Tears are powerful, but do you know what's more impactful? The struggle to hold them back. This post is for all your hard-hearted stoic characters who'd never shed a tear before another, and aims to help you make them breakdown realistically.
The Physical Signs of Holding Back Tears
Heavy Eyelids, Heavy Heart
Your character's eyelids feel weighted, as if the tears themselves are dragging them down. Their vision blurs—not quite enough to spill over, but enough to remind them of the dam threatening to break.
The Involuntary Sniffle
They sniffle, not because their nose is running, but because their body is desperately trying to regulate itself, to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to take over.
Burning Eyes
Their eyes sting from the effort of restraint, from the battle between pride and vulnerability. If they try too hard to hold back, the whites of their eyes start turning red, a telltale sign of the tears they've refused to let go.
The Trembling Lips
Like a child struggling not to cry, their lips quiver. The shame of it fuels their determination to stay composed, leading them to clench their fists, grip their sleeves, or dig their nails into the nearest surface—anything to regain control.
The Fear of Blinking
Closing their eyes means surrender. The second their lashes meet, the memories, the pain, the heartbreak will surge forward, and the tears will follow. So they force themselves to keep staring—at the floor, at a blank wall, at anything that won’t remind them of why they’re breaking.
The Coping Mechanisms: Pretending It’s Fine
A Steady Gaze & A Deep Breath
To mask the turmoil, they focus on a neutral object, inhale slowly, and steel themselves. If they can get through this one breath, they can get through the next.
Turning Away to Swipe at Their Eyes
When they do need to wipe their eyes, they do it quickly, casually, as if brushing off a speck of dust rather than wiping away the proof of their emotions.
Masking the Pain with a Different Emotion
Anger, sarcasm, even laughter—any strong emotion can serve as a shield. A snappy response, a bitter chuckle, a sharp inhale—each is a carefully chosen defence against vulnerability.
Why This Matters
Letting your character fight their tears instead of immediately breaking down makes the scene hit harder. It shows their internal struggle, their resistance, and their need to stay composed even when they’re crumbling.
This is written based off of personal experience as someone who goes through this cycle a lot (emotional vulnerability who?) and some inspo from other books/articles
If you're writing anything involving cons, scams, heists, or morally questionable characters who are very good at lying, here are some free resources I've been using for research. Saving you the "why is this in my search history" anxiety.
1. The FBI's Famous Cases & Criminals archive (fbi.gov/history/famous-cases) has detailed breakdowns of real fraud cases, Ponzi schemes, and confidence operations. The language they use is clinical and precise, which is perfect for getting the procedural details right.
2. The FTC Consumer Sentinel Network publishes annual reports on the most common fraud tactics in the US. Great for understanding how modern scams actually work and what makes people fall for them.
3. The Smithsonian's American Art Museum has a free digital collection of forgery case studies. If your character forges documents or art, this is gold.
4. Court Listener (courtlistener.com) is a free legal database where you can read actual court transcripts from fraud trials. Want to know how a real con artist talks under oath? This is where you find out.
5. The Internet Archive's collection of old newspaper crime sections. Search for "confidence man" or "swindle" in papers from the 1920s through 1960s and you'll find incredible real stories that would feel too dramatic for fiction.
Bonus: The Psychology of Fraud section on the Association for Psychological Science website has accessible articles about why people trust, how deception works cognitively, and what makes someone a convincing liar. Essential reading if you want your con artist characters to feel psychologically real.
Reblog to save for later. Your WIP will thank you.
I think the purest form of love is just wanting someone to notice life with you. "taste this. look at that. hear this song." again and again. until you can't imagine noticing life without them.
Summary:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
But what happens when one can't resist? And do more than just look?
Word Count: 9.5k
Genre: supernatural, fantasy, smut
Rating: 18+
Warnings: non consensual touching, harassment, mental decline (brief mention). Making out, loss of virginity (not fetishised), oral (f receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex. [Tell me if I missed something]
Note: it took me embarrassingly long to finish writing. It was initially just a pwp with little plot but ofcourse i had a change of heart. The title based off of the poem "The goblin market" By Christina Rossetti, and I took a lot of inspiration from it while writing this fic. Hope y'all like it<3
Published: 7th May, 2026.
"I'm warning you, this is not a good idea."
"Quite down," You whined. "No one's gonna know. I just, I want to see for myself."
"See what? What is there to see in those hideous creatures?" Your sister started walking even faster, walking side by side with you as she tried to convince you.
"I don't know about you but I've heard those 'hideous' creatures are, in fact, quite alluring."
At this she grabbed your hand making you stop and stood in front of you.
"May I ask where you are hearing about these things from. Who's stuffing your ears full of such stupidity, Y/n?"
Before you could reply with something along the lines of 'no you may not' and maybe make a face so immature that will have your mother tsking in disapproval, your sister's question was answered by the person in question herself.
"Y/n! Didn't know you were bringing Milia with you too." A voice chirped as the person revealed herself, sauntering your way—long, blonde, and evenly cut hair dancing in the wind.
"Limika. Of course it is her." Your sister sighed.
At the same time in which you bounded towards her, taking her hand in yours as you excitedly asked, "where's the market happening?"
"Not 'where', the question is 'when'," She squealed. "And with the sun almost down now we need to hurry! Or else we will miss our chance to see The Market."
'The Market', or more commonly known as The Goblin Market among the elders, is something to be vary of. 'They lure people in', 'they eat young girls', 'their fruits are poisonous', are some of the things you had heard from your mother.
But there are other things you've heard too, 'their charm is irresistible’, 'they have faces crafted by the finest angels', 'their voice is like dark honey'.
'Once you get a taste of their fruits there's no going back.’
Today you are determined to find out what facts hold actual truths.
The sun was hanging low on the horizon, an hour shy at most before it disappeared completely and the world plunged in darkness. You had till then to complete whatever idiotic fantasy you had.
Limika thought the same as she insisted on hurrying and Milia grumbled but followed behind regardless. Soon you neared the clearing where the market—allegedly—happened most often, you couldn't confirm that as you had never been allowed to come this far out before. Not that you got permission today either, but that's irrelevant now.
Upon reaching the clearing you witnessed how it was filled with brushes and logs strewn about. The moss laid thick and you wondered if you had accidentally gotten lost and reached the wrong place. This place was untouched.
You were about to voice out your concern to your friend but Limika grabbed your elbow and pulled you down. Your sister followed suit and crouched low beside you behind the bigger fallen trees on the edge of the clearing.
"What is it—"
"Shh," Your friend whispered, "did you not hear that?"
"Hear what?" But just as you tried to peek above the wood, you heard it.
"Come buy, come buy."
You all froze in your places. Was it really them? Limika confirmed this by taking a peek, "oh, y/n. Oh, would you look," She whispered, mesmerized.
Curious as to what exactly had her eyes get that look of wonder, both you and your sister stood— still hunched and hidden—and took in the sight before you. What you saw took your breath away.
Golden. That was the first thing that your brain registered. There were tens of people: men?goblins? Were they really the goblins your Nan talked about? The one they said made the maidens lose their minds and reduced them to unsound girls unable to recall their own names? They had masks on, all in the colour gold. Snakes, crows, rats, deers, cats, rabbits, and what not. You even saw a golden bear mask. So big.
They wore black clothes. Long coats and capes seemed the most popular clothing article among the Goblins, huh.
The setting sun gave them an ethereal glow, looking more like the halos of angels that you saw in the paintings in the church. You noticed that each of them were carrying some sort of utensils—all made of gold—plates, baskets, goblets. They were laughing and conversing among themselves, every once in a while one of them would call out, "Come buy, come buy."
What were they selling? You couldn't see properly. But you were not thinking about that, all you could think of was how shiny they looked. How real they were.
"Wow." You couldn't make out which of the two said that. Even though it was merely a whisper it seemed enough to capture the attention of one of the masked men. The crow. Oh no.
"Oh no." Your sister said. Milia ducked down, trying to become one with the soil in hopes of disappearing into the ground. You looked between her and the crow masked man—who was now looking over in your direction. You followed his line of sight and realised it was directed at Limika.
"Limika, get down! They will see us." You pleaded to get down yourself. But she didn't move an inch. Rooted in her place, not even breaking her gaze away, as if hypnotised. Was this what they meant when they said that the Goblins trap people in with a single glance?
'We must not look at goblin men'
"Limika," You stumbled over your words. "We should get home, it's getting dark."
Just then the man called, looking directly at her.
"Come buy,"
"No," Limika breathed out, pulling your hand away from her skirt where you were tugging her. "Don't you see how beautiful they are? Look at the fruits in their basket. Aren't you curious? For just a taste?"
You gulped. Yes. Yes you were curious. You wanted to know more about them. But the night was falling and you had this voice inside your head urging you to return back to your mother's arms. Familiar and comforting.
You tried once again, "we really should—"
"This is enough. If you want to stay then you can, I'm getting out of here." Milia harshly whispered. She got up and ran through the bushes, making sure she was low enough to escape undetected.
Now it was just you and Limika, and it didn't look like she had any plans of leaving just yet.You heard the man starting to call out once more, and to your shock Limika stood up all the way, exposing herself. Now every one of the masked men had their attention trained on her. The one with a half fox mask smiled and continued his song like call,
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,"
You couldn't hear more. Your blood was roaring in your ear. Heart thumping as Limika only walked closer. You had no other choice.
You needed to leave.
With a silent prayer that she will at least be sensible enough to get straight home after talking to them—or making a purchase as she seemed so determined to do—before the night fell all the way through. You knew she would be fine even though you wanted to run out there and shake her before dragging her back home.
You backed away, you should go home now or else God knows what Milia will say to your mother and if she said the truth then all of you will be in great trouble.
Limika was half way across the field and the men all had their attention on her, ready to sell their fruits. You hoped she brought enough coins.
Taking this perfect opportunity you slipped away in between the thick trees. Something was prickling the back of your neck, a weight you hadn't experienced before. You stole a glance back and froze. Intense, dark eyes stole your breath, stopping you in your tracks.
You realised a beat later that you had your eyes locked to one of the goblins! One with the rabbit mask. You waited for him to move, to do something. Maybe bring your presence to the attention of the others. But he didn't. He just kept staring with this inexplicable intrigue in his deep obsidian eyes.It was too much, so you looked away and disappeared beyond the trees.
——————————————————————
You were cleaning the tables after supper as your mother prepared a cup of tea for your father who had gone up to bed a few minutes ago. You grabbed all the dirty plates and moved towards the sink where Milia was washing the pots already. Setting them aside you looked at her but she was focused on her task, so you went back.
You had arrived just moments after her. The sun was already gone and your mother was furious. She would have spoken the truth for sure had you not intervened.
"Y/n take those cups too." Your mother instructed as she left the kitchen, on her way up.
You silently nodded, moving on to take the empty cups when a knock sounded on your door.
Milia turned at the sound but you beat her to it, "I'll check."
The moment you opened the door the person behind it spoke, "dear, is Limika with you?"
"Mrs. Roberts. Is everything alright?" You uttered, surprised to see Limika's mother at your door. "And what about Limika? Is she not home yet?"
Before further could be said Milia and your own mother were by the door, looking over your shoulder. You stepped out, giving your mother space.
"No. She didn't come home in time for supper so I assumed she'd eat with you or one of the other girls tonight, like you all always do. But it's past bedtime and I've already looked for her at all the places. I thought she'd be here for sure but," Her eyes began to water, "do you know anything?"
You didn't turn around but you could feel Milia had stopped breathing. Limika hadn't returned home. It was you who left her. You saw her alone and yet didn't try to stop her. You can feel the guilt clouding your nerves along with the panic. Where could she be?
"Aunty, please calm down. She must be fine, you know how Limika is." You grabbed her shoulders and turned back to nod at your sister, "we'll go and look for her. Mother?"
Your mother replaced you as you shuffled your feet in your shoes. Your sister followed suit reassuring Mrs. Roberts once more then walking up to you but she stopped, her mouth gaping open. You turned back and were just as shocked. And relieved because behind you stood—
"Limika!"
Her mother cried out, running up to her as she emerged from up the muddy path. She was walking up to you. Upon reaching her she pulled Limika into her embrace while scolding her loudly, during all this she just stood still.
Milia let out an audible breath of relief as you said a prayer to your gods. But you were also curious, what had happened after you left? And why did she take so long to be back? But this was not the right place to inquire about that, it will have to wait until tomorrow, for now you watched as Mrs. Roberts walked her daughter back to where you all were standing, still scolding her softly.
"You scared us," said Mrs. Roberts and Milia agreed, "thank the Gods you're safe." She went ahead and hugged her too.
You watched it all happen, a small smile on your lips as you looked over your friend. Her clothes were muddied, bodice a little loose, you wondered if she had run all the way here. Moving up you noticed how wild her hair looked, some visible tangles and dry straw stuck in her blond hair. She raised her head and a thick lock of hair fell in front of her face, cut a little too unusual. Did her hair always look like that? Looking past that you finally met her eyes and your smile faltered.
Blown out pupils stared back at you. There was a dazed, blank look in her eyes, as if whatever that was happening before her did not matter. She seemed to be in a world of her own.
Both of your mothers went inside, talking about having some tea while Limika separated herself from your sister, who followed behind, and came to stand before you.
She gave you a smile but not her usual, playful ones. Her smile was shy as she hugged you giddily, "oh y/n," She giggled, "you left too soon! Missed all the fun."
"What are you talking about?" You pried. But she was not even listening properly.
"So good," She pulled away and started walking towards your home, "it was so good." She mumbled. "Should've stayed to taste the fruits." And started giggling again while you just stood there, wondering about her strange behavior—which was not even that strange if you were being honest—but you chalked it up to her having a long day and most probably getting lost in the forest.
—————————————————————
Limika was definitely acting strange. It was not that noticeable to others but for you? She seemed like a different person.
"—and then you touch hands under the moonlight and that's how you get with a child." The younger girls all gasped as Ana finished with her story, the story about how children are made.
"I once touched hands with a boy in the market. Do I have a baby in my stomach too?" One of the girls asked and you laughed, as did a couple of the other older girls.
"No silly! Only if you are married." Ana explained, "that's what my mother said."
"Does it feel good? Being with a boy." Another one piped up and it caused all the others to screech with giggles.
In all of this Limika stayed silent. It made you frown when she didn't pipe up with a reply like she would have, talking about how boys are the stupidest creatures God created and the only emotion they cause is annoyance. No, she giggled with the others, as if she agreed.
After last night you went to meet Limika early in the morning, only to find that she had gone with the other girls to help in collecting this season's harvest. So you took your own basket and found yourself on the way to the strawberry fields. You wanted to talk to her about yesterday but hadn't had the time or opportunity yet. It was almost noon and you were all done with your work, so here you were all sitting at Ana's barn, a basket of bread and apples sitting in the middle for your lunch.
"You haven't even touched your food. Are you alright?" At your question Limika looked up at you and true to your word she had only torn a small piece of bread, on which she was nibbling half-heartedly.
You sat down beside her, wiping a red juicy apple with your skirt. "If you don't have the appetite for the bread then have this at least," You offered the apple to her.
She gave it a look and then smiled at you, "my silly friend." She took the apple and then handed it back, "They are just not sweet enough."
Confused, you took a bite and immediately your mouth filled with sweet, soft apple flesh, "mmm! It's perfectly sweet Mika! You should try it.
"But she just shook her head, "to call that sweet you. You don't even know true sweetness." She sighed. You could only tilt your head in confusion and before you could ask anything more, Ana stood up and announced that it was time to go pluck the rest of the berries now.
————————————————————
You haven't seen Limika in the last two days and after this morning when you met her father in the market and asked about her you couldn't help but run straight to her house.
When you laid your eyes upon her figure, laying on the thin mattress as her mother tugged the handmade quilt closer to her neck hoping to calm the shivers wracking her body, your heart broke at the sight.
“Please dear, eat just a little.” She sounded so exhausted and scared, and rightfully so.
“No…I, I can't.” Her voice barely held any strength. You stepped closer, putting a hand on her mother's shoulder.
“Y/n,” She turned, “when did you get here?"
“Just now, I came to see Limika,” Your voice was soft, her mother looked just as fragile, losing sleep worrying about her daughter.
She turned to look at her then back at you, and once you nodded your head with a reassuring smile only then she left the room with one last look.
After she left, you quietly sat on the edge of her bed. She had her eyes closed, you took this moment to scan her face. She looked thin, dark bags under her swollen eyes rubbed red. While her cheeks which used to be pink and round were now sunken and pale.
“Oh, Mika,” You whispered, “what happened to you?”
You placed a hand on her forehead, gently sweeping back the short lock of hair away. It looked ashy, as did the rest of her.
“Y/n is that you?” Her weak voice muttered, eyes fluttering open.
“Yeah.” You choked out. “How are you?”
“Not good.”
“I can see that. Why are you refusing to eat Mika? You're only gonna get worse.”
