the morning that’s how hooked i was! this fanfic has captured yearning and heartbreak in a way that i won’t find even in published books. (i have this printed out and i will re read it when i get time, its just that good)
forever has a limit ᯓ★ .𖥔 ݁ ˖
—infidelity, husband jungkook x wife reader (with low self esteem), major angst.
I wanted to hate him so bad, but I also get why he couldn’t let go of her or have a confrontational conversation about divorcing her, MY CHEST physically PAINED while reading this. oc is my shayla here and the fact that she kept begging him to not leave her, that she’s okay as long as he returns home to her ( GIRL GET UP) she deserves the biggest hug and a man who kisses her feet every night.
chains of whispered flames ⋆˚꩜｡✧₊⁺🎞️
—angst, domestic fluff, craftsman husband jungkook x wife reader, royal au.
touch her and die type of love, he’s such a protective and worshipful hubby in this universe *sobs* it makes me melt everytime man! he carries so much burden to make sure that she’s living her best life, she brings the light to his dark soul fr, i love how the author beautifully elaborated the struggles of the poorly and how little the royal people value them, it was an insightful perspective on how these rich people deem you worthy ONLY if you have gold, silver and diamonds. reading this lowkey made me miss my nonexistent husband.
hold on to me ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
—marriage au, workaholic husband jungkook x wife reader, angst.
this reminded me of ana huang’s king of greed, but this gave me butterflies 1000 times more because it’s jungkook, the way he was panicking, crying, and shaking at the thought of oc leaving him is just chef’s kiss, the angst in this made me feel giddy (hehe)
wait for your love ᯓ★
firefighter!jungkook x female reader, kind of exes to lovers, parents au, major angst.
even after i finished reading it. . . i was in sort of a high, like i had to take a moment to let it soak in, this story broke my heart then mended it right back in the best way possible. this story portrayed something that actually happens in real life, i guess that’s why it hit me so much harder, they were babies :(
now this is how you do a stalker/yandere story justice. this writer did it in a way that makes the story enjoyable for the readers in the long run. I usually loose patience with slow burn but this one kept me engaged the whole time. i was fed up of trope where the stalkers practically force/kidnap the mc and it’s another case of stockholm syndrom, that’s just one sided and the smut feels rather icky (it’s just my opinion) BUT THANKS TO MISS AUTHOUR FOR MAKING ME LOVE YANDERE/STALKER FICS AGAIN. the angsty part in this fic is how we canonically fall for jungkook together with oc, and it’s funny how I went from questioning his acts to actually wishing she stays with him and forgives him because well his “intentions” weren’t so bad afterall. (the plot twist at the end is so freaking genius i luv this)
idealizations concerning real life relations ‧˚꒰🐾୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
fuckboy jungkook x hopeless romantic oc, angst, fwb to lovers trope.
this is such a good long read. i would highly recommend you all to read this on a sunday where you can stay in bed for hours and read ceaselessly, the emotions here are portrayed in such details where you can visualise the scene unfolding like a kdrama, the characters are so well written, don’t miss out on this!
made of honour ༄.° ⌞ ⌝
fiancé namjoon, best friend jungkook, baker reader, love triangle, angst and so much lore.
this is 63k guys, another LONG read, HOW TALENTED DO YOU HAVE TO BE TO WRITE SO MUCH FOR A ONESHOT? DAMN! it was my WINTER KDRAMA like fanfic. i relished every second of reading this, i love the pacing, the scene choices, the dialogues everything so downbad!
we are all dreamers .𖥔 ݁ ˖
enemies to lovers, destined soulmate au, fuckboy jungkook, angst.
bruh, I felt oc’s pain physically in my chest, I hated jungkook sm in the beginning LMFAO but then I forgave him cause he yearned just enough to satiate me, as always yoonia is one of the best writers I know, her writing is detailed to near perfection, i wish I could write as good as she does, she’s my writing guru fr.
the wife trap ꩜ .ᐟ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
twins au, unrequited love, brother in law slow burn, major angst in capital.
this isn’t out yet, but i’m keeping it in my fic rec list because i know i’m gonna WAIL over this fic once it’s out, the plot line is so freaking genius dude, its so intriguing, AND IT HAS ME ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT because I can’t wait till may, also she probably finished writing it and will be uploading it regularly, i love LOVE every fic produced by this precious author so i know it’s not gonna be a let down!
wiwi’s note!
hello my lovies, it’s been a while since I’ve made a fic rec list, and it’s here for you all! finally! please check out all the fics mentioned here because they’re so well written and the angst will punch you right over your chest!
after his mother’s passing, the piano prodigy jeon jeongguk loses his ability to hear music. but his life changes upon meeting you, a violinist who helps him return to music and face his past. does love really repaint the world?
PLAYLIST ≡ BANNER CREDITS ≡ MASTERLIST
pairings. jeon jungkook x female reader
tags & warnings. fluffangst + eventual smut. college au. pianist!jk. violinist!reader. love triangle / friangle. meetcute. jk is a fool in love. mentions of death. jeon jungkook needs a hug. slowburn.
estimated wc. 50k
notes. i am reheating wonderboy’s nachos with this one, because tortured poets are what i write best :) hope yall don’t mind! ps. i won’t spoil anything, but i’ve altered the original story a bit (no ‘major character death’ in this house).
— CHAPTER INDEX
chapter one ≡ the girl from the sky. (04 / 25)
chapter two ≡ two tunes. (05 / 10)
chapter three ≡ underwater.
chapter four ≡ pink petals.
chapter five ≡ pink as your dress.
