the wrong sister by @jkwrites-m (angst, smut, royalty au, arranged marriage au, prince!jk, princess!reader, enemies to lovers)
everything in you, pt. 2 by @jjungkookislife (fluff, smut, roommates au, pregnancy au, friends2lovers)
one bed in belize by @stobitproductions (fluff, angst, smut, student!jk, student!reader, classmates au, one bed trope)
bottle up old love by @wintaerbaer (fluff, angst, smut, exes au, exes to lovers)
take my whole life too by @ktheist (fluff, angst, implied smut on verge of actual smut, chaebol au, arranged marriage au, expecting parents au, dad!jk, simp!jk, househusband!jk, heir!reader)
the rookie, pt. 2 by @riaarivic (angst, smut, f1 au, f1racer!jk, raceengineer!reader, slow burn, forbidden romance, rivals to lovers)
it’s hard to believe by @ahgasegotarmy116 (fluff, bestfriend!jk, pregnancy au, friends with benefits, friends to lovers)
miracle of the season by @cybrsan (fluff, angst, smut, angel!jk, fallenangel!reader, angel au, soulmate au, second chance romance)
angel eyes, the honeymoon by @bunnyhugs77 (fluff, angst, patient!jk, hospital romance)
series
fall in love again and again by @euno11a (fluff, angst, office au, slow burn, friends to lovers) - completed
gradation by @shina913 (fluff, angst, smut, best friends to lovers, friends with benefits, slow burn) - completed
the farmhouse by @solecize (fluff, angst, childhoodfriend!jk, cowboy!jk, equestrian!jk, citygirl!reader, small town au, friends to lovers, slice of life) - completed
my love is here by @solemnreads (fluff, angst, smut, bestfriends to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn) - completed
on wings of mist and memories by @colormepurplex2 (fluff, angst, smut, dragonrider!jk, fieldscribe!reader, exiled royalty, high fantasy au, enemies to lovers) - completed
Everything changed the day Amira was born.
The world outside was collapsing — bombs, dust, screams, and fear. Yet inside a small room, by the dim light of a single candle, a new life began.
While others were running for shelter, I was holding my newborn daughter, trembling, crying, trying to believe that something so pure could still exist in a place like Gaza.
I named her Amira, because I wanted her to feel like a child of life —not a child of war.
A year has passed since that night, but nothing has really changed
Our house is still rubble, our streets still carry the smell of smoke, and the sky still echoes with sounds that make Amira flinch in her sleep.
She has just turned one.
She’s learning to walk, holding my finger with her tiny hand, laughing at the smallest things — as if she doesn’t see the destruction around her.
She doesn’t know the word “loss.”
She never met her father, but when she smiles, I see him there.
Sometimes I watch her sleeping, and I wonder what kind of world she will grow up in — whether she will ever know what peace feels like, what home smells like.
And yet, when she opens her eyes in the morning and says “mama,” everything becomes bearable again.
I want to rebuild our home.
Not just for the walls — but for her future.
For Amira to have a small room, a safe place to dream, a life that belongs to her, not to war.
I’m not asking for much. Only for a chance to give her a beginning filled with warmth instead of fear
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
A Mother’s Message
To everyone reading this — thank you for listening to our story.
Your kindness means more than words.
Every share, every message, every donation — it all helps me rebuild not just a house, but a future for Amira.
From the heart of Gaza, from a mother learning to hope again —
we will live. And I will make sure my daughter grows up in a world that knows love more than war.
Omg hi! Some time ago I asked for your help to find a jk fanfic that was in the back of my mind, and today I finally found it!! It's called Cuddle Therapy by itsallaboutthedetails - ao3 just in case you were ever curious
I had to check almost 70 pages of my history all the way back to 2021 when I first read it but it's finally real😭
I want to thank you for taking your time to search it, very happy xoxoooo
⤷ when the world’s most famous quarterback walks into your quiet little library, your heart skips a beat—or maybe two, especially when it’s jungkook, your high school crush. eleven years have passed, but your feeling haven’t faded, not even a little. what you never expected? he felt the same way all along… and now, everything you left unsaid is coming back to the surface.