She sighed, “why does no one understand…I can't” A noise, almost like a sob, wrecked her whole body, “I can't!”
Tears started flowing down her grey skin.You tried to console her, to calm her down.
After a minute she went quiet, her eyes closed, and breathing even. You thought she fell asleep but then her lips curled into a smile. The change in her demeanor gave you a whiplash.
“Everyone is so silly,” She giggled, “how can I ever eat anything else now that I've had a taste of the sweetest nectar in the world.”
“Limika. What are you talking about?” You whispered, holding her hand tightly while grabbing her cheek in a gentle grip, making her look at you. But her gaze was hazy, gleeful in a rather disturbing manner. She wasn't paying any attention to you, just kept talking as if you didn't exist.
“The reddest of apples. The juiciest grapes. Oh, how I want to eat those again. But, I couldn't find them, you know?” Her voice took on a sad turn, anguish on her face. “I couldn't find them. I looked day and night, but their song was nowhere to be heard. I need to find them, I must…” Her mumbles became almost incomprehensible.
You bit back the tears gathering at your lashes, trying not to break down completely at the vulnerable, broken state of your dearest friend. It was like you couldn't even recognise her. Softly brushing your hair with the tips of your fingers, you lulled her to sleep, pushing the shorter locks of hair behind one of her ears.
“I can't see you like this, I promise I'll do something. I swear I'll help you Mika.” With that you backed away from her room.
————————————————————
You left her house immediately. If the only thing that will make her well are those fruits then you would have no choice but to somehow find those.
A small part somewhere inside of you was aware of the feeling that gripped your heart. It was guilt. You recalled the afternoon you had gone in search of the goblins. When she had first told you about her idea you had been scared, almost told her grandma about the plan cooking up inside her pretty head, but you were too curious, too ignorant of the warnings. You should have known that they were there for a reason. The stories, the songs, the warnings, these did nothing to deter you from your quest, it honestly only made it worse with the way your mind begged for an answer to all those unanswered questions.
Why didn't you stop her? Why did you let her stay by herself, especially when you knew what she was going to do? When you know how dangerous it could be?
You blinked hard in an attempt to calm your racing heart but all you saw were an image of dark eyes staring through you.
You have to go back. Have to fix this. Even if it means to go look for those goblin men.
————————————————————
“Where are they?” You whispered to yourself, standing at the edge of the meadow. No sign of life as far as you could see.
“They were right here the last time!” You started walking around the edges, too terrified to step out of the treeline. Limika said that she had looked for the goblins the past couple days, she must have searched here. It was stupid to think you would ever find them—
“Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;”
Your whole body froze at the distant sound. There was no mistake, you heard it clearly. It was them, their call. They were nearby. You heart started pounding as you looked up trying to locate where the sound came from, then turned back—
“Come buy, come buy.”
—only to have your heart stop beating in your chest.
You screamed as you came face to face with a crow mask just a few inches away from your face, shining golden in the afternoon sun. Stumbling a few steps back, you tried to create some distance only to bump with someone else, turning around to find it was one with the face of a cat.
“You here to buy?”
One of them spoke up. You were too stunned, you had actually found them!? At a loss for what to say, how to proceed, you only stared in silence. Oh come on, say something!!
“Of course she is. Look at these luscious locks.” Cat face grabbed at your hair distractedly.
You yelped, trying to get away but he just laughed. Another spoke up, “you want some fruits? Some apples for the beautiful lady.” crow face offered you a shining red apple.
“Hey back off you lot. This one's mine,” Another masked man emerged, this one with a sheep mask, barking at the crow and cat—the latter still had a grip on your hair—then turning towards you, “dear, would you be enticed with some oranges?”
He offered, nodding towards his coat pockets. He was close enough to have his scent waft up to your nose, he smelled of citrus left too long on the trees. An abundance of them weighing the trees down.
You were so confused—so scared—the hand gripping at your hair tightened, tears welling up in your eyes at the pain. Crow faced started bickering with the newcomer but you couldn't make out what they were saying over the rising panic in your chest.
“Stop.” A sweet voice said over the chaos. Everyone immediately stopped. When you looked up your eyes met with a fox mask, covering half of the face of its owner, just like last time. He's the same one that had called over Limika. You wondered if he was the one who sold her fruits. No, you were sure, it had to be him.
At the silence his soft voice drawled out, “is that how we treat a customer now?” He tutted at the hand in your roots. At that the crow guy backed off a little, releasing you. Fox mask gave him an unpleasant look, leaning more towards annoyance than disdain.
“Now,” fox mask addressed you, “my lady, would you like some of these? As an apology, no charges.” He opened his palm to you, a pomegranate sitting in the middle of it.
“No payment?”
The cat face hissed. “Have you lost your mind?” snickered the sheep.
Before another argument could break out you stepped forward, sacred as you may be you came here for a reason and that reason is so much more important to you than your fear.
“I,” You breathed, everyone turned to face you at the sound of your voice, “I do not want anything free of cost. I'm willing to pay.” You gripped the silver coin in your hand tightly.
Fox face smiled, scratch that, he gave a toothy grin. “oh dear dear, how can I say no to that?”
You gulped, this felt so, so wrong. You had no idea why. It's just a simple transaction.
“Pick your fruit, and the payment will be decided.”
“Uh, I…um, the Apple?” You weren't sure how much they cost here, back in town the silver coin in your hand would get you a whole bag but these were goblins—at least from the stories you grew up with—but you must be able to get something right?
Crow face, who had held the apple, smirked, “here, all yours.”
You gripped it, taking it out of his hands and started putting it in your waist pouch, reaching for the money simultaneously, the sooner you were done the quicker you could get back home.
Before you could tuck the fruit safely for the trip back home a hand stopped you in the middle by gripping tightly on your wrist.
“What do you think you're doing?” He laughed, making you tilt your head in utter confusion, then suddenly all the laughter ceased, his eyes dead serious as he whispered. “Eat.”
“What? You looked at him, then back at the faces of everyone around you, finally stopping at the fox mask.
He smiled gently, lips, visible below the mask covering the upper part of his face, curled in a way similar to the one you will with a child who didn't quite understand the ways of the world yet.
He bent to be equal to your height and softly caressed your cheek, “eat, dear.” Smile gone, his grip tightened around your cheek making your mouth pucker.
You made a choked sound, trying to shake him off, you dropped your apple in your struggle. He didn't relent and just brought his other hand—palm full of crimson seeds—and shoved them on your mouth. You clamped your mouth shut managing to bite his hand, not letting a single seed enter. He growled in anger as you sputtered, and spat on the ground.
The other two watching this happen also came forward to their friend's aid. Before you could yank fox-face’s other hand off of you another pair of arms were on you, yanking you by the waist back to their chest, resting just below the swell of your breasts. Another pair crawled their way down your thighs, feeling around your hips making the fabric bunch at your curves.
The world was spinning and your body was not in control of you anymore. Tears were streaming down your face and you didn't even know which hand belonged to whom. Several voices were speaking all at once, a jumble of words; all of them managing to get across one single message.
Eat the fruit. You must eat it. Don't deny it's pleasure.
But it didn't feel pleasurable to you, and so, you screamed.
“Enough.”
The air went still.
“Hands. Off.” It was a calm, clear voice, but one of authority.
In a second every hand against your skin retracted. The goblins backed away leaving space for you to breathe, but you were feeling faint from the struggle and couldn't help falling to your knees, trying to get your breathing under control.
No one said a word, you staring at the ground, the others staring at the newcomer.
“Scram” one word, and the others started making their way back, to wherever they came from, you didn't have the energy to look up. The apple was still lying just a couple steps away, and you wondered if you could just grab it and make a run; before this new guy could have his turn—whoever he was, who elicited this obedience among the others.
Just as that thought crossed your mind, crow-face bent down, only then did you get a chance to catch his expression. Teeth gritted in a silent protest. Seems this obedience stemmed from fear, you weren't sure yet if that was a good thing or not. Probably not.
He went to pick his apple up but was stopped by black boots stepping lightly over it—the tip pointed towards you—trapping the fruit against the ground.
“It doesn't belong to you anymore,” the stranger said, then put his weight down on it, crushing it into a pulp, “it never did.”
The crow-face left along with everyone, if any more words were exchanged between the two before that, you couldn't say as you were too busy mourning the loss of the one thing you had come so far for, now a mush on the soil.
Pristine black boots came to a stop right in front of you, making your whole body stiffen as a soft voice said, “get up.”
Gulping down your nerves, you managed to look up, and the breath you were about to inhale stopped short.
A golden rabbit mask peered down at you. You remembered them. And from the look of it, he did too.A pair of onyx eyes, hidden behind it, stared at you with the intensity of a midday sun. Your whole body started thrumming in its heat. Dusty clothes and ragged appearance, you were wide eyed, staring at him helplessly.
He lowered a hand, at which you internally flinched, but he only offered it to you—like a gentleman—palm up, and silently urged you to take it.
Hesitant and still not breathing you raised your hand to meet him. Was this a bad idea? Probably. Definitely.
You gasped the moment he tightened his grip on your palm, pulling you up, causing you to take a sharp intake of air as you crashed into him. His body pressed against you for a moment before you removed yourself, trying to walk away.
He grabbed your wrist, stopping your attempt.
“I know you.” He tilted your chin, making sure your eyes were on his when he talked to you.You didn't know how to answer. Should you admit to having seen him, having remembered him? Or play dumb? It's not like either will get you anywhere good.
For some reason you decided to not tell him your real reason, opting for a half truth.
“Yeah.” You licked your lips, “I have been here, I mean I live nearby, I saw you people-” you hesitated, wondering how you should address his kind. At last you settled on, "I know what you do.”
He raised an eyebrow, “oh?”
You nodded once, “yeah. And I want to buy from you.”
The way you spoke without visible nervousness even surprised you. But you were nervous, you were terrified. You couldn't see his face, couldn't read his eyes, but you were half expecting similar mistreatment like the others, and half disinterest. What would you do if he turned you away? Wha-
He raised his hand, pulling yours along with his, stopping at chest level. A citrusy smell wafted in the air, making your shoulders relax a little.
“My name is Jungkook.” You didn't process it at first, it took you a couple seconds to swim above your scrambled thoughts and realise he had introduced himself. It was good, he isn't just gonna tell you off now, right?
Softly repeating his name you let the sound melt on your tongue like sugar. Like you could almost taste it.
Realising you were just staring at his face you internally shook your head, deeming it right that you returned the gesture, and proceeded to tell him your own name.
“Beautiful name,” he whispered.Jungkook tilted his head, eyes covered in a stoic blankness. At your scared eyes, poorly disguised with part determination and part curiosity, his eyes sparkled for a fraction of a second. Passed by before you could be sure.
“Well, then-” he began but fell silent as his eyes roamed the trees behind you. But just as you attempted to look at what had caught his attention, he yanked you forward and started walking.
“Come with me.” He all but mumbled.Panicked, you tried digging your feet into the ground, trying to halt his movements.
“No.”
He simply turned around, his eyes conveying a different emotion now, telling you to trust him. That you should leave, if he's insisting.
Something in you gave up the fight and the fear of the unknown, and just told you to follow him. So you did.
—————————————————————
"What did you say? a purchase…"
His voice snapped you out of your musings, causing you to rip your eyes away from the various trinkets on the desk and turn them back to you.
"Yes. I, I wanted to buy some of your…fruits," his gaze burned from behind that mask, hiding his expressions and making you squirm internally, "please."
He had brought you to a wooden cottage, so deep into the forest that if you had been alone, you would have definitely gotten lost, but you managed to remember as many twisty pathways and turns as you could. Inside the place was quiet and simple looking. As you went inside you noticed a sitting area, with tables filled with dust covered items, and ancient looking furniture. A couple of men were sitting there, not luring at you like the others but also not hiding their stares.
After a long moment of silence he nodded his head, walking towards the long corridor which you were eyeing earlier. He motioned for you to follow him and you sighed in relief, eager to get away from the men still lurking in the sitting area.
He opened a green, wooden door at the end of the hallway, and disappeared behind it. You hesitated. This is it, you can't turn back from here. You've got to do this, for Limika.
Taking a deep breath you grabbed the metal handle and pushed the door open.
You didn't know what you were expecting, going inside the den of the monster—who, it turned out, didn't look even remotely close to the images the old grannies have ingrained in your minds since young—that you've been warned about your entire life, on your way to make a deal with him. But whatever it was, it wasn't this.
The inside of the room didn't look at all like the dark, gloomy outside. The chestnut coloured walls were replaced by walls painted black and golden, an intricate pattern peering from behind the vines crawling up them. There was a huge bed in the middle, its posts covered by the same vines. Upon a look around the whole place you concluded that most of it was covered in those green leaves.
"You must pay a price." Completely forgetting that there was someone else in the room with you as well, you jumped a little at his breezy voice. You looked for him, only to turn around to find him leaning against the bookshelf right beside the door. He had a golden goblet in his grasp—you spied something black and red in it—and was looking at it intently.
You nodded your head, you came prepared. Reaching into the pouch tucked in your waistband you gripped the silver coins in a tight fist. You just needed one fruit, just a single one, this should cover it, right?
"No."
Your eyes widened, and you wondered if you had spoken your earlier question out loud.
He placed the golden goblet on a small table and picked one of the dark berries between his fingers. In slow, calculated steps he walked towards you, holding your eyes captive as you tried your best not to lose yourself in them yet again. It was proving to be more difficult than you would like to admit, as being the only visible part of his face those honey brown eyes commanded all your attention, and your knees were starting to wobble in the face of it.
"The methods of payment are not the same as the one you're familiar with. I was hoping to make that clear for you."
"What do you mean?"
Only after you had spoken did you realise how heavily you were breathing. The words barely came out as a whisper carried by staggering breaths.
His hand reached out, landing on top of your head. Fingers carding through the roots—making you shiver at the sensation of them rubbing against your scalp—they reached your wavy locks, tangling with a curl, wrapping it around his long fingers.
"Most deem it acceptable to receive a lock of hair as payment," his other hand reached up, grabbing at the rabbit mask, "others...may believe in different forms of transactions."
With that, the mask was ripped off, along with your ability to inhale. He cannot be human. You'd never seen a human so beautiful. No, there was something outworldly about him. His full, coral tinted cheeks blooming in a shade like spring flowers, his luscious pink lips, perfectly plush. Sharp eyebrows arched over his eyes. His eyes, they burned your insides as if you had swallowed hot molasses.
He raised his hand pinching the berry between his fingers and brought it up to his mouth, as he bit into it red juices exploded, painting his lower lip crimson.
You gulped, suddenly hungry. The berry smelled so sweet, so intoxicating.
Before you could even comprehend the scenario you'd landed yourself in he had his palm cupping your face. He moved so fast that your brain couldn't register it. Then you made the mistake and looked into those eyes. Dark, intense, and predatory. The same as that day. But this time you couldn't run. Weirdly your feet seemed planted where they stood, his gaze keeping you captive.
“Do you know what my kind offers you, what makes you lose your mind?” He started talking, voice a little clouded, “A taste. A taste so ravishing that it ruins you for all else.” He moves forward, his cheek brushing against yours, “it makes me curious, you know? Curious to know how it affects you.”
He brings his face back, nose to nose, looking straight into your eyes, he brings his juice stained thumb and gently pushes it against your mouth.
“I've been curious since that day.”
You have half a thought to gasp, to push him away, but you can't. You haven't even had a taste yet and you're already mesmerized. His thumb begins separating your lips and your jaw drops open as his thumb enters your mouth, not too deep, just keeping it propped open.He ever so slowly whispers, “help me sate my curiosity.”
Something has come over you, you think that you nod but you weren't sure, all you know is that his eyes take on a darker shade and before you can blink his mouth is on yours.
Immediately his tongue slips past between your open lips, it burns and the first thing you register is the sharp, fruity tang present on his tongue, after that everything becomes incomprehensible. His kiss is overpowering, you can't think, can't breathe. The hand he holds your jaw with has slipped to the nape of your neck, pushing your head in the angle he desires.
It's like you're in a haze, lost, so utterly lost and he is the only thing guiding you. You don't know what to feel about the way your body is so eager to follow behind him. You shouldn't want this.
He pulls away for a moment, just a moment but it is enough for your head to swim over the surface for a fraction of a second and realise what you are doing. Your hands are shaking, knuckles turned white as you subconsciously tighten them in fists, looking for something to anchor yourself with. A man's mouth is on yours, he is kissing you, something you've only ever talked about with your friends, whispers accompanied by shy giggles. Something you never dreamed of doing before your wedding because it's a sin. Right?
He dives right in, capturing your lower lip and sucking hard.
God, but how come sinning feels so pleasurable then?
Your eyes shut on their own and a whimper leaves your lips only to be swallowed by his hungry mouth. You loosen your palms holding them up and pushing them at his chest. Are you trying to push him away? You're not sure. Do you want him to stop? No, god no.