Jeongguk met a girl under full-bloomed cherry blossoms, and his fate has begun to change.
His eyes go to the blue ground, and ahead — he hears you giggle, Jimin speaking. The sound of your shared footsteps, then Iseul’s following ones. He exhales roughly, his chest still hurting, but suddenly with a different cause of pain. As his steps pick up, he unlocks his phone without even looking, going straight to the recording of you.
As his feet take him on your journey, he catches himself simply replaying the video, not yet cutting out the part where your skirt flies up. He lowers the volume, watches the way your hair follows the wind, breathes in deeply when the doves appear. Without even listening to the melody, he feels as though volume is not needed. The symphony has been etched into him, and he somehow knows it by heart, knows exactly where in the song you are just by analyzing the way your fingers move over the harmonica’s keyboard.
A new sound appears, then cuts short. A pair of small shoes clicking against the soft ground, stopping right before him.
Jeongguk looks up with big eyes, hands trembling as he’s once again met with your face. Your soft features.
“Wasn’t enough to see it first hand, huh?”
You click your tongue, narrowing your eyes as you hear the faint melody of your song playing from Jeongguk’s phone at the lowest volume level possible.
Shit. Jeongguk’s face goes white, the trembling hands pressing down on the ‘edit’ button in the corner of the recording.
“N-no—I was going to—I swear I was cutting out the part of your—”
“Sshhh.”
You cut him off mid spiral, a similar giggle to the one you gave Jimin falling from your lips. “It’s okay if you keep it. Wasn’t anything bad, right?”
You wink.
Jeongguk loses the ability to move his tongue, answer you. He almost goes limp, at least he goes mute, everything he wants to say dissolving in his mouth.
“Look,” you continue, carrying the instrument case with one hand, reaching for Jeongguk’s trembling one with the other. “I’m sorry that I beat you with that kid’s harmonica. That wasn’t very nice.”
No it wasn’t, but that’s alright. He deserved it, he thinks. Or maybe he doesn’t think at all. Because he doesn’t register the fact that he’s supposed to shake your hand. That you’re coming in peace. He just stares at you, your glistening eyes, the hair falling loosely over your shoulders.
So you help him out instead. You grab for his hand, shake it once as you hold his eyes, smiling warmly.
“Let’s put this behind us, okay?”
Jeongguk nods, his fingertips prickling with the warmth of your touch.
For a few seconds, you just stand there holding hands, smiling at Jeongguk who trembles before you, deemed unable to speak. And after a while, you simply let go, your lips curling into a devious smile.
“Besides—I’d hate for Jimin’s best friend to hate me.”
Hate is a strong word. Hate is a word Jeongguk has only reserved for himself. Hate is a word he would never use against someone else. Especially not you (although you've only just met). It'd feel strange hating you.
But hate is something that begins to boil within him when he hears the name of Jimin traced upon your lips. How you throw it out so casually. Because why should Jimin's name have such an obvious place in your life, why should it slip from your tongue with ease?
If only Jeongguk was there first. If you hadn't already settled on the captain of the soccer team, evil reincarnated, his best fucking friend. Jealousy is a disease, and Jeongguk is starting to feel its effects kicking in. But once again, his mind travels to the sound of your music. The soft harmony, the ease of it all. Your lips on one end, fingers swimming across the tiles on the other. And the beautiful, Sakura-coloured tint of your dress.
I'm sorry for late posting, I'm really very very busy even now but i can't keep you waiting when already three days have passed, so here you are love. i hope you like them. Enjoy.
Idol!Jungkook Fanfics
➛ The Mask of Purity by @lostinbangtan7 (on-going)
➛ Amor Genuino by @kalisburnerphone
➛ Out of Breathe by @bangtanfanfiction
➛ Yearning by @soft4gguk
➛ Hit Me Up by @jjksmagicshop (on-going, smau series)
➛ Late-Night Convenience Store by @97linelover
➛ To Be Loved Is To Be Seen by @twilghtkoo
➛ Creamy Pasta, Heated Love by @kittenan
➛ Just One Night by @smoljimjim
➛ After Hours by @kooggukk
➛ Terms and Condition by @jeonettefics
➛ One Song Too Many by @joonam
➛ Beyond The Camera by @ggukool
➛ Overdrive by @jjksdoll
➛ Encore by @youthguk
➛ The Golden Cage by @97linelover
➛ I'm Sure by @kooksure (on-going)
➛ Makeup Artist by @kooksdollyy
➛ The Rival Idol Experiment by @hvlplvss (on-going)
➛ Forgiving is just one aspect of loving someone by @moodysfn
➛ Don't Get Caught by @kooksdollyy
➛ Daddy Kookie by @jkwrites-m (on-going)
➛ Push and Pull by @awrkive
➛ Decay by @youthguk
➛ Angel by @kooksdollyy
➛ The Surprise by @directionernullneun
➛ Opposite of Sun by @euphorajeon
➛ Light of the Morning by @euphorajeon
➛ Off the Beam by @euphorajeon
➛ If it's a Dream (I'll Come Around) by @euphorajeon
➛ Reckless by @sparklingchim
➛ Not in the Job Description by @jooniesthigh
➛ All Over Again by @delugguk
➛ ADHD Kisses by @zerocoded
➛ Denial by @girlygguk
➛ The Boy with Galaxies in his Eyes by @oddinary4bts