pairing: dad!jungkook x librarian!fem. reader
genre: friends to lovers, football au, angst, fluff, and smut
rating: 18+
words: 17,152
warnings: jk is kind of coldhearted, mention of breakup, mention of cheating, mention of heartbreak, nervousness, guilt, physical and emotional pain, a tiny bit of jealousy, health issues, mention of drowning, epilepsy, mention of seizures, crying, drowning, description of a seizure, flirting, dirty talking, sexual tension, masturbation, phone sex, mention of sex, nipple play, nipple sucking, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, a bit of spanking, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, doggy style, breeding kink, mention of pregnancy, and mention of cockwarming
author’s note: well, in the end, i still managed to finish this fic for this weekend 😬 most of the fic was already done sooo i’m proud that i could do it ✨ for the first time ever, i’ve put into words what it has been like to navigate life with epilepsy. of course oc has a different background, but in the end, whatever i have been feeling since i’m fourteen has been put there. in any case, i hope you enjoy it & don’t hesitate to let me know what you think 🩵 thanks a lot for all your support 🩵
MASTERLIST
Jungkook grabs tightly the little hand of his five-year-old daughter, Hana, as they walk down the street. A couple of days ago, he promised her to buy some books in the little shop that her teacher advised. Apparently, she read a story that Hana adored, and she wants to have it at home. At least, she wants her dad to have it.
His eyes scan the street, hoping nobody will recognize him under his hat and sunglasses. He rose to fame when he became the hottest quarterback, something he didn’t really ask for, but as long as people leave his daughter alone, he absolutely gives no shit about this madness around him.
His eyes quickly look down at his baby before a smile grows on his face. Being her father is his biggest achievement and a role he absolutely adores. Being around her makes him extremely happy, and for a long time, it compensated for the fact that the relationship with her mother was a complete failure.
Jungkook met Miji, his ex-girlfriend and Hana’s mother, when he joined his current football team. They started dating quickly, but he knew he had never fallen in love with her. But he liked her. She was nice, funny, and caring. They stayed together for a solid six years.
Jungkook believed that he’d stay with her forever—yeah, even though he wasn’t in love with her. Hana joined them four years later, and her arrival made them extremely delighted. However, things began to change slowly when he gained fame. Miji wasn’t handling it very well.
For a while, he believed that she just needed time, but things got absolutely nasty. Living in the city was slowly suffocating her. People were jealous of her and were not being super nice to her. She wanted to move out, which they did. But it didn’t help. She clearly didn’t want to be in the relationship anymore.
Instead of leaving him and breaking up in a ‘correct’ way, she decided to cheat on him with her best friend. It was ugly, and Jungkook was hurt. He wasn’t really heartbroken, but it doesn’t erase the pain that cheating brings.
After the breakup, things got even messier. She kept the house; her best friend moved in, she asked for full custody of Hana, and for money because she couldn’t afford Hana’s upbringing. Jungkook didn’t give in. He refused to give her anything, and even less his daughter’s custody.
So now they share her custody, and he doesn’t give anything to Miji. The saddest part is that Hana hates being with her mother. She doesn’t like her new boyfriend and cries every time she has to go to her mother’s house. It devastates him, but he can’t do anything.
As he pushes open the library’s door, he gently lets his little princess step inside first. He follows, closing softly the door behind them. The moment he sets foot inside, his heart stops beating for a second before pounding with a force he hasn’t felt in years. It’s like the world completely vanished around him. It feels like he’s seventeen again.
You’re there.
You’re standing there, looking for a book on the shelves while you’re joyfully talking with someone else, completely unaware of him. The sound of your voice pulls him in before his eyes do. His gaze lingers, drinking you in.
You’re wearing a blue floral dress with a beautiful pair of grey sandals. A few silver rings catch the light. And then, his chest tightens. You’re still wearing the bracelet. The one he gave you before one of your big competitions, meant to be your lucky charm. Maybe it still is. Maybe it never was.
You haven’t seen him yet, too caught up in your conversation with the woman next to you. Deep down, he is grateful. He needs a moment to just look at you, to take in how much you’ve changed, and how much you haven’t.
“Daddy,” a small voice tugs him back.
He looks down. Hana is clutching his shorts, eyes wide and expectant.
“Yes, boo,” he murmurs, forcing his eyes away from you. “Let’s go find that book.”
She offers him the brightest smile on earth before they both walk inside. Jungkook removes his sunglasses before they begin walking together toward the kids’ section, his hand wrapped protectively around hers, but his heart is still pounding with every step that brings him closer to you.