It feels too good. Something you've never experienced before. You had no idea that such a thing existed, that such men existed who knew how to spell magic with their mouth on yours. But he was not a man. You pushed the thought away.
You hadn't even realised it but had started to move your mouth with his, trying to match his rhythm. His tongue against yours, it made your belly cramp, as if something alive came into existence in there. Just as you were thinking you are gonna lose it, maybe start crying from this indescribable glee you were experiencing, his teeth grazed your lip and bit down hard on it. You gasped, your hand clutching the fabric of his shirt at his chest.
You tried to back away, but his other arm snaked around your body, pulling you tighter than ever and holding you close to him. His tongue came out to smooth the bite, gently stroking it in an attempt to soothe the pain. That, combined with his body heat pressing against you drove you to the brink of insanity.
He started moving you backwards and you followed his lead, having no other option. Soon, with his mouth still on you, still making you dizzy, your legs hit solid wood. You had reached his vanity. But he didn't stop pushing, causing you to lift your hips and sit on the edge of the flat surface and knock an array of items situated there, the mirror on your back now.
Only then did he get off you, leaving you with heaving breaths and a shaking body. You wondered if he had taken his payment, whatever strange kind of payment it was. The taste of the berries was barely there, it was him who overshadowed everything any of your senses could feel. His touch, his scent, his taste stuck in the inside of your mouth.
You opened your eyes, and looked up only to find his face just inches away from you. You wondered, is this what he wanted? Will he let you go now? You will get what you want in return, go away, and try to forget all this. That fire you felt; will you be able to forget? You will try. Right now the assurance was enough.
“Not enough.”
Your eyes widened, confused. What could he possibly mean? Not enough of wha-
His hand snaked up your leg, lifting your skirt with it, in a second your skirt had bundled up and his hand was resting on your upper thigh.
“Jungkook!” You scrambled backwards, hands trying to grab your skirt and tug it down but you didn't get a chance. His left hand shot out, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them over your head against the mirror.
Eyes wide in fear you look at him. His gaze is dark as a predator, one who's caught its prey. You are terrified, that's what your racing heart could, your trembling limbs mean. And that's what the knots in your abdomen mean, right?
“You came here for the sake of a loved one, hm?” he knew.
You nodded in response, tongue heavy, unable to form words. His big doe eyes gleamed.
“You'd do anything for them? Pay any price?”
A hesitant nod this time. He grinned lopsidedly, white teeth peeking out from under his thinner upper lip.
“Let me have a proper taste then.”Curses. You couldn't deny him.
———————————————————————
Forgive me, for I have committed a crime. Punish me for-
Your apologetic prayers were broken off as a moan was ripped from your throat at the ministrations of the plum lips sucking at the swell of your breast.
The moment you nodded your agreement Jungkook had swooped you up, and deposited on the soft covers of his bed, pulling at your blouse gently until the ribbons came loose, allowing him partial access to your upper half.
He pushed you on your back, hovering above you.
“Look at you, so beautiful, laid out for me like this.” He said as he dove in to kiss you once again.
You clawed at his own clothes, running your fingers through his hair, as the voices in your head tried their best to get heard.
You are a proper lady. Such debauchery! What would your mother think, if she knew?
But just then Jungkook parted your legs with his knee, pressing his thigh at your core making your eyes roll back, making you groan at the pleasurable feeling. A sharp stab went straight to your belly, something you were not very familiar with.
He pulled back, panting and looked at where his thigh stayed pressed to you, then back gaze drunk in a weird mix of pleasure and thrill. As if despite committing such a scandalous act you were enjoying the adrenaline rush.
“So good for me.” He smirked.
He leaned down, starting to leave feather light kisses on your upper thighs. Your eyes widened, as he reached closer and closer to your underclothes. A particularly harsh suction had you scrambling back.
“What are you-” it was a strange feeling. The kisses were shocking, but not completely unfamiliar, you've kissed a boy before—your grandmother would personally arrange for your funeral if she found out—but you were ten, and it was most definitely nothing like the things this man did to you, not even close. But, this? This was completely unfamiliar, a line you never crossed. A line you didn't even know you could cross.
He stalked after you, the flickering candle lights basking him in a soft glow; had your heart beat not been pounding in your throat you surely would have mistaken him for a figment of your imagination, something that could have only been a manifestation from your dreams.
“Shh, it's okay my love,” He took your palm, nuzzling his nose against your wrist in the gentlest of touches. As he breathed you in, his exhales surprisingly calming you down, he dropped your palm softly on the bed. He locked his gaze back at you, “let me make you feel good?”
When you still didn't say anything he tilted his head, the shadows it created across his dark eyes and sharp jaw made your throat run dry. You wanted him, you couldn't deny it. He was like the physical essence of every forbidden fantasy you had.So you nodded. And that was all it took him as he dove in head first.
His mouth connected to your still clothed center, leaving small butterfly kisses from the up to down reaching your entrance. You couldn't help the shudder that ran down your legs. He looked up at you, a grin spread across his face. In the blink of an eye he undid the already loose laces and knots of your clothes until you were left in only your askew blouse barely covering your stomach.
He made a sucking noise at your entrance from between your legs, which made you realise just how wet you had become. Something warm, and wet traced your cunt making you gasp loudly. Hands bunching up the sheets below, you arched your back, pushing into his face more, feeling his tongue lap at you.
Jungkook groaned and pinned you in place by the thigh, fingers gripping so tight that it left angry red marks on your skin. He glanced up giving you an amused look. His glossy lips caught your attention, realising it was your essence coating his mouth made your skin burn. Too hot, you tugged your blouse off.
Looking at the way you were not shying away anymore Jungkook smirked. With his other hand he cupped your womanhood, palm grinding against your sensitive bundle of nerve, making you mewl.
“h- ungh!”
“So beautiful, opening up to me.” he started tracing one of his fingers at your entrance before dipping it in, just slightly. You almost screamed when he pulled away just as quick, sliding down an inch as if trying to chase after his retreating hand. He chuckled, “desperate?”
Teary eyed you looked down at him. You needed him to do something, and soon. A hunger you didn't even know existed was waking up from within, setting every one of your nerves on fire.
He looked back with the same intensity, before thrusting his finger deep inside your walls in a single motion. A scream tore off your chest as he started pumping at a languid pace.
“I'll make it feel so good for you, trust me.” His gaze was fixed on the way your mouth hung open before he looked down. He pulled his finger completely, but before you could make a complaining noise you watched him bring it, along with his pointer finger, up to his mouth. Without breaking eye contact he put them in his mouth, sucking them clean.
“So addicting,” his eyes shut on their own, “mm you taste devine.
”When he raised his eyelids after a second you could see the way his pupils were entirely blown out, like two pools of black, but something else was there as well. An almost inhuman gleam, that wasn't there before, wasn't something that the candle glow could've created. It left you mesmerized.
While you were lost in him, he brought his fingers back and inserted two of them in you.
You were a moaning mess as he started pushing them again and again, speeding up before slowing down stretching your insides in a way you never dared attempt yourself. Before long a knot started tightening in your belly, your thighs shaking, and knuckles turning white with how hard you gripped the black sheets beneath you.
One last slow, intense push took you over the edge. Shouting a garbled mess of words you let him help you ride out your high.
He brought his mouth down eagerly just as you started calming down, him sucking on your already sensitive parts made you shudder. In a couple seconds you started pushing at his head, trying to get him off you. It took another few before he did, leaving your toes curling at the sensation.
When you finally peeled back your lids and looked back, you found him already gazing at you while licking his fingers clean.
“as I said, devine.”
Before your eyes he started unbuttoning his shirt. Your breathing hadn't even returned to normal yet and it picked up speed again. The fabric dropped effortlessly down his arms exposing him to you.
You felt a current surge through you.He was beautiful in every aspect of the word. You didn't even know there were men who possessed such beauty.
Jungkook had his hands on the top of his trousers when you sat up. Hands reaching for him you drew closer. He let you, when you started feeling up his chest, when you brought your mouth near his neck—dying to taste him too—and started leaving feather light kisses down his neck and shoulder which then turned to little bites. He just let you, when your nails lightly clawed at his chest, when they brushed past his nipples, only when you closed your mouth around one of them did he break his silent observation and you heard his breath hitch.
Pushing away from him you blinked back up, then down, watching him work his fingers on his pants. You watched in awe as freed himself, pumping his cock deliberately. It was strange, you thought, in such a moment, you would feel intimidated. Instead you didn't dare direct your eyes elsewhere, a different emotion overcame you. Desire.
He was beautiful. Mesmerizing. You subconsciously reached out to touch him. He helped you guide your hand in a glide, setting a slow pace over his flushed cock. It throbbed in your hands making your mouth water. Maybe you could use your mouth too?
Before you could come to a decision he spoke up in a hoarse voice, “scoot back.” You jerked your gaze up as he loosened your grip on him, only then did you realise that somewhere you had tightened your grip on him. He spoke again in a breathless voice, barely restrained.
“Lean against the head board,” you hesitated, you wanted to keep touching him, but one look directed at you and you couldn't help but obey.
After you settled on a couple pillows you waited patiently for him to make the next move. You thought he would make you lie back down completely. What he did before, with his mouth and fingers, was completely foreign to you, but this? This you had a bit of an idea about. Your mother had taught you, after all you were of marriage age, ready to wed and fulfill your wifely duties.
The fact that you were doing this—unmarried and with someone not your lawful husband—didn't bother you anymore. Strange. Exciting. Free.
He kissed you before you felt him pressing against you. His face was glistening with sweat as he finally pushed in, just a little bit at first. Still, the stretch made you squirm, whimpers leaving your lips. He kissed your jaw, “it's okay,” and slid inside another inch, “it's alright, love. You trust me?” You met his half lidded eyes.You nodded.
With your approval he pushed the rest of the way in, immediately trapped between your tight walls.
His eyes rolled back at the sensation. It was so tempting, to shut your own eyes and submit to the pleasure entirely, but you held back, there was something about watching Jungkook, who looked so untouchable, just melt completely. All for you, because of you. It felt empowering.You smiled before shouting out as he pulled back and pushed in again. No longer able to resist you closed your eyes. One of his hands took hold of your breast, squeezing it deliciously.
He filled you up to the hilt only to pull out all the way, and repeating it you arched your back causing your chest to get flushed against his.
“So beautiful.” He nibbled against your neck.
“Please,”
“Mmm love, what do you want?”
What did you want? What do you say? You just wanted more.
“You can move faster. Just, please-” You moaned.
It didn't take telling him twice before he started moving faster. Eager, you tried to respond to his thrusts, but couldn't keep up once he set a merciless pace. Voices of pleasure you didn't even recognise belonged to you bounced off the walls, Jungkook's grunts joining yours in a chorus of bliss.
A sudden deep thrust had you screaming, “Jungkook!” you brought your face near his shoulder, biting it to try and muffle the scream.
He pulled back, “yeah, just like that. It's okay love, I love hearing you scream.” and slammed back into your heat.
You could feel it, the way your belly began twisting just like before. But this time you could feel it was more intense, the knot coiling painfully.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god-” for the first time your chants of the lord's name had nothing to do with the evening prayers of your grandma.
Soon after you came down you felt him unloading deep in you. Hot threads of his release painted you from the inside as you collapsed completely on your back. You couldn't move an inch, your body was spent.
When you opened your eyes Jungkook was panting above you. His hair and bare chest glistening with sweat, his exposed skin flushed red. He dropped his head on yours trying to get his breathing back under control.
This time you closed your eyes, and it was him who stared back with half closed eyes, running his gaze over your soft features, your shining skin wet with sweat, and bitten red lips. He could stare at you for an eternity, he quickly realised that it was not the human, but him—having had a taste of the salt on your skin—who had become obsessed.
————————————————————
The sun had yet to rise but Jungkook was wide awake. The emptiness of his previously warm bed was what woke him up. He caressed the side where you had slept, now bare. In its place you had left behind cold, empty sheets, and an empty goblet on his desk.
You were gone.
But he's had a taste, and now he can't let go back. He's become addicted.
A/n: thank you for reading 🖤 your feedback is most welcome!
that post about “you get bandits when you cut soldiers loose without pay” reminds me of the Thirty Years War, because one could say that beneath all the religious schisms and diplomatic jockeying, the heart of the thirty years war was “what happens when you have a state with just enough capacity to raise massive armies but without enough financial capacity to actually pay those armies” and the answer is that the line between professional armies and roving gangs of bandits disappears and every time you try to raise an army it just becomes another independently acting wildfire devouring the countryside. No matter how bad things get, every day I wake up and thank my lucky stars that I do not live in 17th century Europe. Or 17th century China. Or the 17th century Americas. Or basically anywhere in the 17th century.
One of my favorite little anecdotes about ancient mercenaries is that it was tradition for most of history to give your mercenaries two wages- "Bread" and "Gravy." Both were set at a daily value, but where "Bread" was intended to cover regular maintenance and life stuff and therefore paid out frequently (Here's your week's meal and gear repair budget!) the "Gravy" wage was paid out exclusively at the end of the contract as one lump sum. So like, your gravy wage and bread wage might be one silver coin per day each, so you're getting a handful of coins every week to cover food, and then at the end of an 800 day campaign, you get a wheelbarrow with 800 coins.
Employers liked offering this structure because then they didn't have to like, try to guess how long the invasion of spain will take and then carry 800 coins per soldier around the battlefield where it could be captured. It also gives them the chance to budget around the assumption that they take an enemy city and *find* vast sums of treasure even if they don't have the full value at the beginning of the war.
The main flaw of this system is that it's very easy to end up in a scenario where if you have, say, 50,000 guys that have been fighting for 800 days, you now owe 40 million silver to your army, and if the budget has not worked out to a 40 million surplus, you literally can't afford to end the war, but you can probably afford to pay them for a couple more weeks. So then you have to start thinking creatively.
Anyway across all time and history a lot of generals were ultimately beaten to death by men chanting gravy.
can I get a source on the use of that term, bread and gravy wages?
I assume that's a more modern historian coming up with a clever characterization of army pay, but all I've been able to find is either sites talking about modern fast food wages or else a thousand articles about "why ancient roman soldiers were paid in salt"
if it is a historian's invention I think I wanna read what else this person has to say
Don't know what @probabilitydirigible 's source was, but Bret Devereaux was writing about this subject recently, and mentioned the Classical sources calling them σίτος (bread) and ὀψώνιον (sauce).
(I had a brief moment of recognition reading that, because "opsonins" in immunology are a category of proteins that stick to foreign objects and make them tasty to your immune cells.)
This week we’re going to take a look at mercenaries in the ancient Mediterranean world! This was one of the runners-up in the latest ACOUP S
......suddenly struck by the idea for a piece of worldbuilding of "fae don't like iron bc it is the most stable element*"
*as in elements higher you can extract energy via fission and lower you can extract energy via fusion but iron itself there is no excess binding energy to extract at all
I literally love all of you, but as a Tumblr veteran, Tumblr's main feature is the reblog feature. It is the beating heart of the dashboard and the foundation for a chronological timeline. The For You page here should not be your default setting.
You guys have got to start reblogging stuff you enjoy, especially, specifically gifs and fan art but also fics and fan theories or even hot takes if you're not afraid of a lil discourse. I'm tired of being the first or third reblog for a person's post and then seeing my blog's followers do nothing but hit like, while blogs sit there with no new posts in months or years!
Reblog more stuff please. Thank you, have a good day.
You're not even going to reblog this post are you
In order to secure your dream job at the New York Times, you need the biggest scoop of the century. Unmasking Spider-Man should do it. Falling for him definitely won’t.
or
In which you’re willing to do whatever it takes to uncover the identity of New York’s newest superhero. There's only one problem: you might already know him—and you don’t even like him that much.
﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊
pairing: spiderman!jeongguk × journalist!(f)reader | lowkey jimin x reader
wordcount: 5.1k (starting off steady!)
contents | warnings: swearing (twice literally). multiple mention's of gguk's ass in spandex. slight prejudice against computer engineers. one mention of knife-point robbery (a butter knife tho). one mention of girlfriend rental websites (lol) || reader is vegetarian! taehyung and jeongguk are canonically afraid of women. lot's of journalistic argot and terminology (probably unaccurate). that's all!
a/n: this was literally so fun to write i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i do! if you want, i would love to read your opinions and thoughts about this first chapter —let me know about it in the comments or reposts!!
﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊
next | index
01. the guy in spandex
﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊
The Times Eatery was always packed to the brim. Namjoon and Seokjin had compiled a long list of reasons why you could almost never snag a window table, forcing you to settle for that tiny round one wedged into a dim corner—arguably a little too close to the men’s restroom for the delicate sensibilities of Midtown’s finest.
For nearly a month now, every Tuesday after Reporting, the three of you would catch the bus at the Columbia stop and endure a suffocating twenty-minute ride through New York’s overcrowded public transport just for this.
A coffee. A vegan croissant for you. A split ham-and-cheese sandwich for them.
And the reason?
The New York Times building, standing right across the street.
But that day was different.
That day, you weren’t being crushed inside a city bus, clutching your tote bag to your chest like a life raft so no one would step on it—or worse, snatch it. No. That day, you were walking out of that building—the very same one you’d spent weeks staring at through the fogged-up windows of The Times Eatery, dragging your friends along as if it were some kind of pilgrimage.
That November morning, as you stepped into the café and unbuttoned your dark trench coat against the sudden warmth, you felt like the most powerful person in the city.
More powerful, even, than that spandex-clad guy who’d been kicking the shit out of New York’s criminals for the past year.
Seokjin had texted the group chat you shared with Namjoon before your interview, wishing you luck. Namu had followed right after—a chaotic string of crossed fingers, flexed biceps, and clapping hands. You had a couple of new messages, sent barely a minute ago:
jin [9:36 a.m.]: we’re waiting, miss. your double iced americano too
namu [9:36 a.m.]: same table as always. at this point, someone should study this
Despite yourself, you smiled and lifted your gaze toward the back of the café. Namjoon was already on his feet, waving to catch your attention. As you weaved past hurried waiters and customers, both he and Seokjin stood frozen with anticipation—eyebrows raised, mouths slightly open, like they were bracing for impact.
You reached the table, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face for more than two seconds. You dropped your tote bag onto the table with a soft thud and leaned in toward them, bracing your hands against it.
“I’m in!”
They burst into a shared exclamation of pure joy. Namjoon clapped once before pulling you into a tight hug, while Seokjin drummed loudly on the table like a one-man drumroll. A few people turned to look, but you couldn’t have cared less.
For God’s sake—you’d been accepted into the New York Times internship program.
The rest of the world could fuck off for a minute. This deserved celebrating.
You’d finally climbed one more step on the ladder of your life goals. Now all you had to do was land the story of a lifetime, secure a full-time contract, climb your way up through the ranks until you were editor-in-chief—or even the paper’s director—
“Alright!” Seokjin cut in, snapping you out of your grand delusions. Namjoon let go of you, and the three of you sat down, leaning in close as if you were about to share the world’s most classified secret. “Tell us everything. Every single detail.”
And that was exactly what you did.
For the next half hour, you barely stopped talking, pausing only to sip your coffee whenever your throat got too dry, and your friends listened with complete attention—never interrupting, never showing anything but genuine interest. It moved you more than you let on. Your best friends had always been your fiercest supporters and your biggest fans, in their own words. You knew they were genuinely proud of you, and that behind everything they did there was nothing but the most honest, selfless kind of love, forged through your years together at Columbia.
Ever since that day, almost five years earlier, when you’d met in a study room at Butler with two complete strangers, united by the shared goal of turning the college paper into the pride of Morningside Heights, the three of you had been inseparable.
So Namu and Jin listened to you talk about the gold-plated door handles in the office, the silky glide of the elevators, the receptionist’s impeccable perfume, and the wild-berry-scented soap dispenser in the women’s restroom as if they were watching the latest episode of Lost.
“I officially start next week,” you said at last. “I met the editor-in-chief—Mr. Hastings. He’s… a character. Let’s just say I highly doubt he’ll ever learn my name. He doesn’t even know his own assistant’s.”
Namjoon barely managed to suppress a snort. Seokjin nudged him lightly with his elbow while finishing the last dregs of his caramel frappé—extra whipped cream—through his straw.
“But it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more, guys,” you went on, leaning back in your chair with a wistful sigh. Behind you, a man built like a wardrobe shoved the restroom door open, nearly knocking into you—but you didn’t even flinch. “Seriously. My life starts now.”
Jin lifted his coffee and held it out toward the center of the table. “To Manhattan and beyond, baby.”
The three of you clinked your half-empty cups together.
The rest of the morning drifted by like that, wrapped in a quiet little bubble while, all around you, New York City plunged headfirst into its daily chaos of coming and going. You talked about everything, as always. Between the three of you, conversation flowed effortlessly—there was never enough time, never enough words to cover everything you wanted to say. Few people stimulated and inspired you the way those two die-hard New Yorkers you loved like your own brothers did.
The topics jumped from one to the next as quickly as your minds did—sharp, synchronized, polished over years like a perfectly oiled machine: their new apartment in Hell’s Kitchen was everything a recently independent couple with marriage on the horizon could ever want; Maisons du Monde furniture was basically Seokjin’s Roman Empire; there was a new temporary exhibit at the Met featuring Namu’s favorite artist (of that week, at least), and they were dying to take you on a three-person date; that week’s Ethics assignment was ridiculously long…
And then your phones vibrated at the same time on the table.
All three of you glanced down in perfect sync. Only Namjoon had his screen set to light up with notifications, so you all leaned in toward him to read.
As journalists in the making, the three of you were subscribed to every major digital newspaper in the city, with notifications turned on to keep up with the latest in the Big Apple. Your group chat was, in fact, flooded with links—most of them regarding the same topic.
“Ha! He did it again!” Seokjin exclaimed, grabbing his boyfriend’s phone and pulling it closer to his face.
From where you were sitting, you had to read upside down and could only make out a couple of words before Jin snatched the phone. Spider-Man. Rescue. You took a sip from your straw, your americano even more watered down now that the ice had melted, and propped your chin on your palm, feigning disinterest.
But you were listening. Completely. Practically buzzing with anticipation to hear more about the latest stunt pulled by that mysterious… what, exactly? Hero? No one seemed to agree on what to call him anymore.
“Is that the Daily Bugle?” Namjoon asked, leaning sideways and resting his chin on Jin’s shoulder to peer at the screen. “Pff. Tabloids. They probably made half of it up—”
Jin elbowed him again, cutting him off with a sharp “shh,” while you watched over the edge of the phone as his pupils darted across the article, lit up by the screen.
“What does it say?” you asked.
Namjoon looked back at you, eyes narrowing with unmistakable amusement. He pointed at you, circling his finger in the air.
“Right! You’ve got a thing for this guy.”
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks flushed a ridiculous shade of pink.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Namu,” you complained—though you were aware that both of them knew you well enough to read between the lines. “We don’t even know who he is! How am I supposed to have a crush on someone who could be… I don’t know —a balding fifty-year-old named Bob who still lives with his mom?”
Seokjin burst out laughing, smacking the table with the palm of his hand. Namjoon covered his mouth, trying—and failing—to stifle his own laughter.
“Girl, I’ve seen you zoom in on every single photo of our beloved Spider-Man the press publishes,” Jin shot back, glancing down at the article again. “Besides, have you seen what that suit does for his ass? Total heartthrob.”
Namjoon leaned over the phone, one eyebrow raised. After a moment, he nodded slowly.
“Yep, you’re absolutely right, babe.” Then he turned to you, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes—the kind that never meant anything good. “Didn’t know you were into masks and spandex. Not gonna lie, that’s kinda—”
If you’d ever been any good at sports back in high school, you would’ve nailed him right in the forehead with the coffee spoon you threw at his head. Namjoon raised his arm to shield himself, laughing.
Seokjin, completely unfazed by your scuffle, grabbed the sleeve of Namjoon’s sweater and shook it to get both your attention.
“Hey, hey—look at this. This is huge.”
You flipped Namjoon off, sticking your tongue out at him while he wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. Seokjin cleared his throat and began to read aloud:
“Spider-Man strikes again: heroic rescue in Brooklyn leaves more questions than answers By Jackson Kepler
Brooklyn woke this morning to yet another trail of tangled webbing, damaged property and unanswered questions after the masked vigilante known as Spider-Man intervened in what witnesses described as a “chaotic” late-night incident near the waterfront.
According to preliminary reports from the NYPD, a city bus carrying more than a dozen passengers was left dangling at an angle over the edge of Hamilton Avenue after a three-vehicle collision triggered a partial collapse of roadside scaffolding shortly after 11:00 p.m. Eyewitnesses claim Spider-Man appeared on the scene within minutes, using his now-familiar webs to stabilize the vehicle and assist trapped civilians before first responders could fully secure the area.
“He came out of nowhere,” said Marisol Vega, 42, who had been driving behind the bus at the time of the accident. “One second people were screaming, and the next he was holding the whole thing together. I don’t even know how that’s possible.”
Officials confirmed that no fatalities were reported, and only four individuals sustained minor injuries. Several witnesses insist the outcome could have been far worse without the intervention of the city’s controversial wall-crawler. Police have not confirmed whether Spider-Man’s involvement helped or hindered emergency operations, though officers at the scene expressed concern over, once again, a masked individual inserting himself into dangerous and delicate operations with no oversight, no accountability, and no explanation.
And that, as always, is the question New Yorkers are left with: who exactly is Spider-Man, and how long are we expected to accept a city where one unidentified vigilante can swing in, play hero, and disappear before anyone is forced to ask what he was really doing there in the first place?”
As Seokjin read, you reached for your own phone, scrolling through the article, the photos and the videos. On Twitter, your timeline was on fire over the whole thing.
You let out a quiet sigh.
Your opinion on Spider-Man tended to shift depending on the day. But more often than not, what he stirred in you was pure, relentless curiosity. Maybe a hint of admiration, tangled up with frustration. Entirely professional, of course. (Right?)
The point is—how was it possible that no one knew who he was?
It had been almost a year since his first appearance: rescuing several families from a burning apartment building in Queens. You remembered it like it was yesterday—it had dominated both the city and the press for nearly a month, until he showed up again to stop a fuel tanker from plunging off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Since then, Spider-Man had become something of a symbol of New York City. Whether he should be considered a hero or an anti-hero was still very much up for debate—especially because he never, under any circumstances, worked with the police, emergency services, or the city government. He showed up, did his thing, and vanished like mist.
You couldn’t lie—like so many others, especially people in your field, you too had fallen prey to that restless, almost obsessive urge to unmask him when he first appeared.
But no one had ever managed to catch him.
Not even the police. Not that you had much faith in them, but you figured that if they couldn’t uncover Spider-Man’s identity with all their resources, you—still an undergrad at the time—wouldn’t stand a chance, not even with all the luck in the world.
Spider-Man’s identity had become the first thorn in your professional career. Your first failure. The first story you’d had to let go.
Maybe that was why you’d never quite stopped keeping one eye—and one ear—on him. You read every article, every news story, and —in the strictest secrecy— you even listened to conspiracy podcasts that dissected each and every one of his appearances, piece by piece. And still, Spider-Man remained as anonymous as Jack the Ripper. An unfortunate comparison, sure—but you get the idea.
Seokjin let out a low whistle as he finished reading and handed the phone back to his boyfriend. Namjoon draped an arm across the back of Jin’s chair and shrugged.
“Honestly, a masked guy in spandex becoming a symbol of working-class solidarity and rebellion against the system?” He clicked his tongue. “Hot as fuck, if you ask me.”
You didn’t want to agree—mostly because you had no intention of letting the topic of your tiny, completely insignificant crush on said masked guy in spandex resurface—but you couldn’t have agreed more.
A very small part of you—tiny, really, because your ambition and your need to know always outweighed everything else—suspected it might feel… disappointing, somehow, if the world ever did find out who he was.
Seokjin and Namjoon’s phones buzzed again at the exact same time. Both of them turned back toward the glow of Namu’s screen. You just waited in silence, idly sipping through your straw.
“Oh, right! With all the interview chaos, we totally forgot,” Seokjin said, grabbing his own phone and unlocking it before looking at you, eyebrows bouncing up and down. “We’re having dinner with Tae and Gguk tonight, remember? You said if you got the internship, you’d come.”
And of course you remembered—unfortunately. You’d agreed to that plan in a fleeting burst of euphoria right after sending your application to the New York Times HR department. You’d regretted it instantly, but Seokjin had already engraved it into his brain and even informed the aforementioned “Tae” and “Gguk” that maybe they would finally get to meet the mysterious you—who had been slipping through their fingers for years like a Hudson River fish.
“Did I really say that?” you asked anyway, raising an eyebrow.
Seokjin shot you a murderous look. Namjoon couldn’t help but laugh, earning himself a well-deserved smack to the thigh from his boyfriend.
“Girl, we’ve been talking about you to them for years,” Jin said, setting his phone back down on the table. “At this point, they’re convinced you don’t actually exist—that you’re some kind of imaginary character we made up to make our relationship more interesting.”
You wrinkled your nose. “Gross.”
“Exactly. So it’s about time, don’t you think? At this rate, you won’t meet them until our wedding.”
Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “It's been been almost five years and we still haven’t introduced you. That's crazy actually."
You smiled back at him, dripping with irony, as you slipped your phone and wallet into your tote bag and shrugged your trench coat over your shoulders.
“I have enough common sense to know computer engineers are a walking red flag,” you said lightly, “and apparently a remarkable talent for dodging awkward social situations.”
Jin let out a frustrated groan, pulling a face. “They’re deconstructed! Do I look like I’d be friends with a Neanderthal?”
You ignored him, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks before heading toward the exit, already weaving through the ever-present crowd filling The Times Eatery.
“I’ll be the judge of that!” you tossed over your shoulder.
Namjoon waved. “We love you!”
You returned the gesture, blowing a kiss.
﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊﹉﹊
By the time Jeongguk hauled himself through the living room window, New York outside had sunk into that strange almost-night in-between: not quiet, never quiet, but muted enough that the distant sirens and traffic below blurred into something almost soft.
He kicked the window shut behind him with more force than necessary and stood there for a second, breathing hard.
The apartment was dimly lit, the glow of multiple screens casting shifting blues and whites across the walls. Cables snaked along the floor, a half-finished mug of coffee sat abandoned on the table, and the low hum of Taehyung’s setup filled the space like it was alive. A couple of empty takeout boxes sat forgotten on the counter, one of Tae’s hoodies was thrown over the back of the couch, and three empty energy drink cans were lined up on the coffee table like some kind of deeply concerning decorative choice.
Jeongguk felt every bruise the second the adrenaline began to wear off. His shoulders ached. One side of his ribs throbbed dully where he’d taken a hit earlier. The suit clung unpleasantly to his skin, damp with sweat and city grime, and his hair was sticking to his forehead when he took the mask off with one sharp tug.
He took three steps into the apartment, then collapsed face-first onto the couch.
“I’m dead.”
A beat.
“Again?” Taehyung’s voice drifted over from his setup, arranged on a desk tucked into a corner facing the wall, just behind the old two-seater couch that dominated the narrow room. “That’s, like, the third time this month.”
“I mean it this time,” Jungkook groaned into the cushions, voice muffled. One arm flopped dramatically over the edge of the sofa. If he stretched his leg all the way out across the couch, he could touch the kitchen counter with his toes. “Tell my story. Make me sound cool and hot.”
Taehyung didn’t even glance up from his laptop, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “You got chased through Queens by a guy in a flaming Elmo costume.”
Jeongguk lifted his head just enough to glare at his back, since he had not turned around from the screens, hair sticking to his forehead, mask clenched in his fist. “He had a knife.”
Taehyung finally peeked over the back of the couch, one eyebrow raised.
“He had a butter knife.”
“It was still sharp!”
“It was not” Taehyung shot back instantly, already turning away. “Also, there’s footage taken by a bystander. You tripped over your own web at minute two-thirty-seven.”
Jeongguk let his head drop back down with a defeated groan, stretching out across the couch like a starfish. Every inch of his body ached.
“Delete it.”
“Absolutely not. That’s blackmail material.”
“Did you at least get the rest?” he muttered after a second.
Taehyung reappeared, this time leaning against the back of the couch, laptop tucked in one arm. The reflection of code and paused video frames flickered across his glasses.
“Clipped, color-corrected, stabilized,” he listed, ticking points off with his fingers. “Already sent it to Tabby. I even gave you a dramatic slow-mo landing. You’re welcome. Very cinematic. Ten out of ten, would almost believe you know what you’re doing.”
“Wow.”
“I’m serious, you look great. Very ‘mysterious vigilante but make it fashion.’ Your ass is—”
“Don’t.”
“—doing a lot of heavy lifting for your public image.”
Jeongguk groaned into the couch again, louder this time, and Taehyung chuckled, dropping himself on the floor, in the space between the coffee table and the sofa, and resting his back against the couch. A beat passed. Comfortable. Familiar. The city’s distant noise bled in through the window, wrapping around them like background static.
“…Did I make the news?” Jeongguk asked, voice quieter now.
Taehyung didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his grin spread slowly—dangerously.
“Oh,” he said, already unlocking his phone. “You have no idea.”
Jeongguk shifted on the couch, turning onto his side to peer over his best friend’s shoulder. Social media—and the internet in general—was on fire over the same thing: his last two interventions, back-to-back, two days in a row. First, Brooklyn and the bus; then, Queens and the robbery with that guy in the Elmo costume.