As they walk, Jungkook keeps glancing in your direction. He’s not sure why his hands are clammy, or why his chest aches in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Maybe it’s because for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all.
You’re still you. The same softness in your voice. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking. And that bracelet. The one he bought for you in secret because he couldn’t find the courage to tell you how much you meant to him.
He never imagined you’d still be wearing it.
His fingers twitch at the memory of that day, handing it to you awkwardly, pretending it was nothing, just a good-luck charm. But it wasn’t. It was everything he didn’t dare to say out loud.
Then, you look up.
At first, you think that it’s just your imagination, but when you hear him talking to the little girl next to him, you know it’s him. For a second, you freeze. Your breath hitches. That jawline. That smile. That voice.
It can’t be.
But then he speaks again—soft, tender—and the warmth of recognition spreads through you like sunlight through glass. It’s him. It’s really him.
Jungkook.
Your heart lurches in your chest. Not just because he’s here, standing in your library like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world, but because he hasn’t changed. Or maybe he has, but the way you feel when you see him, that hasn’t. Not even a little.
He’s holding a little girl’s hand. His daughter, maybe? You swallow hard, unsure what to do with the storm of emotions building inside you: joy, fear, longing, and the familiar ache of everything you never said.
You don’t really listen to the woman next to you. She’s far gone now, and you don’t even feel sorry about it.
Jungkook is literally standing in your library and not in the billboard in front of the library, abs on full display for that Calvin Klein advert. Honestly, it was hard to see him every day for a month. It was a constant reminder of the massive crush you had on him at seventeen.
Suddenly, he turns around, his eyes meeting yours.
At first, you think that he probably doesn’t recognize you, and you wouldn’t blame him for that. It’s been eleven years since you last saw each other. However, he starts walking in your direction, his hands pressed behind the little girl’s head, inviting her to follow him.
Your heart beats crazily inside your chest, wondering if he has, in fact, recognized you or if he’s going to ask for a book.
He stops in front of you, a smile spreading across his face before his sweet voice reaches your ears.
“Yn,” his honey-like voice says. “It’s been a long time.”
Honestly, you don’t really know what to reply to him. He still looks like he was handcrafted by god himself, but somehow, he got even better. His body has become even broader than before, which you didn’t think was possible.
Of course, you noticed it on the Calvin Klein ad, but seeing it in real life is completely different.
His shoulders have expanded in an impossible way, his arm is fully hidden behind tattoos, and his black t-shirt can’t even hide his toned chest. Well, for sure, being a quarterback is responsible for this change, but it’s incredible.
However, the one thing that hasn’t changed after all this time is his big doe eyes. They can still make you melt—as they also do with any other girl.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he adds.
Well, you too. And you never pictured your reunion in your own library. This was the last place on earth you’d imagine to find him. You can still remember how much he hated to read. He’d always ask you to summarize the books you needed to read at school.
“Me neither,” you reply.
Your eyes drop down to the little girl standing beside him. She looks exactly like him. There’s no doubt she’s his daughter. It was no secret that he became a father long before fame hit. He always likes to bring it up in interviews. And according to most women, he is the hottest dilf to ever walk the face of the earth.
And well, you couldn’t agree more with them.
Jungkook notices when you look down at his daughter. A smile grows on his face because he has always dreamt of introducing her to you. He always hoped that this day would happen.
“This is Hana, my daughter,” he says, his gaze shifting from you to his daughter. “And Hana, this is yn, an old friend.”
She stretches her small hand out towards you.
“Nice to meet you,” she says with a bright smile on her face.
You decide to drop down to her level. It startles you how much she takes after her father. It’s like you’re looking at a mini female version of Jungkook. It’s absolutely mind-blowing, but it only makes her even more adorable.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Hana,” you reply before hugging her.
Honestly, you always adored kids, and you’ve secretly dreamt of having children of your own. And whenever a child steps inside your library, you always take the time to interact with them—even sometimes, hugging them. Now, Hana is entitled to have a hug because she’s Jungkook’s daughter.
Her little arms wrap around your neck, and for a second, you close your eyes. Feeling her close to you helps to calm your nerves because having Jungkook right in front of you after all these years is quite something.
“You smell like coconut,” she whispers in your ear.
“It’s my shampoo’s scent,” you whisper back to her.
“It smells good,” she adds, and you can help but smile even more.