They both struggled not to laugh as they scrolled through the most viral tweets from the night before—the Brooklyn bus incident:
nah because i just saw spider-man HOLD A WHOLE BUS UP with WEBS????? what even is this city
He waved at a little kid after pulling two people out of that wrecked bus. I’m unwell
cool rescue. who’s paying for the broken windshield though
The way everyone just stopped and stared like this was normal??? NEW YORK IS INSANE
But Taehyung’s absolute favorites—purely because they proved his point about the spandex and made Jeongguk want to crawl out of his own skin—were the ones that went something like:
not to objectify a public menace but that suit is doing insane work
I support women’s rights but more importantly women’s wrongs and yes that includes having a crush on Spider-Man
They kept scrolling for a while.
The entire city of New York had practically broken the internet after nearly two weeks without a single Spider-Man sighting. By then, the clips were everywhere—Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, Reddit. So were the headlines.
Most of the links led to sensationalist pieces from the Daily Bugle or smaller local outlets. Taehyung flicked past titles like Hero or Public Nuisance? Spider-Man Goes Viral After Dramatic Bus Rescue, You Won’t Believe What Spider-Man Did in Brooklyn Last Night, or Webbed and Worried: Brooklyn Residents Question Spider-Man’s Latest Stunt.
The frenzy sparked by the bus incident had reignited, once again, the ongoing debate over whether Spider-Man should be considered a hero or a public safety threat. As a result, more reputable outlets—the New York Times, the New York Daily News, even The Wall Street Journal—had all published their own pieces throughout the day.
Taehyung paused on the most widely shared article on Twitter—an opinion column from the New York Times, written by someone named Park Jimin.
“Hm. Finally someone who can string two words together without peeing themselves,” Taehyung conceded after reading the headline.
Jeongguk tilted his head, reading over his shoulder.
Why New York Can’t Agree on Spider-Man?
Taehyung tapped the link. The screen flashed white for a brief moment as it loaded.
Then the article appeared.
On the screen, beneath the black serif masthead of The New York Times, Park Jimin’s byline sat under the restrained headline.
Below it, in italics:
His latest rescue has once again exposed the city’s split response to a masked vigilante who saves lives, rejects oversight, and remains entirely unknown.
Park Jimin’s piece didn’t waste time arguing over whether what happened in Brooklyn had been extraordinary —by that point, that much was obvious. What it focused on instead was the part that always came after.
According to the article, the real issue with Spider-Man was not whether he saved lives, but the contradiction he forced the city to confront every time he appeared: New York was placing more and more of its trust in a masked stranger operating completely outside any institution. To some people, that made him a hero —someone who showed up when nobody else could get there fast enough, when the police hesitated, when the city’s systems lagged behind the emergency unfolding in front of them. But to others, that was exactly what made him unsettling.
No one knew who he was, where he had come from, what he wanted, or where the limits of his intervention really were.
Park argued that every rescue reignited the same public debate. The fact that Spider-Man saved people did not erase the fact that he answered to no one. There was no oversight, no legal accountability, no way of knowing what would happen if one day he got it wrong. And yet the city seemed increasingly willing to forgive all of that, so long as he kept arriving in time to stop the worst from happening.
The article also suggested that Spider-Man had become something larger than a vigilante. He was a symbol now, one onto which New Yorkers projected whatever they most wanted to believe: hope, for some; danger, for others. Maybe, Park implied, he was also a symptom —of a city so worn down by the failures of its own institutions that it had become easier to place its faith in a myth than in the system itself.
By the time Taehyung reached the end, the article still didn’t feel like an answer. If anything, it felt more like a sharper version of the same question: not whether Spider-Man was a hero or a problem, but what it said about New York that it seemed to need him to be both at once.
“If anyone figures out who I am, I’m cooked,” Jeongguk muttered, dragging a still-gloved hand down his face.
Taehyung clicked his tongue. “I told you disappearing off the grid like that was a bad idea. You gave them withdrawal symptoms.”
“Dude, it’s been two weeks,” Jeongguk shot back. “I have college assignments! My last Programming submission almost fried my brain permanently.”
He let out something close to a sigh and dropped back onto the couch again, limbs loose, exhaustion settling in properly now. Meanwhile, Taehyung exited the Times article and dove straight back into the chaos of social media.
Jeongguk’s latest stunt in Queens —barely an hour old—wouldn’t hit the press until morning, but it was already everywhere.
Clips. Threads. Reposts.
The video he’d sent to Tabby—host of The Tabby Tapes, basement podcaster, self-appointed Spider-Man archivist, and probably one of his fiercest defenders online—was already pushing ten thousand views.
“And she’s live,” Taehyung added, amused.
Sure enough, Tabby was streaming on Twitch, breaking down Spider-Man’s latest move for her audience of chronically unemployed and chronically online followers—like herself.
Tabby never asked questions. She never had.
She just received the anonymous emails like manna from heaven and gave Spider-Man exactly what Jeongguk and Taehyung had been aiming for from the very beginning: visibility. Back when Spider-Man had been nothing more than a guy in spandex helping old ladies carry groceries or stopping a bike theft in the Bronx, she’d been there. And as Spider-Man’s presence in the city grew, so did Tabby’s podcast.
By now, The Tabby Tapes had become the go-to corner of the internet—at least in the weirder, deeper suburbs of it—for anyone trying to keep up with New York’s newest so-called superhero.
Neither Taehyung nor Jeongguk had anticipated that New Yorkers, the police and the city government might see Spider-Man as a threat rather than your friendly neighborhood Spidey. So things had spiraled a little out of control.
By the time they stopped to actually think about it, half the city was trying to unmask him, while the other half was walking around in “I Love Spider-Man” T-shirts on a daily basis. At that point, they figured the only thing they could do was steer the narrative—make people see him as what Jeongguk had wanted to be from the very beginning: an ally. A superhero. Someone who fought crime and protected the city.
But no matter how many insane clips of Jeongguk doing the impossible they managed to capture and send to Tabby, and no matter how many lives Spider-Man saved —things didn’t seem to be getting any better.
Taehyung gave Reddit one last scroll before locking his phone.
“Alright, let’s call it a day. Go take a shower—you stink. We’re meeting Jin and Joon in twenty minutes.”
Jeongguk’s head snapped up like a spring had gone off.
“Dinner’s today?” he asked, blowing out a tired breath. “Fuck. I don’t even know what day it is anymore.”
Taehyung pushed himself up from the floor, setting his laptop down on the coffee table beside a graveyard of crushed, empty energy drink cans.
“Yep. And apparently, the mysterious y/n is finally going to bless us with her presence in the same space-time continuum,” he added, already heading toward his room down the narrow, almost nonexistent hallway.
Jeongguk shot to his feet, ignoring the pain in his limbs at that.
“Are you serious?”
So the day had finally come.
To his deep embarrassment, Jeongguk felt a wave of nerves roll through his body—something disturbingly close to final-exam anxiety. For years, your name had been a kind of dark legend, almost an inside joke within the group. Gguk had convinced himself he would never actually end up in the same physical space as you, despite all the outside connections linking your lives together.
It was, at the very least, ironic that even though he knew you had been friends with Jin and Joon since the beginning of your college years—and the iron-fisted force behind the university newspaper—neither he nor Tae had ever consciously caught so much as a glimpse of you, not even on campus.
The few times you appeared on Jin and Joon’s social media, you were always turned away from the camera, or reduced to fragments of clothing and limbs in candid, offhand photos. Your face was never shown.
Jeongguk had only ever seen your actual face in two photographs.
One was the profile picture on your Instagram account (@/savedbythebell) —which he had looked up more times than he would ever admit, if only to confirm again and again that, yes, it was still private and still held the steadfast number of twenty-four followers. In it, you were turned sideways, barely visible.
Even so, Jeongguk always had that unsettling feeling that he had seen you somewhere before.
The other was a framed picture Seokjin kept in the entryway of the new apartment, alongside other snapshots of himself, Namjoon, Taehyung, and Jeongguk. In that one, you were eight years old and standing in Disneyland, Orlando, hugging Donald Duck with a huge smile missing both your front teeth. Jeongguk had found it so adorable it made him giggle—and wonder how a little girl who looked that painfully huggable had somehow grown into something like the Iron Lady of academia.
Seokjin and Namjoon had told them more than once how Columbia’s paper had hit its peak of productivity and popularity under your leadership, because you managed everyone involved like it was a military regime. And even though two years had passed since he and Taehyung had stopped instinctively flinching out of self-preservation every time your name came up in conversation, you had still refused to meet them anyway.
Not that Tae and Gguk had pushed particularly hard.
They were already bad enough at interacting with women who were normal, nice, and extroverted. Having to do it with one who was actively and deliberately terrifying?
No, thanks.
Taehyung went on, “I’ve spent a solid part of my afternoon memorizing the faces of every actress on those sketchy websites where you can rent a girlfriend for a few hours, you know, just in case she—”
Jeongguk scoffed. “You're far beyond insane, you know that?”
Taehyung paused briefly, glancing back.
“I’m telling you, she doesn’t exist. Her social media and the picture in their entryway? Total Mandela effect. Fabricated entirely by Seokjin’s deeply disturbed mind.”
Summary: When you're dragged to an underground party by your best friend, the last thing you expect is to be thrown into a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven — especially not with Jeon Jungkook, the brooding, sharp-tongued heartbreaker with a reputation that precedes him. You barely know him. He barely looks at anyone. But behind that locked door, time slows down, sparks fly, and he's done for. You're sure he'll forget you. He does. But now he’s on a mission to figure out who “Closet Girl” is — and your friends are doing everything they can to mess with him while keeping your identity secret.
genre: University AU | strangers to lovers (sort of)
warnings: flirting, mild romantic tension, social anxiety, embarrassment, minor illness, playful pranks, friendly manipulation, study stress, mild language, sarcastic banter, JK being so whipped, slow-burn romance, light comedy/drama, no serious harm
WC: 18k words
a/n: tumblr wouldn’t let me post it unless I split it into two parts…t’was too long…enjoy
Campus is buzzing. Not the usual hum of sleep-deprived students dragging themselves to class, but the kind of chaotic energy that only comes around when the weekend stretches ahead, warm and wide open.
The quad is drenched in golden late-afternoon sunlight, and the air smells like grass, iced coffee, and the subtle hint of sweat from people pretending they aren’t trying to look hot in 85-degree heat.
You’re weaving between bodies, textbooks tucked under your arm, when it catches your eye: a bright neon flier taped to nearly every lamppost, tree, and bulletin board in sight.
SINS & SAINTS
BIGGEST PARTY OF THE SEMESTER — 10PM @ THE PIT
SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN GAME 🔥 DON’T BE LAME
Yanni snatches one off a pole as you pass. “This is the moment, ladies.”
You don’t even give the flyer a second glance. “What moment? The one where you both fail your ethics paper because you were too busy shotgunning White Claws in someone’s moldy basement?”
“Oh my god, relax,” Jenna says, laughing. “It’s not moldy. They fixed the leak in April.”
You roll your eyes but let yourself smile as the three of you walk along the sidewalk, the late sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Yanni and Jenna look like they just stepped out of an Urban Outfitters ad — crop tops, layered jewelry, and enough confidence to set fire to half the student population.
And then there’s you. Not quite invisible, but definitely more “background character” than “main event.”
“You know this party’s gonna be huge, right?” Yanni says, waving the flier like it’s a golden ticket. “Last year someone jumped off the roof into the kiddie pool.”
“And broke their collarbone,” you point out.
“Legendary,” Jenna says, smirking.
You snatch the flier from Yanni’s hand, skimming it again. “Why would anyone voluntarily go to something with a ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ game advertised like a feature? We’re adults.”
“Are we?” Yanni asks, eyes twinkling.
“Technically,” Jenna adds. “But also—imagine the chaos. What if someone pulls Jungkook’s name?”
Your heart does a completely unacceptable little stutter at that.
Jeon Jungkook.
Tattooed, mysterious, chronically late to lectures (if he shows up at all), and very much the guy every girl on campus either wants to date, make out with, or get over. He’s got a motorcycle. He barely talks. He shows up to parties, hooks up with girls, then disappears like smoke.
And he’s beautiful. Obviously.
You’re not immune. You’ve had a crush on him since last semester, when he walked into your shared Intro to Media class twenty minutes late, helmet under his arm, chewing gum like he wasn’t the reason every girl in the room forgot what the professor was saying.
But Jungkook is a walking red flag. A whole carnival of them. And you’re smarter than that.
At least, you pretend to be.
“Literally everyone wants him,” Jenna says, reading your mind. “Even the TA from psych. She was full-on blushing when he asked for an extension.”
“Not surprised,” Yanni mutters. “He has that look — like he’s good at everything and knows it.”
“He probably is,” you say before you can stop yourself, then immediately regret it.
Your friends both stare at you, smirking like sharks.
“Wait,” Jenna says slowly, “do you have a thing for Jungkook?”
“No.” You say it too quickly. “God, no. I mean—everyone does. But I’m not stupid.”
“Just stupid-adjacent,” Yanni teases.
“Shut up.”
Before they can press you further, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”
You look up to see Park Jimin approaching, all sunshine and mischief, with Kim Taehyung sauntering behind him like he owns the sidewalk.
Jimin’s wearing a denim jacket over a mesh tank, and Taehyung’s got sunglasses on even though the sun’s nearly down. Between the two of them, they look like trouble you want to get into.
“Hey, ladies,” Jimin says, flashing a grin as he throws an arm over Yanni’s shoulders. “You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”
“Obviously,” Yanni replies, leaning into the attention.
“Can’t miss the annual disaster,” Jenna adds, high-fiving Taehyung like they’re in on some secret joke.
You cross your arms. “You guys seriously hyping up a party where people get locked in closets like it’s summer camp?”
“It’s not just any party,” Jimin says. “It’s The Pit. Sins & Saints theme. Black lights. Fake angel wings. Maybe some fake confessions.”
“Cages,” Taehyung adds casually, like that’s normal.
You blink. “Cages? What kind of party is this?”
“The fun kind,” Jimin winks. “You coming, Y/N?”
“I have an essay due.”
“So bring it with you. I’ll give you moral support while you drink tequila.”
“Tempting,” you say, deadpan. “But I actually want to pass this semester.”
Taehyung leans in, smirking. “Well, in case you change your mind… Jungkook’s gonna be there.”
There it is again. The name. The spark that lights your nerves like a match to gasoline.
You try to play it cool. “Why would that matter to me?”
Yanni coughs loudly. Jenna bites her lip to keep from laughing.
Jimin just grins, already turning away. “No reason. See you at ten.”
And with that, the two boys melt back into the crowd, leaving you with your friends, your unfinished essay, and the creeping sense that this night might not go according to plan.
The quad’s stretched out like a painting, glowing and slow, the heat bleeding off the pavement in soft waves. Everything’s dipped in gold — the trees, the brick buildings, even the stupid neon flyers plastered to every pole.
The bench — their bench — is right where it always is, half in shade, half in sun, like it can’t decide whether it wants to be chill or dramatic. Typical.
Jungkook drops down into his usual spot on the backrest, boots braced on the seat like he owns it. He probably does, at this point — nobody ever sits there unless one of them’s already claimed it.
Taehyung arrives next, flopping into the grass with a sigh so theatrical it could win awards.
“Dying,” he declares. “Melting. This is my final form.”
Jimin shows up with a popsicle he definitely didn’t pay for. “It’s like 85. You’re from Daegu, you’ve survived worse.”
“I have delicate lungs now,” Taehyung replies. “I’m an artist.”
“Your lung capacity’s fine, bro,” Jungkook says. “You were yelling at Rocket League until three.”
Taehyung scowls but doesn’t argue.
A group of girls walks by — upperclassmen, probably — and Jungkook doesn’t miss the way they glance over, not subtle at all. One of them straightens her hair in her reflection on a car window.
He ignores it. Sips his drink. Lets the sun warm his tattoos.
“Party’s gonna be insane tonight,” Jimin says through a mouthful of cherry ice. “Everyone’s going.”
“You say that like you’re not part of the chaos,” Jungkook mutters.
“I am the chaos.”
Jungkook smirks. “You’re five feet of glitter and bad decisions.”
“I’m five-nine,” Jimin says automatically.
“You’re lying.”
“Anyway,” Taehyung cuts in, flopping back so his head hits the grass with a dull thump, “I heard there’s gonna be like… cages. Real ones. Hanging from the ceiling.”
“Where the hell are they getting cages?” Jungkook asks.
“Probably the theater department,” Jimin says. “They owe me after I fixed their soundboard last semester.”
Jungkook makes a face. “You fixed it by slapping it until it stopped buzzing.”
“And it worked.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence for a bit — the kind only friends with a lot of shared damage can fall into. People keep walking past, all heading somewhere, all talking too loud, dressed like they're auditioning for the same indie film.
A guy on a skateboard nearly eats it trying to check his reflection in the library windows. A girl in a baby tee trips on absolutely nothing when she sees Jungkook watching her. Classic.
He doesn’t react. Barely blinks.