Jungkook watches the scene unfold in front of his eyes, his heart heavy with unspoken emotions. This right here makes him melt like never before. He has never seen anything this emotional, despite experiencing many emotions in his life.
You step back, putting an end to this heartfelt embrace, and you stand up again. Then, your eyes meet Jungkook’s once more. There’s something in his gaze that you’ve never seen before, and it surprises you, but you decide not to focus on that.
“I imagine you were looking for a book,” you say, your eyes looking down at Hana.
“Yes,” she happily says before clapping her hands with excitement.
“Her teacher talked about your library, and she bought Hana’s favorite book here,” Jungkook begins to explain. “So, here we are.”
The three of you walk to the kids’ section like it’s the most natural thing when you’re both dying on the inside. This right here feels absolutely unreal, but somehow, it feels good.
Thankfully, you have Hana’s book in store, and you even recommend some other books to her. Jungkook buys them all without even blinking. You can’t help but think that his daughter is spoiled, and it doesn’t surprise you. He definitely looks like a girl’s dad.
“Your number is still the same?” he asks after paying for all the books.
“No,” you shake your head while handing him the little bag containing the books.
You don’t really know what crosses your mind, but you write your phone number on a small sheet of paper. When you hand it to him, his huge hand touches yours, causing a hundred thousand fires to ignite in your hand.
“Thanks,” he whispers. “And it was a pleasure to see you again.”
You simply nod, your heart beating crazily in your chest. You don’t know how you managed to act normally around your high school crush, but you’re proud you did it.
And now, you’re dying to see him again.
Jungkook is waiting for you at a small café just around the corner from your library. Just a few hours after your unexpected reunion, he had texted you, asking if you’d like to meet again. You had said yes, of course you had. But with his tightly packed schedule, this meeting couldn’t happen until a week later.
You’ve been thinking about it every day since.
As you step into the café, the scent of coffee and warm pastries wraps around you like a hug. Your eyes quickly scan the room, heart fluttering. Then you see him—tucked into a quiet corner near the back, just far enough from the window to keep a low profile.
When your eyes meet, a smile forms on both your faces at the same time—automatic, familiar, like no years have passed at all.
You walk toward him, trying not to overthink each step, but your mind is spinning. He looks effortlessly good—a fitted black Supreme shirt, dark jeans, just the right amount of stubble. On the table, there’s a pair of sunglasses and the same cap he wore at the library. You realize immediately that he still tries to move unnoticed, even now.
There’s something strangely grounding about that.
As you reach the table, your nerves catch up with you. You pause for a beat, standing there awkwardly with a crooked, uncertain smile. Should you hug him? Shake his hand? Say something clever?
But before you can fumble your way into a worse moment, you pull out the chair and sit down.
“Hey,” he says, his voice deep, low—somehow both relaxed and nervous.
“Hey,” you echo, the word coming out softer than you expected.
For a brief moment, there’s silence between you. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full, charged with something unspoken, like both of you are quietly remembering the same things.
“You opened your dream library,” he says finally, breaking the quiet.
You nod. “It wasn’t easy… but I worked hard for it.”
He smiles, eyes warm. He’s always known how determined you were. Always admired it.
“I can imagine it,” he says. “The place was beautiful. Hana couldn’t stop talking about it for days. I think she told every kid in her class.”
You laugh—genuinely, this time—and feel your smile stretch wider, more naturally than it has in a while.
“I’m glad she liked it,” you say. “She was really sweet.”
Jungkook nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, like he wants to say something more but is carefully choosing his words.
“She truly is,” he says while thinking about his little girl.
Before you even get to reply, the waiter appears at your table, his eyes lingering a little too long on Jungkook. He recognizes him, you’re absolutely sure about it, but the quarterback acts like it’s nothing.
“Have you already chosen what you’d like to take?” he asks, his eyes finally meeting yours.
You come regularly to this place, so you already know what you want. It’s up to Jungkook. As he looks at you, he understands that you’re kind of asking if he has chosen.
“Yeah,” he nods.
You both proceed to make your order, and the waiter disappears, leaving you alone again.
“How can you deal with people recognizing you?” you ask with evident surprise in your voice.
Jungkook shrugs before leaning back slightly. He watches you for a moment—not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious, but like he’s memorizing everything about this moment. Maybe even trying to figure out where to start.
“I’m used to it,” he honestly replies. “It’s like that all the time.”
He seems so unfazed about it, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But you realize that it’s normal for him. It just isn’t for you. Maybe if you were in his shoes, it would also be just normal.
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“At first, it did,” he replies, “especially since Hana was still a baby, but now, it doesn’t anymore.”
You glance down at the table, brushing your thumb over the edge of your napkin because you feel the need to occupy your fingers.
“I still get nervous if someone compliments my handwriting,” you chuckle. “I can’t imagine people knowing my face.”
A little laugh escapes his lips, and damn, you missed this. You absolutely missed everything about him, and you can’t only blame yourself for this. It’s your fault if you went eleven years without seeing each other.
“If things had gone differently, people might have known you, too.”
“Yep,” you simply nod.
Your true dream was to become a swimmer, like a professional one. You still remember perfectly when it began. Your parents, who are big fans of sports, brought you to the 2008 Olympic Games in China to watch the swimming competition. You were still young at that time, barely entering your first teenage years, but you instantly fell in love with it.
Back home, you decided to learn it, and very quickly, it became a passion. As you grew up, you worked hard to become a professional athlete and hopefully make it to the Olympic Games one day.
But life had other plans, and they crushed you in a way you can’t even explain. Even today, it hurts to think that you’ll never be able to make it to the Olympic Games. You’ll only ever be a spectator.
“But let’s not talk about it,” you tell him. “It’s in the past.”
Jungkook simply nods, understanding that it still might be a sensitive topic for you. Even for him, it’s such a traumatic memory, so he can’t even imagine how it is for you.
“I’m happy you still managed to open the library you always wanted,” he says with a little smile.
“Thanks,” you reply. “After everything, I guess a part of me needed to prove I could still make something good out of my life. Something that mattered.”
He nods, his gaze softening.
“You always knew what you wanted. I envied that, back then.”
You smile faintly.
“You were too busy being the golden boy to envy anyone.”
Jungkook chuckles at that—low and genuine.
“God, I hated that nickname.”
“Everyone adored you,” you tease, but your voice carries a bit more weight than you’d intended.
The waiter arrives just then with your orders. You both ordered tea, a reminder of the old times. You always enjoyed a good cup of tea together. On top of that, you also took a piece of banana bread.
“So now you’re a dad,” your sentence sounds more like a question than an affirmation, but it’s far from being a question.
“Yep,” he exhales slowly. “Hana changed everything. But in a good way. She saved me from going off the rails, honestly. Gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt loud.”
You nod, watching him, and feeling something inside you stir—a strange mix of admiration and quiet sadness. He’s not just the boy you knew anymore. He’s a man. A father. Still kind, still thoughtful, but heavier now, like he’s carried more than he lets on.
“I’m very happy for you, Guk,” you genuinely say.
Jungkook has it all now, even all the girls in the world. It’s no secret that he dates models or singers, or even actresses. Whenever there are big events, he’s always posing on the red carpet with a new one. Most of the time, you feel absolutely jealous of them. You wished you were the one holding his arm while posing for the cameras.
“You seem to have it all now, and you deserve it,” you add.
He chuckles softly, but you feel like there’s no real humor in it. His fingers tap lightly against his teacup before taking a sip.
“Yeah, looks like it,” he says with his eyes fixed on the table.
You tilt your head, understanding that he’s not convinced at all by his words.
“I’m doing what I like, so yeah, I have what I always wanted,” he continues, his eyes now shifting up to meet your gaze. “And I have Hana too, but…”
He completely halts, uncertain if he needs to continue and confess to you that he never found love because no girl could ever compare to you. He breaks up with them when he realizes that they can’t give him what you could. Despite what many people think, he has never slept with them. The last person he ever shared an intimate moment with was Miji, Hana’s mother.
It’s stupid because the chances of meeting you again were very low. He could try to find love, but how could he forget his first love? How could he ever forget the first girl he ever loved?
Jungkook never stopped loving you, and he will never. He doesn’t want it.
And somehow, he doesn’t need to say it for you to understand that he’s missing love in his life.
“Not love,” you finish his sentence.
Jungkook simply nods, almost ashamed that you figured it out.
“That’s not how it looks,” you chuckle a bit. “You always have a new woman in your arms.”
He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
“They don’t mean anything.”
In a weird way, his words comfort you. It’s like some hope bloomed in your chest.
“Not nice to say that,” you reply. “Especially since they are all very pretty and very well-known.”