“You know,” Taehyung says, eyes still closed, “I was thinking about that Seven Minutes thing.”
“Oh god,” Jungkook mutters.
“No, listen. Imagine someone wild pulls your name. Like that girl who wears fangs and drinks blood out of a Hydro Flask.”
“She’s a performance artist,” Jimin corrects. “You’re so uncultured.”
“Imagine,” Taehyung continues, undeterred, “you walk into the closet and it’s just like—BAM. Straight-up vampire romance. Feral energy. No escape.”
“I’d rather die,” Jungkook says.
“Sounds like fear,” Jimin singsongs.
“It’s common sense,” Jungkook replies. “That game is high school energy. It's gonna be twenty minutes of giggling and some drunk dude falling through the door trying to kiss someone who already regrets being born.”
Jimin snorts. “Wow. Poetic.”
“Look, I’m going,” Jungkook says, “but I’m not doing closet games. Not my scene.”
“You say that,” Taehyung mutters, cracking one eye open, “but if someone hot pulls your name…”
Jungkook shrugs. “Then she’s unlucky.”
And he means it — mostly. It’s just that… parties like this always end the same. Music too loud, drinks too warm, somebody crying in the bathroom, somebody making bad decisions on a lawn chair.
He doesn’t know why he keeps showing up. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe it’s the thrill of it — the crash of noise, the lights, the way nothing matters for a few hours.
Or maybe it's that feeling.
The possibility.
The moment right before something happens — when everything is charged and uncertain, and the right glance could flip the night on its head.
He exhales, eyes flicking toward a passing group of students. One girl — vaguely familiar — walks by clutching a tote bag and a half-melted iced matcha. Her face jogs something in his brain. A lecture hall, maybe? Media Studies?
He thinks he remembers her — quiet. Always early. Never looked at him, not even when he showed up late and took the seat next to the plug.
But it’s gone in a blink. Just another girl. Just another day.
Taehyung claps his hands suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Alright, sluts. Waffle truck or convenience store noodles?”
“Why are those the only options?” Jimin asks.
“Because I’m a man of taste.”
They get up, stretching, moving like they’re already vibrating with pre-party adrenaline. Jungkook trails behind, helmet in one hand, unread messages buzzing in his pocket.
He doesn’t look back.
He doesn’t notice the girl from the quad still sitting under the tree, book open, eyes half-lifted just as he passes.
He doesn't know her name.
Not yet.
The Pit is already pulsing when you arrive.
Bass thumps under your feet before you even step inside — not just music, but vibration, like the building itself is alive and slightly pissed off. The air smells like tequila, cheap perfume, and those weird vanilla vapes everyone insists are “barely noticeable.” Spoiler: they are very noticeable.
You stop just inside the doorway, blinking.
The party is absolutely unhinged.
There are blacklights everywhere — mounted on the rafters, strung across the ceilings, probably duct-taped to questionable surfaces. Someone’s set up an old confessional booth near the far wall, graffitied and backlit in red. A girl in a rhinestone halo is taking selfies in front of it while a guy dressed as a fallen angel — shirt unbuttoned to nowhere — does a keg stand behind her.
Above it all, a massive banner reads:
SINS & SAINTS: ENTER IF YOU DARE.
...which feels both deeply dramatic and deeply accurate.
There are actual cages suspended from the ceiling — only waist-high, like glorified birdcages, but still. One of them has a guy in white mesh pants swinging in it like it’s Cirque du Soleil. He howls something about forgiveness. No one knows what’s going on.
You take all of this in with wide eyes.
“Okay,” you say slowly, “what the hell.”
“I TOLD YOU,” Yanni shouts over the music, eyes lit up like a kid on Halloween. “They WENT OFF this year!”
“They should be arrested,” you mutter.
Jenna laughs beside you, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I feel like I just walked into the end of the world but make it horny.”
Yanni is wearing a sheer black top over a bralette made entirely of tiny silver crosses, her eyeliner winged out to her temples. Her skirt is so short it might be a threat to public safety.
Jenna went full Saint — white silk slip dress, little feathery halo bobbing over her curls, but with Doc Martens that say she’d still throw hands in the bathroom line.
And then there’s you.
You’d protested the theme all afternoon, but eventually gave in. You’re wearing ripped black jeans, a mesh top over a tank, and a red ribbon choker Yanni tied on you with too much enthusiasm. You didn’t go all-out like them, but you’re here. You showed up. That’s saying something.
Yanni loops her arm through yours and yells, “I swear to God, if I don’t end up in a cage by midnight, I’m suing.”
“They have cages, Yanni,” you say, scandalized. “That’s not normal.”
“I’m not normal,” she grins.
“That’s not comforting!”
You’re halfway toward the drink table when a blur of movement passes you — a guy in a leather jacket, dark hair, jaw like a hate crime. You don’t get a good look, just the impression of tattoos, combat boots, and a casual arrogance like he’s got the party rigged in his favor.
You turn back to the drinks.
Jenna, meanwhile, is adjusting her halo in her phone’s camera. “Okay, I’m thinking I make out with someone with wings. That’s my only rule.”
“Are they required to earn them first?” you ask.
“No, they just have to not be annoying.”
“So… no one here, basically,” you deadpan.
Yanni dumps some suspicious jungle juice into a cup and hands it to you. “Drink. Or at least pretend to. You’re giving off ‘I’m only here for field research’ energy.”
You take a sip and grimace. “This tastes like Hawaiian Punch and college debt.”
“Exactly,” Jenna says. “We’re setting the tone.”
You pass by a hallway draped in red curtains — probably where the Seven Minutes game is happening. Someone stumbles out with smeared lipstick and a dazed smile.
“Oh my god,” you say. “This is summer camp. This is hot, humid, horny summer camp.”
Yanni beams. “A dream come true.”
You’re halfway across the room when you bump into someone — solid chest, sharp elbows. You step back, muttering, “Sorry,” but the guy’s already moving, weaving through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times.
Again, you don’t get a good look.
Again, you feel that flicker — like something important just brushed past you.
“Who was that?” you ask, mostly to yourself.
Jenna squints after him. “I don’t know. Pretty sure he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad though.”
You shake it off.
This night is too much already — too loud, too crowded, too… Jungkook-shaped. And you’re not here for that. You’re here to survive, observe, and possibly rescue your friends from questionable decisions.
So far, you’re one-for-three.
Yanni grabs your arm. “Okay. I’ve spotted three girls from my art class, two guys I ghosted, and a literal priest costume. Where are the drinks that don’t taste like regret?”
“There are none,” you say. “We are the drinks that taste like regret.”
Jenna raises her cup like a toast. “To sinning responsibly.”
“To surviving this chaos,” you mutter, sipping again.
And across the room, under strobing lights and smoke machine haze, Jungkook leans against the wall near the DJ booth, scanning the crowd.
His eyes flick right past you.
Just a blur of black mesh, red ribbon, and glittering annoyance.
He doesn’t even register it.
But something in him shifts — like he knows he’s missing something. Or someone.
He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, lifts his drink, and watches the crowd move like waves around him.
You’re both here.
You’re both waiting.
You just don’t know it yet.
Jungkook leans against the wall like he’s not trying.
He isn’t.
He’s dressed in all black — ripped jeans, oversized button-down left open over a tank, silver chains catching just enough light to look intentional. His boots are scuffed from the bike ride over, and he hasn't even bothered to fix the strands of hair falling into his eyes.
Still, people look.
People always look.
The Pit is packed. The lights strobe like they’re malfunctioning, bodies moving in all directions, glitter and sweat and wings everywhere. The blacklight catches on teeth, neon paint, the rims of Solo cups. Music throbs like a second heartbeat, drowning out anything that sounds like common sense.
Jungkook watches it all unfold with the calm detachment of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
Which, to be fair, he has.
“Cages,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Really.”
Taehyung reappears at his side, holding two drinks and no sense of subtlety. “You say that like you’re not impressed.”
“I’m not not impressed,” Jungkook says, eyeing a girl in LED horns who’s currently being hoisted into one of the hanging cages by two frat boys in priest collars. “I’m just wondering if this place passed fire code.”
Jimin sidles up on the other side, chewing gum like a menace. “God, I love when everyone’s desperate and underdressed. The vibe tonight is filthy.”
“It’s not a vibe,” Jungkook says, deadpan. “It’s a liability.”
“You’re just mad because you haven’t been recognized by someone hot yet.”
“I literally got here three minutes ago.”
“That’s three whole minutes too long, lover boy.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling faintly.
He scans the room again, letting the visuals wash over him: angel wings, devil horns, fake blood, fake rosaries, someone with a real sword (???), a couple making out aggressively near the “Confess Here” booth. Typical Pit energy, just turned up to eleven.
His gaze passes over a trio near the drink table — glitter, halos, fishnets — then slides away again, uninterested.
Then—
No.
He pauses.
Barely.
There’s a girl in black mesh, red ribbon tight around her throat.
Not the type trying to be seen. Not the type posing or pouting or clinging to someone’s arm. Just… there. Head tilted. Brows drawn. Like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.
She’s not looking at him.
He doesn’t know why he notices.
Something about the way she holds herself — casual, a little stiff. Like she showed up for the party but didn’t want to. Like she’s in it, but not of it. It’s a detail, but he’s always been good at catching those.
He’s pretty sure he’s seen her before.
Class maybe? One of the early ones, back when he still showed up?
He narrows his eyes. Something tickles the back of his mind — a row of seats, a laptop screen, a girl who never once looked his way even when he was late and loud and trying not to be noticed by a professor.
He’d filed it away as nothing.
And maybe it still is.
He watches her for one more second — how she crinkles her nose at the drink in her hand, how her friend with the silver cross top yells something and throws her head back laughing.
Then someone claps a hand on his shoulder, and the moment breaks.
“Hyung,” a guy shouts over the music — some junior he’s barely talked to — “the Seven Minutes room is right there. You better hope someone sins you into the closet.”
“I’m good,” Jungkook says without missing a beat.
“You sure?” the guy winks. “Heard even the quiet girls are wild tonight.”
Taehyung lets out an ungodly laugh.
Jimin fans himself. “God, I love this place.”
Jungkook exhales slowly and glances back toward the girl in the mesh top, the one he maybe-kinda remembers from Media Studies.
She’s walking away now, swallowed by bodies and wings and fog machine haze.
And just like that, she’s gone again
SINS & SAINTS
10:47 PM — The Pit
You’re halfway through your second regrettable drink — something red and radioactive that tastes like melted cherry Jolly Ranchers and lies — when you realize:
Jenna is gone.
Not lost in the crowd gone. Not hooked up with some guy in a halo gone.
Like, vanished.
You scan the sea of limbs and glitter, the swirling blacklights and wall-to-wall bass drops.
No halo. No white silk dress. No Doc Martens stomping some poor frat guy’s foot for getting handsy.
“Wait,” you say, turning to Yanni. “Where’s Jenna?”
Yanni’s still dancing, holding her drink above her head and vibing to something bass-heavy. She doesn’t hear you.
You poke her side. “Yanni. Where. Is. Jenna.”
She freezes, eyes scanning the room with the same dawning horror you’re feeling.
“Oh my god,” she says, gripping your arm. “She was just here.”
“She was literally next to us two minutes ago.”
“She does this sometimes,” Yanni says, frowning. “Remember Halloween? She disappeared for an hour and came back with a matching tattoo with a guy named Car Battery.”
“That was ONE time,” you groan. “And she still won’t tell us where the tattoo is.”
Yanni downs the rest of her drink like it’s going to give her psychic powers. “Okay, we split up. You check the front half, near the drinks. I’ll do a lap by the DJ booth. Scream if she’s in a cage.”
“Or if you end up in one,” you mutter.
She kisses your cheek and takes off, glitter trailing in her wake.
You push through the crowd, slipping past a group of devils grinding to a slowed-down Britney remix, dodging a couple who are definitely fighting and definitely still holding hands.
You pause near the drink station again, heart thumping a little harder than it should.
Still no Jenna.
Just more suspicious liquids in plastic cups and a guy pouring straight vodka into a Capri Sun.
Then—
“Y/N!”
You whip around just as Yanni reappears, hair a little more disheveled, glitter smudged under one eye like war paint.
“I found her,” she pants, grabbing your hand. “You’re not gonna believe where she is.”
“Dead in a bathtub?”
“No.”
“In a cage?”
“Worse.”
“Yanni—”
“She’s at the Seven Minutes in Heaven room.”
You blink. “You’re lying.”
“I swear on my third ex’s face tattoo.”
You let her drag you toward the back hallway — the one that’s been curtained off with red velvet and glowing like Satan’s waiting room. A line snakes down the corridor, people laughing and hollering and shoving toward a closet door guarded by two dudes in fake pope robes.
You round the corner and — yup.
There’s Jenna.
Sitting on a stool like royalty, halo tilted sideways, red Solo cup in hand, absolutely thriving.
She’s laughing, clapping, cheering as two strangers stumble out of the closet, sweaty and flushed and looking either victorious or traumatized. Probably both.
You stop in your tracks. “She’s a ringmaster.”
“She’s drunk on power,” Yanni adds, mouth open.
Jenna spots you both and waves like you’re long-lost war heroes.
“MY GIRLS!!” she yells. “You made it!!”
“You left us,” you shoot back.
She shrugs like that’s a problem for another timeline. “I was recruited.”
“What does that even mean?”
“They needed a hostess! I’m very charming!”
Yanni sighs. “This is how cults start.”
Before you can pry her off the stool, someone shouts, “NEXT UP!” and the line shoves forward. A girl pulls her own roommate in by the arm, both of them shrieking as the door slams shut behind them.
You look at Jenna. “This is out of control. We’re leaving.”
“Not until you try it!”
“Absolutely not.”
Yanni laughs. “Let’s just grab her and go—”
But the line moves again, someone shoves forward, and suddenly—
Everything goes wrong at once.
Hands. Shouting. Laughter. Some guy yells, “MAKE ROOM!”
You’re trying to yank Jenna off her unofficial throne, still yelling about how this is not how a party should go, when chaos breaks loose.
Someone shoves the line.
A drink spills.
People are yelling.
The couple in front of the closet stumbles out like they’ve just done three laps around a football field.
You try to back away — but too late.
Hands shove you forward. “Next up!”
Yanni screams, “Wait, she’s not playing!”
“I’m not playing!” you yell, too.
Doesn’t matter. The crowd’s already decided.
The closet door swings open.
You get pushed inside — completely alone.
Click.
The door slams shut behind you. Darkness swallows everything.
You stumble, trip over a shoe or someone’s forgotten dignity, and land against the back wall, trying to breathe.
“Oh my god,” you mutter. “Oh my god. I’m gonna die in here. This is it. I’m gonna be found in a party closet.”
You fumble toward the doorknob, already plotting your escape—
And then the door opens again.
A warm body stumbles in, tall and solid and smelling unfairly good — like cedarwood, clean laundry, and a bad idea.
The door slams shut again.
Across the party, Jungkook is just trying to find a bathroom that doesn’t reek of four Loko and sin.
He’s halfway through a hallway that looks suspiciously off-limits when someone calls his name.
“Jeon Jungkook!”
He turns.
It’s some girl he barely knows. She’s got lipstick on her teeth and one shoe in her hand.
“Come ON,” she says, “we need more hot people for the closet game. You’ll save this party. I swear.”
He blinks. “I’m not doing that.”
“Too late!” she says, grabbing his arm with terrifying strength. “Come on, it’ll be funny! You’re hot and mysterious and your face should be illegal.”
“I’m going to sue this entire building,” Jungkook mutters, but the girl is already dragging him.
He doesn’t know why he lets her.
Maybe he’s bored. Maybe he doesn’t care.
Maybe it’s because this party has reached new heights of ridiculous and he needs a story to make it worth the hangover.
They reach the red curtain. The line parts.
You don’t know who you hate more — Jenna for signing a blood pact with the party demons, or the crowd for shoving you into this glorified coat coffin like it’s part of the plan.
You've been in here for maybe a minute. Two tops. But time moves differently when you’re trapped in darkness, breathing the humid remains of other people’s bad decisions.
It’s cramped. It smells like body spray and spilled White Claw. The door has no handle from the inside. And you're about to start monologuing to the ceiling when—
The door opens again.
You freeze. “Wait—”
A guy stumbles in. Tall, broad-shouldered, all dressed in black with just enough chain action to suggest this person owns at least one motorcycle and zero alarm clocks.
You recognize him in an instant — because your subconscious hates you and made sure to memorize that face like it was an exam topic.
Jeon Jungkook.
He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy brushing off whoever just shoved him in.
“Okay, okay—Jesus. Don’t break my arm,” he mutters. Then, to the closet, “Sorry, whoever you are. I’m not here voluntarily.”
You don't say anything.
He finally glances your way.
A pause.
“…Huh.”
You cross your arms. “Not who you were expecting?”
“Not even close,” he says, like it’s a compliment and a complaint in one.