Jungkook takes a moment before replying to you. He just shrugs.
“I don’t care,” he finally says.
It definitely baffles you that such a handsome and good-looking man doesn’t care at all about the women he’s associated with. And most importantly, from what you remember, he wasn’t like that. Or at least, not with you.
“They don’t have what I’m looking for,” he confesses. “And most of the time, they don’t like Hana.”
That is an absolute lie. They all adore Hana, and they adore even more to see him interact with her, but he doesn’t want to sound like an absolute jerk. He doesn’t want you to think that he’s a cold-hearted person.
“Who wouldn’t like her?” you say with surprise. “She’s absolutely adorable!”
“I know,” he smiles with pride swelling in his chest.
You take a bite of the banana bread. You absolutely adore it. The way they do it in this café is mind-blowing. You’ve already begged the owner to tell you her secret, but she refuses.
“This is my favorite banana bread,” you confess with your mouth full.
A smile stretches across his handsome face, and it feels like you’ve been brought back to when you were seventeen and taking lunch breaks together.
Jungkook also takes a bite, and he has to confess that it’s pretty good.
“It’s not bad,” he says.
“Not bad?” you say, widening your eyes. “It’s fucking delicious!”
He chuckles at your reaction. He can’t help but find you extremely adorable. Even though eleven years have gone by, you’re still the same. You haven’t changed a bit.
“I’m kidding,” he replies. “It’s super good. Might be coming back for more.”
After that, you keep talking about random stuff and remembering good old times. Even though things have changed, everything still feels the same. The way your heart beats around each other. The way you smile at each other’s silly jokes. Or the warmth wrapping around you when you’re together.
Despite everything, the love you feel for each other hasn’t changed a bit.
For the past ten days, you’ve been texting nonstop with Jungkook. It has freed thousands of butterflies inside your stomach, especially when it seems that he’s flirting with you.
Obviously, you push that thought away the second it pops in your head because you’re absolutely sure that he doesn’t see you as more than a friend. It has always been only friendship between you two.
At least, that’s what you believe.
jk: how’s your day going?
you: too many clients today 😫 drained all my energy.
At some point, you thought you wouldn’t be able to follow up on how full your library was. Your library has been growing a lot. It was supposed to be a little and quiet one, but it hasn’t been the case lately. You’re unsure why, but somehow, you’re grateful it’s working even better than you imagined it.
jk: you should hire someone to help
you: maybe but it would cost a lot, and i don’t have the funds yet
jk: i could help if you need
You would gladly accept his help, but you want to do this all by yourself. You don’t want him to invest in your library. You’ll feel like you owe him money, and you don’t want that. You already have a bank loan, and it’s more than enough.
you: i can’t accept it, guk
jk: why not? 🤔
He might be super wealthy, and it probably means nothing to him, but it’ll mean everything to you. And you don’t want that.
You’re lying in your bed, stomach pressed on your mattress as you think of an answer. You’re not sure what to say.
jk: i’ve the means to help you out
you: you should keep your money
jk: i’ve too much
You roll your eyes. Of course, he has. That doesn’t surprise you.
you: i still won’t accept it. keep it to yourself, i’ll manage to find a solution. don’t worry about me and my library
You see the little dots appearing before disappearing and reappearing, and then, his answer pops out.
jk: i’ll always worry about you 🥺
Your heart skips a beat, and your cheeks flush with warmth.
Why does it still affect you like this—the way he says things so simply, like he means every word?
you: you shouldn’t
jk: of course, i should
His reply makes your heart flutter—as if it remembers something your mind keeps trying to forget.
jk: you’re pushing yourself too hard again. and you know you’re not supposed to. i just don’t want to see you burn out.
His concern softens something in your chest. He’s not wrong, and you know it, but right now, your mind is consumed by one thing: the library’s finances.
you: i know. but i can’t accept your money, guk. i need to do this on my own.
You stare at your message for a moment after sending it. And just as you’re trying to quiet the ache in your chest, your phone buzzes, his name lighting up the screen.
He’s calling you.
Your heart skips a beat. Then it starts to race.
“Yn,” he says when you pick up.
You can perfectly hear the concern in his voice.
“Guk,” you reply.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he instantly says. “I’m—”
“You don’t understand,” you cut him off.
“Then explain me.”
You take a deep breath, thinking about how to formulate your thoughts.