The door slams behind him. The lock clicks.
Now it’s just you. Him. Darkness. And a six-inch gap of air between you that’s slowly shrinking the longer you try not to acknowledge how small this closet actually is.
Jungkook shifts, probably trying to give you space, which is hilarious because there is none.
“Look,” you say, “I’m only in here because someone shoved me.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Cool. So neither of us is having fun.”
“Yet,” he says, too easily.
You narrow your eyes, not that he can see it. “You really think that line works on girls in closets?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”
You make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Okay, no. You’re not allowed to be hot and full of shit.”
“Not full of shit,” he says. “Mildly irritating at most.”
“Mildly?”
He leans back against the wall. “Okay, moderately. Maybe.”
“Glad we agree.”
You try to shift your weight without brushing against him, which fails, because there’s nowhere to move. Your elbow bumps his arm. Your knee grazes his boot.
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’m putting you on a movement ban.”
“Excuse me?”
“You keep flailing around like that, I’m gonna get accused of starting something in here.”
“You are starting something. With your whole… vibe.”
He grins. “My vibe?”
“Yeah, the ‘mysterious party menace’ thing.”
“Didn’t realize that was my brand.”
“Oh, come on. You walk into every lecture like you’re arriving late to your own funeral.”
“You know me from lecture?”
Shit.
You freeze.
“I—” You recover, sort of. “I mean, yeah. You’re not exactly hard to notice. Motorcycle helmet? Black hoodie in May? The whole tortured poet aura?”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“No, I—shut up.”
He steps closer, just barely. His voice drops into that annoying, amused register that you suspect makes girls fall in love against their will.
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m trapped. There’s a difference.”
“Still,” he says, tone low, teasing, “you’re very talkative for someone who didn’t want to be in here.”
You suck in a breath. “I’m trying to defuse the awkward tension.”
“Well,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you’re not doing a great job.”
You go still. “…Why?”
“Because if you don’t stop fidgeting and talking at a hundred miles an hour,” he says, voice light but just a little dangerous, “I’m gonna kiss you just to shut you up.”
Your brain whites out.
You forget how to stand.
You definitely forget how to breathe.
You make a noise that could be a laugh, or possibly a system reboot.
“…That’s rude,” you manage.
Jungkook grins. “Is it working?”
You blink at him. Slowly.
“…That’s your solution? Kissing as a silencing tactic?”
Jungkook smirks. “Efficient.”
You squint at him in the dark. “That’s assault with extra steps.”
“Only if it’s not well received.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, shoving lightly at his arm. “You’re actually worse in real life.”
He laughs, like that didn’t wound you at all. “In real life? What, you’ve imagined a better version of me somewhere else?”
You hesitate for half a second too long.
He catches it. Of course he does.
His smile shifts — not smug now, but curious. “Wait. Do I know you?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? You’re acting like you’ve had a whole character arc about me.”
“I just have good observational skills.”
“And a little crush?”
You snort. “Please. I only crush on emotionally available people.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” he says, mock offended. “I just don’t like… people.”
“That’s literally the definition.”
Jungkook moves a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to invade. Like someone stepping past your comfort zone just to prove they can. His voice is quiet, playful.
“Okay, but be honest — if I had kissed you, what would you have done?”
You meet his gaze in the dim light. Your heart does an actual backflip, but your mouth?
Deadpan.
“Bitten you.”
He grins, all teeth. “Kinky.”
You roll your eyes so hard you almost see god. “You are unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
Another beat passes.
The party noise pulses outside. The door shakes once, like someone bumped into it. Neither of you move.
He tilts his head, watching you more carefully now. “So who are you, anyway?”
You blink. “What?”
“You know who I am. Everyone knows who I am, apparently. But I don’t know you.”
You shrug, trying to sound unfazed. “Just a girl in your class.”
“Which class?”
“I’m not telling you.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve seen how your brain works. The second you find out, you’ll start showing up late on purpose to make an entrance.”
He grins, wide and dangerous. “So you have been watching me.”
Damn it.
“That’s not—”
“Obsessed,” he says.
“Oh my god, I’m going to strangle you with one of those dumb chains on your pants.”
“They’re not dumb. They’re functional.”
“For what, exactly? Attaching yourself to reality?”
“Wow,” he says, smiling now like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “You’ve got jokes.”
You glance at the door. “Seven minutes better be almost up.”
“Why?” he asks, voice dipping just slightly. “You scared you’re starting to like me?”
You look back at him. “I’m scared you’re starting to like me.”
That shuts him up for half a second.
Then—
“…Touché.”
There’s a pause. You can hear your own heartbeat in the quiet.
He steps just a little closer. “Okay. Serious question.”
“Unlikely, but sure.”
“Are you always like this?”
You blink. “Like what?”
“This,” he says. “You know—snarky. Quick. Unimpressed. Kind of mean in a fun way.”
You stare at him. “Are you into being bullied?”
“I’m starting to wonder.”
The door bangs open just then, and the light hits both of your faces. You flinch at the sudden glare. Outside, someone yells, “ALRIGHT, CLOSET DWELLERS, TIMES UP!”
Jungkook doesn’t move.
Neither do you.
Finally, he leans a little closer and says under his breath, only loud enough for you to hear:
“You still didn’t tell me your name.”
You raise a brow.
“You didn’t earn it.”
He laughs, and it’s way too genuine. Like he didn’t expect this night to go like this at all — and somehow, that makes two of you.
As you duck out of the closet, brushing past him in the doorway, you hear him murmur:
“I’m gonna find out, you know.”
You throw a look over your shoulder, smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
“Good luck.”
The door flings open.
Air, light, freedom.
You stumble out like someone just dragged you back from the underworld. The world is louder now, messier. Colors sharper. Sounds distorted, like everything’s underwater and also on fire.
Your heart is still pounding.
Your brain? Gone. Missing. Presumed dead.
Your dignity? Filing a police report.
You turn in a daze, blinking through the chaos—and find Yanni, breathless, holding a very giggly and wine-drunk Jenna by the elbow.
“THERE you are!” Yanni yells over the music. “We thought you got kidnapped by the Pit goblins!”
Jenna cackles. “I told her you were probably in the closet making out with a stranger. I WAS RIGHT.”
You blink at them.
Open your mouth.
Immediately close it again.
Yanni frowns. “Wait. Are you okay? You look like you just got hit by a really hot bus.”
You stare at her.
Then—
“I need air. I need, like, seventeen breaths of non-sweaty air. I—do you have water? I think I forgot how to swallow. I forgot—I forgot my name.”
Yanni’s eyes go wide. “Did you actually make out with someone?! Oh my god, who was it? Was he hot? Did he have a tongue ring? Was it that guy with the fake angel wings? Please tell me he had wings.”
“I—no. No wings.”
“Okay, so not a red flag. Good start.”
You grab both of them by the arms and start dragging them away from the closet, feet moving on autopilot. “We need to go. Just—somewhere. Away. Outside. Antarctica. I don’t care.”
Jenna, still loopy from the cocktail she stole from a girl dressed as the Pope, squints at you. “You’re acting weird.”
“Something happened,” you say, voice a little unhinged. “Something catastrophic.”
Yanni gasps. “Did you black out?!”
“No, worse.”
“Did you throw up on someone?!”
“WORSE.”
Yanni pulls you down onto a sagging patio couch under a string of flickering lights. The Pit’s back deck is quieter — only a handful of people out here, laughing or making out or both.
You sit between them, trying to remember how to form human sentences.
Jenna leans her head dramatically on your shoulder. “You definitely kissed someone.”
“I didn’t.”
Yanni narrows her eyes. “You wanted to.”
“I didn’t!”
They both stare at you.
You sigh. Long. Shaky.
Then you say, very quietly, like it might summon him if you say it too loud:
“I was in the closet with Jeon Jungkook.”
.
.
.
Jenna sits up so fast she elbows you in the boob.
Yanni chokes on her drink and coughs, “I’m sorry—WHAT?”
You hold up your hands, like it’ll protect you from the emotional storm about to erupt. “It was an accident! I got pushed in first, and then some drunk idiots shoved him in after me, and then the door locked and we were just there. Together. In the dark. Breathing the same air.”
Jenna is vibrating. “YOU WERE BREATHING JEON JUNGKOOK’S AIR. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GIRLS WOULD PAY FOR THAT EXPERIENCE.”
“I didn’t ask for the experience!”
Yanni grabs your arm, shaking it. “Okay but what happened?! Tell us everything. Did you talk? Did he recognize you? Did you touch his hair? Did he touch you? Did your souls kiss?!”
You stare at her. “What the hell is a soul kiss?”
“Shut up and answer me!!”
You drag your hands down your face. “We talked. He was annoying. And hot. And annoying about being hot. He said if I didn’t stop panicking he was gonna kiss me and I think my nervous system flatlined for like ten seconds.”
Jenna screams. A real one.
Yanni grabs her cup and throws it into a bush just so she can clap. “That’s it. That’s the plot of a Netflix movie. I’m calling a casting director right now.”
“Guys, stop—”
“Did he know who you were?” Jenna asks, eyes wide.
You deflate. “No.”
Yanni freezes.
Jenna gasps like she’s watching a baby deer get hit by a truck.
“He didn’t recognize you?”
You shake your head, slumping into the couch like your spine is giving up. “Not even a little. I told him I was in his class, and he just blinked at me like I was an off-brand yogurt at the back of the fridge.”
“But—but you sit in the second row!”
“Yeah, apparently that’s not enough to pierce through the wall of apathy and leather jackets.”
Jenna is personally offended. “You’ve been thirsting over him for MONTHS.”
“Not out loud!”
“Your search history says otherwise.”
“That was ONE TIME—”
“‘Does Jeon Jungkook have a girlfriend’ is not a casual search, Y/N.”
Yanni throws an arm around your shoulder. “Okay. So. We have a situation.”
You groan. “No, we don’t. The situation is over. I will simply crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone again.”
“OR,” Yanni says, grinning, “we make him fall in love with you.”
You snort. “Hard pass.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I! The guy barely knows what day of the week it is. He didn’t even know my name, and I was two inches from his face.”
Jenna fans herself. “God, I wish I was two inches from his face.”
Yanni is already spiraling into scheming mode. “Okay but hear me out: what if this is your origin story?”
“I don’t need an origin story. I need ice and maybe a lobotomy.”
“You’re gonna end up married to him.”
“I’m gonna end up IN A STRAITJACKET.”
They both lean in at the same time, grinning like devils.
And somewhere inside you — beneath the panic and the humiliation and the complete collapse of your self-esteem — something sparks.
A very tiny, very traitorous thought:
He doesn’t know who I am yet.
But what if he wanted to?
.
.
.
No.
Absolutely not.
You refuse to be delusional.
But still…
You clutch your drink with both hands and whisper to yourself like a prayer:
“…I cannot go back in that closet.”
Jungkook steps out into the warm night air, the noise of the party still thrumming behind him like a heartbeat that’s had too much sugar and zero regard for consequences.
He barely gets two steps out the door before he sees movement near the gate — a blur of color, of bare shoulders and tangled hair and wild, frantic energy.
Her.
The girl from the closet.
She’s running.
Well, not running — but walking very quickly in a way that screams “I just made a horrible decision and I’m trying to disappear into the night like it never happened.”
He watches as she yanks her friends down the sidewalk, arms waving, words too far away to make out. One of them glances back at the house, laughing. The other throws her arm around the girl’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her from disintegrating.
Jungkook can’t hear them. Can’t read their lips.
But he doesn’t need to.
He’s seen that look before.
People don’t leave parties like that unless something got to them.
And apparently… that something was him.
He watches them disappear around the corner. The wind shifts, warm and sweet and heavy with the scent of grass and spilled vodka.
Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, the edges of his mouth tugging up, involuntarily.
He doesn’t smile a lot.
But right now?
He’s grinning.
11:18 PM — Inside, Kitchen
He finds Jimin first, leaning against the fridge, sipping from a red cup with glitter smeared across one cheek like someone tried to make out with a rave.
Jungkook walks up, casual as hell. “Hey.”
Jimin lifts a brow. “You’re still vertical. Closet girl didn’t kill you?”
Jungkook leans on the counter beside him, eyes scanning the room lazily. “Nope. She was fun.”
Jimin grins. “Define fun.”
“Annoyed. Loud. Mean. Called me out within the first two minutes.”
“So, your type.”
Jungkook gives him a lazy look. “Do you know who she was?”
Jimin blinks. “You mean you didn’t?”
“No. She said we’re in the same class, but…” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly focused on academics in there.”
Jimin sips his drink, way too amused. “You’re telling me you spent seven minutes pressed up against someone and didn’t bother to ask her name?”
“I didn’t get her name. She wouldn’t give it to me.”
Jimin whistles. “Damn. Girl’s got boundaries.”
Jungkook turns his full attention to him now. “So… do you know her?”
Jimin smiles. Slow. Evil.
“Maybe.”
Jungkook straightens. “What.”
“I mean, I’ve seen her around. Could be anyone.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s an answer adjacent.”
“Jimin.”
Jimin just grins wider, like this is his favorite hobby. “Why? You wanna see her again?”
“No.” Jungkook’s voice is too quick, too defensive. Then: “I just—she seemed familiar.”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
Before Jungkook can retaliate, Taehyung appears, wearing someone else’s sunglasses and holding a plate of mini cupcakes he absolutely did not make.
Jungkook turns to him like salvation. “Tae. Please tell me you know who the girl in the closet was.”
Taehyung pauses, cupcake halfway to his mouth.
Then, slowly, he lowers it and says:
“Ohhhh. You mean the girl with the smart mouth and trust issues?”
“Yes!”
“Yup. Definitely know her.”
“Who is she?!”
Taehyung smiles with all his teeth. “Can’t say.”
Jungkook stares at him.
“What do you mean you can’t say?”
“Non-disclosure agreement.”
“That’s not a real thing!”
“It is now.”
Jungkook throws his hands in the air. “Are you both insane?”
“Yes,” Jimin says, grinning.
“We’re protecting the plot,” Taehyung adds solemnly.
Jungkook blinks. “What plot?”
“The enemies-to-lovers one,” Jimin says, sipping his drink. “You’re in the first act. Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m not—!” Jungkook cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose, then mutters, “You guys are the worst.”
“You’re welcome,” Taehyung says cheerfully.
Jungkook turns, heading for the living room, but Jimin calls after him:
“You really gonna let a girl roast you in a closet and disappear without finding out her name?”
Jungkook doesn’t stop walking.
But he does smirk.
“Of course not.”
11:42 PM — Later, Upstairs Hallway
Jungkook leans against the wall, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. But his head isn’t in it.
He’s thinking about the sound of her voice.
The way she said, “You didn’t earn it.” The way she pushed past him and didn’t look back.
He still doesn’t know her name.
But he’s starting to think he needs to.
Desperately.
You’re early.
Not obnoxiously so, but early enough to get your usual seat — second row, slightly to the left. Close enough to focus, far enough to keep your laptop screen hidden when you’re secretly Googling niche references during class.
You’re wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Hair pulled back. Glasses on.
A normal girl living a normal life, unbothered and deeply uninterested in emotionally reckless men with perfect jawlines and leather jackets. You are zen.
You are healed.
...You are lying to yourself.
Your leg has been bouncing under the desk for a solid five minutes. You haven’t even opened your laptop. You’re just staring at the professor’s slides like they personally betrayed you.
And then—
The door opens.
You hear it before you see it. That faint creak of poorly oiled hinges and the collective inhale of every girl in the room.
You don’t turn around.
You don’t have to.
You know it’s him.
Because everyone in a ten-foot radius straightens like they’re about to be graded on posture. There’s a flutter of lip gloss applications. Someone actually whispers his name.
You pretend to be deeply focused on the “Media Ethics and Digital Responsibility” slide.
Jeon Jungkook walks in. On time.
The professor blinks like he’s hallucinating. “Huh. Welcome, Mr. Jeon. Look at you.”
Jungkook just nods, loose and casual, but you can feel it.
He’s different today.
He doesn’t do his usual routine — no airpods, no gum chewing, no half-lidded stroll like he’s walking into a photoshoot instead of a lecture.
No, this time… he’s scanning.
Not in a weird way. Just—calculated.
Eyes moving across each row like he’s checking a list in his head.
Looking for something.
Someone.
Your stomach tightens.
And then—
His gaze glides right past you.
Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flicker.
Nothing.
He slides into a seat a few rows back, drops his bag, and leans back like he didn’t just steamroll your entire emotional ecosystem last night.
You blink at your screen.
Wow.
Okay.
Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.
So he just… forgot you existed? Already?
You tell yourself it’s a good thing. That you’re off the hook.
But still—
Your phone vibrates in your lap.
Then again.
And again.
You glance down.
YANNI [9:57AM] FIND US AFTER CLASS
JENNA [9:57AM] LIKE IMMEDIATELY
YANNI [9:58AM] BIG. SHIT. IS. HAPPENING.
YANNI [9:58AM] HUGE.
JENNA [9:58AM] YOU MIGHT BE FAMOUS
You: 🙃
11:07AM — Campus Library, Third Floor (aka Gossip HQ)
You find them between the graphic novel section and the fake potted plant that hides the worst Wi-Fi signal on campus.
Yanni is pacing. Jenna is sitting on the floor with a laptop open, half a croissant in her mouth and murder in her eyes.
“FINALLY,” Yanni breathes, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down beside her.
“What is happening?” you whisper. “Did someone die?”
“YOU might,” Jenna says around a bite. “From cardiac arrest.”
You blink. “Why?”
Yanni flips her phone around.
It’s an Instagram story. Jungkook’s account. You recognize the handle from your extremely short-lived stalking phase.
The video is short. A dim hallway, flashing lights, the thump of party music in the background.
Text overlaid:
"7 minutes wasn’t long enough. If you know who she is… tell her." 👀🖤
Your heart stops.
You stare at the screen like it might explode.
“Wha—”
“He’s looking for you,” Yanni whispers, eyes wild.
“He’s trying to CROWD-SOURCE you,” Jenna adds. “LIKE A MISSING PERSON.”
You genuinely don’t know what to do with your hands. “I—I don’t even have Instagram. I didn’t see this.”
“Well, now the entire internet has,” Yanni says, scrolling through dozens of replies and reshared stories. “People are putting up theories. One girl swears it was her and her friends are backing her up.”
You feel a little sick.
“I—he doesn’t even remember me.”
“He does now.”
Before you can spiral further, a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Aha. Found you.”
You whip around.
Taehyung and Jimin are approaching, looking like they just stepped out of a K-drama fight scene. Jimin is in an oversized hoodie and glasses, sipping from a matcha latte. Taehyung is holding a leather-bound journal like it’s a prop.
“Oh my god,” Yanni whispers, straightening like she’s about to present a thesis.
Jimin nods at you. “Closet girl.”
Taehyung gasps. “I knew it!”
You slap both hands over your face. “I am going to dissolve into the carpet.”
Jimin flops down next to you. “You’re literally a phenomenon.”
“I don’t want to be a phenomenon! I want to be anonymous.”
“Too late,” Taehyung sing-songs. “He’s obsessed.”
“He’s not—”
Jimin cuts you off. “He made us look through the security footage of the Pit to try and find you.”
You blink. “There’s security footage?!”
“That’s not the point.”
Yanni claps like she’s been waiting for this all her life. “Okay, okay, okay. NEW PLAN.”
Jenna nods. “Mission: Keep Her Hidden.”
You snap your head to look at him. “Wait, what—?”
“We cannot let him find you too easily. The mystery is part of the power.” Yanni explained, a smile that was a little too enthusiastic spreading across her face.
“She’s right.” Jimin chimed in.
You blink between them all, a growing sense of terror blooming in your chest.
“I feel like I’m in a YA novel.”
Taehyung beams. “You are. And it’s about to get so much worse.”
If Jungkook knew his Instagram story would cause an actual phenomenon, he would’ve thrown his phone in the nearest sewer.
He’s seated on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out, black boots dusted with dry grass. Sunglasses perched on his head, arms crossed, regret pouring off of him in waves.
There is a line.
A real, breathing, giggling line of girls waiting to speak to him.
“I swear,” the third one in a row says, flipping her hair, “it was me. I had this red tank top on—”
“You weren’t wearing red,” Jungkook says flatly, not even looking up.
She blinks. “You remember that?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately.”
She pouts, tosses her hair again, and walks off.
The next girl steps forward with more confidence than he’s emotionally prepared to deal with.
“Hey,” she says, batting her lashes. “So, I was totally gonna come up to you last night, but I got pulled into beer pong, and—”
“Not you either,” he says, already tired.
Behind him, Jimin is sprawled on the grass like a cat in the sun, sipping iced coffee and watching the chaos like it’s live theater.
“I don’t know, man,” he says. “Closet Girl’s starting to sound like a fever dream.”
“She was real,” Jungkook mutters.
Taehyung, perched dramatically on the fountain’s edge, hums. “This feels like a modern fairy tale. Only instead of a glass slipper, she left behind unresolved sexual tension and a mild existential crisis.”
Jungkook doesn’t respond. Just drags a hand down his face.
“You know,” Jimin adds, “you could just let her go. Move on. Forget it happened.”
Jungkook stares at him like he’s just suggested licking a subway pole.
“I mean it,” Jimin continues. “Is this really worth it?”
Jungkook leans back, letting the sun hit his face.
And after a pause, he says:
“…She was funny.”
Taehyung blinks. “Funny?”
“She was… sharp. Gave me shit. Told me I didn’t earn the right to flirt with her.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just… real.”
Jimin and Taehyung exchange a look.
But before either can respond—
“Hey, Jeon.”
They all glance up.
A girl in a glittery top and too-high heels struts up like she’s approaching a casting call.
“I was wearing angel wings last night,” she purrs.
“Congratulations,” Jungkook says dryly.
“I think I’m the girl you’re looking for.”
“You’re not.”
“How would you know?”
Jungkook blinks slowly. “Because I just would.”
She scoffs and storms off, muttering something about him not being that hot anyway.
Jimin snorts. “The delusion is wild today.”
Taehyung raises his brows. “You know, you did make her a mystery. People love a good mystery.”
“I hate this mystery,” Jungkook mutters.
And then—
Taehyung straightens suddenly.
“Oh,” he says, too casually. “There she goes.”
Jungkook’s eyes snap up.
“What?!”
“She’s walking past,” Jimin adds, barely containing his grin.
Jungkook jumps to his feet, scanning the path just ahead of them.
He sees a group of students. A couple laughing. A guy with a skateboard. A girl in a floral skirt. Another in an oversized sweater.
But no one familiar.
No her.
“Where?” he demands, turning back to them.
Taehyung just shrugs, biting back a smile. “Hm. Maybe she slipped away again.”
Jimin’s grinning like the devil. “So mysterious.”
Jungkook stares at them.
And then slowly, slowly, sits back down, glaring at nothing.
“I hate you both.”
“You’re welcome,” Jimin says cheerfully.
Meanwhile — You, Just 20 Feet Away
You’re clutching a smoothie and telling Jenna that you swear to God if Yanni says the words “power move” one more time, you’re going to commit a crime.
You do not see Jungkook.
You do not see the crowd of girls.
You do not see your entire romantic fate spiraling out in a perfect storm of timing, ego, and extremely bad luck.
But you do hear Yanni’s voice crackling through your group chat ten seconds later:
YANNI [12:43PM] HE’S OUTSIDE RN. WALKING DISTANCE. I REPEAT: JEON JUNGKOOK IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE.
You pause. Look up.
“…The universe is playing games with me,” you mutter.
Jenna just takes your smoothie and sips like it’s none of her business. “Welcome to Act Two.”
Three Days Later – 12:19PM Campus Lawn, under the shade of an old oak tree
Yanni is dramatically slicing into her overpriced salad like it’s personally offended her.
“I swear to God,” she says, spearing a piece of lettuce, “if she doesn’t just tell him soon, I’m going to combust.”
“She doesn’t even want him to know!” Jenna laughs, peeling the wrapper off her sandwich. “She’s surviving off vibes and secondhand embarrassment.”
Across from them, lounging on the grass, Jimin snorts into his iced chai. “Honestly, mood.”
Taehyung is lying flat on his back, sunglasses on, using Jimin’s thigh as a pillow and holding his phone above his face like it’s too exhausting to lift it further.
“It’s better this way,” he hums. “Mystery. Intrigue. Emotional damage.”
Yanni points at him with her fork. “See? That’s the energy we’re all riding on.”
“I don’t know how she hasn’t just imploded,” Jenna says, sipping her drink. “She had a panic attack in the psych building bathroom yesterday because someone said Jungkook's name too loud.”
Taehyung laughs. “That could’ve been anyone.”
“No,” Yanni corrects. “She knew exactly how he said it. Deep voice. Tiny rasp. A little pouty. ‘Jungkook.’” She mimics it, exaggerated and ridiculous.
Jimin wheezes.
Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, turning to the girls with mock-serious eyes. “You guys are evil.”
“Thank you,” Yanni says, deadpan.
And then—
“You’re evil,” comes a familiar, slightly exasperated voice behind them.
All four turn.
Jeon Jungkook walks up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, black jeans, silver chain catching the sunlight.
He looks… tired.
Not in a tragic way. More like haunted by the choices that led him to this exact moment.
Taehyung lifts two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Ah. The lover boy returns.”
Jimin just grins like Christmas came early. “How’s your army of imposters?”
Jungkook drops onto the grass with a groan. “Still growing. I got ambushed by three more girls outside the business building this morning.”
“Business building girls,” Jimin mutters. “That’s a bold demographic.”
“She said she left her earring in the closet with me,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his hair. “She was wearing cat ears.”
“Oh no,” Jenna whispers behind a laugh.
Yanni coughs into her drink.
Jungkook narrows his eyes at them. “Do I know you two?”
“Nope,” Yanni says, biting into a cherry tomato. “Just enjoying the show.”
Jenna shrugs, fighting a grin. “Free entertainment.”
Taehyung watches them both like he’s just realized something.
Jungkook leans back on his palms, legs stretched out, expression a mix of exhaustion and suspicion. “You guys ever regret making me post that?”
Jimin doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”
“I knew this would happen,” Jungkook mutters.
“You didn’t know people would create full conspiracy boards,” Taehyung points out. “Someone literally mapped out Closet Girl’s shoe print from the party photo.”
“Don’t forget the girl who recreated the closet,” Jimin adds. “Like. Bought a closet. Filmed a fake interaction.”
“God,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing his face. “I’m an idiot.”
He exhales through his nose, still half-distracted, when—
“Well, it’s even funnier,” Jenna says, not quite under her breath, “because she doesn’t even have socials.”
Yanni chokes on her soda.
Jimin and Taehyung both freeze mid-laugh.
And Jungkook—
Whips his head around so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.
“Wait.”
Yanni slaps Jenna’s arm.
Jungkook’s eyes are wide. “You—” He points between them. “You know her?!”
Jenna blinks. “Who?”
“Closet Girl,” Jungkook says, sharp now, sitting up straighter. “You just said she doesn’t have socials—how would you know that?”
Yanni lifts her cup to her mouth, speaking through her straw. “Could’ve been anyone.”
“But it’s not,” Jungkook says, eyes narrowing. “You know who it is.”
He looks at Taehyung and Jimin like they’ve personally betrayed him. “You said you didn’t know!”
Taehyung holds up his hands, unbothered. “We didn’t say that.”
“Yeah,” Jimin says, already laughing. “We just didn’t say anything helpful.”
Jungkook glares. “You assholes.”
Yanni leans in, chin resting on her hand, absolutely loving this. “Why do you want to find her so bad?”
Jungkook hesitates. Just for a beat.
And then, quieter than expected, he says:
“…Because I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Taehyung blinks.
Jimin’s mouth parts a little.
Yanni and Jenna exchange a look.
“That was almost sweet,” Jenna says.
“Almost,” Yanni echoes.
Jungkook looks at them like he’s debating a crime. “Please. Just give me one clue.”
Jimin just smiles, stretching out on the grass again. “Mmm. No.”
“Not even her name?” Jungkook tries.
Taehyung grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Jungkook scrubs his hands over his face. “You people are evil.”
Yanni smiles sweetly. “We’ve been over this.”
After another beat of sulking, he finally stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans.
“You’re all the worst.”
“We know,” Jimin says, cheerful as ever.
Jungkook sighs, starts walking away—
And turns back around.
“If she ever asks about me—”
“She won’t,” Yanni says.
“Okay, if she does,” he presses, “can you just tell her I’m not as annoying as I seem?”
“No promises,” Jenna says.
He groans again and walks off, muttering something under his breath.
The moment he’s out of earshot, the group erupts.
“THAT,” Jimin says, sitting upright, “WAS TOO CLOSE.”
Yanni fans herself. “I panicked, okay?! I didn’t mean to say it—he just appeared.”
“You almost ruined the whole thing!” Taehyung says gleefully. “But also… he’s losing his mind.”
“And she has no idea,” Jenna adds, grinning.
Jimin leans back with a content sigh. “This is better than television.”
Same Day — 4:42 PM Campus Library — Second Floor
The study area is quieter than usual, with just the occasional cough, a rogue phone vibration, or someone smacking their space bar like it owes them money.
You, Yanni, and Jenna are huddled around your usual table — highlighters scattered, tabs open, coffees half-melted. It’s productive chaos. Or it was, until Jenna froze mid-sentence.
“...Don’t look now,” she says, voice already breathless with suppressed panic, “but Jungkook and his friends just walked in.”
Your soul immediately ejects from your body.
“WHERE—”
“Don’t look,” Yanni hisses, stabbing her pen in warning. “You’ll give us away.”
You stare down at your laptop like you’re trying to astral project into it.
Footsteps shuffle closer, closer—
And then.
They sit at the table directly behind you.
Your chair is now back-to-back with Jungkook’s.
There is a shared inch of air between you.
You can feel the heat off his stupid, beautiful, back-in-black hoodie.
Jenna mouths OH MY GOD. Yanni is gripping her iced latte like she’s about to squeeze it into mist.
Across from Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung sit — and the moment they spot Yanni and Jenna?
They grin.
Smug. Pleased. Silent little devils.
Not a word — not a wave — just the occasional flicker of laughter and shared glances while you sit there about to spontaneously combust.
“I swear to god,” Jungkook says behind you, low and miserable, “if one more girl corners me between classes and asks if I like strawberry lip gloss, I’m dropping out.”
“She had a presentation,” Jimin offers. “She brought visual aids.”
“She brought a poster board,” Jungkook groans. “With a QR code to her TikTok.”
“Impressive,” Taehyung hums.
Jungkook thumps his head gently on the table. “I just wanted to meet her. One girl. Now I can’t go to class without hearing someone yell ‘closet king’ at me.”
Yanni chokes into her drink.
You’re doing breathing exercises you learned in a freshman wellness seminar.
They are not working.
“I hate all of you,” Jungkook mutters. “You said you’d help.”
“I did help,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious.
“You gave me nothing.”
“False,” Taehyung says, adjusting his sunglasses indoors like a menace. “We gave you... ✨context✨.”
Jungkook scoffs. “No. You gave me trauma.”
There’s a pause. Then, Jimin goes, “Fine. Want another clue?”
You tense so hard your back pops.
Jenna grabs your thigh under the table.
Yanni is vibrating.
Everyone is vibrating.
“Yes. Something real this time.”
“...She has elbows.”
There’s a pause.
A very long one.
“She has what?” Jungkook asks, flat.
“Elbows,” Taehyung says innocently.
You almost die.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook says slowly, like he's speaking to a small child, “everyone has elbows.”
“Exactly,” Taehyung nods. “She fits right in.”
Jimin is snorting into his hoodie sleeve.
You, meanwhile, are clamping your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.
“Is this a joke to you?” Jungkook asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to suffer?”
“I’m not lying,” Taehyung says, clearly delighted. “She definitely had elbows. Two, even.”
“Wow,” Jungkook deadpans. “A girl with two elbows. I’ll just walk around campus asking people to show me their joints.”
Jimin shrugs. “Could work.”
Your hand is cramping from clutching your pencil so tightly.
Yanni is in physical pain from holding in her laughter.
Jenna scribbles onto her piece of paper, turning it to you.
THEY SAID ELBOWS. I’M LOSING IT.
Jungkook groans behind you, slumping so hard in his chair you feel it through the back of yours. “I’m going insane. I’m actually insane. This is what insanity feels like.”
“And yet,” Taehyung says, completely deadpan, “she walks among us.”
Jimin sips his drink with a smirk. “Right under your nose.”
Behind your screen, you scream silently.
Jenna writes out another message:
RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE. THEY’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.
You’re certain of two things:
You will never emotionally recover from this.
Jungkook is going to need a therapist when he finally figures it out.
And the worst part?
He doesn’t even turn around.
Not once.
He gets up after ten minutes, mumbles something about “going to get gum,” and walks off—shoulders tense, head down, frustration rolling off him in waves.
The second he’s gone, your table explodes.
“I CAN’T,” Jenna whispers, doubled over.
“ELBOWS?!” Yanni wheezes. “HE’S GOING TO BE HAUNTED BY ELBOWS NOW.”
You drop your face into your arms. “If he finds out it was me, I’m changing schools.”
Jenna wipes a tear from her eye. “You’ll be a myth. A cryptid. A legend with joints.”
Taehyung and Jimin?
Still sitting there.
Still smirking.
Still saying nothing.
Later That Night, Jungkook’s Dorm
“I’m not giving up,” Jungkook mutters, scrolling through his DMs.
“What are you even looking for?” Jimin asks from the other bed.