“I want…” you close your eyes, flashes of the past coming out. “I want to do something by myself because I didn’t succeed in becoming a swimmer.”
For a brief moment, he doesn’t say anything. You know he’s thinking about what to say because, yeah, this is more than a sensitive subject, and since he has been back in your life, you’ve been reflecting and thinking more about everything. It’s like he’s a reminder of your failure.
“It’s not your fault, yn,” his voice is super soft. “None of this is your fault.”
“It is,” you answer, trying to keep yourself steady as your throat tightens and tears threaten to fall. “I couldn’t handle my health. I couldn’t save myself from drowning.”
His answer is immediate and firm.
“There was nothing you could’ve done, yn,” he says softly.
“You were sick. You are sick. And none of it is your fault.”
He pauses, like he’s choosing every word carefully.
“You didn’t fail. Your body just… gave out on you. That’s not a weakness. That’s not something you could’ve fixed.”
You’re not really convinced. He can’t understand how devastating it is to suddenly learn that you won’t ever be able to become a professional swimmer.
He can’t understand how much it hurts every day to see that scar on your chest because it constantly brings you back to the day you had a seizure and almost died. He doesn’t know how painful it is to hear the doctor tell you that you have epilepsy.
“You can’t understand,” you snap back. “You became a quarterback like you always dreamed of. I had to give up absolutely everything.”
You hear a small silence before he replies.
“Open the door,” his tone is firm.
“What?” you frown.
“Just open the door.”
The doorbell echoes in your apartment before Jungkook puts an end to the call. You see him in the intercom. How and when did he arrive here? You open the door to him, and when he enters your apartment, you instantly notice the swamped hair, the sweat on his face, and the way his t-shirt sticks to his chest.
“How—”
“I was running, and I wasn’t far from your place,” he simply replies.
Lie. He was indeed running, but he wasn’t close to your place, so he walked because he couldn’t let you say all this nonsense.
“You didn’t need…”
“Of course I needed,” he says before you can even finish your sentence.
You take a deep breath, your gaze locked in his. Jungkook doesn’t look away; he actually takes a step closer. His strong cologne instantly invades all your senses, and your brain only focuses on that.
“Maybe I can’t understand what you feel,” he begins. “I managed to follow my dream, and my health is great, but you can explain it to me. You can make me understand without saying shit about yourself.”
His breathing is now heavy, and somehow, he seems infuriated. It almost sounds like you disrespected him.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he continues. “You almost died, but you still managed to make it through. You opened your library despite all the health complications that epilepsy brings.”
You close your eyes, trying to hold back your tears.
“Yes, you gave up on your dream, but you’re here, which to me is more important than anything else. We both know how hard the first months were after your first seizure,” he shakes his head. “I saw every single seizure you did after, completely powerlessly. I was dying on the inside when you were crying after each seizure, blaming yourself more and more about how you couldn’t control your disease.”
It’s hard to remember those days clearly—not because they weren’t painful, but because your mind was too fogged to hold onto anything. You were barely functioning, caught in a cycle of seizure after seizure, your body aching like you’d been hit by something massive—a truck, a plane.
But worse than the muscle pain, worse than the exhaustion, was your brain.
It felt like it had been electrocuted inside your skull. Everything was hazy, heavy, like trying to think through thick glass underwater. You couldn’t focus. Even simple thoughts scattered before you could hold onto them. You also barely remember what happened, but your body didn’t.
Your body didn’t forget this kind of pain. It actually was traumatic. It still is.
And the worst part? No one could see that pain.
Unless someone’s lived with epilepsy, they’ll never really understand how it rips through your mind as much as your body.
Tears start streaming down your face, and Jungkook grabs you, holding you tightly in his embrace. You don’t hold back anymore, crying in his arms. They bring comfort, the same they did eleven years ago. And right now, you regret how you pushed him away.
As you were trying to hold yourself together in the middle of the seizures you were having, you pushed him away. It happened after he told you that he’d wait a year before going to uni to pursue his dream. He wanted to help you navigate this new journey, but you refused.
You couldn’t be the reason why he’d put his dream on hold. You’d feel guilty, so you did the most stupid thing and stopped talking to him. Didn’t answer his calls or messages. You’d always find an excuse to not let him in the hospital room. You hated yourself, but you thought he’d be better like that.
His fingers slowly and gently soothe your back, trying to comfort you as your tears soak the fabric of his shirt.
“Thanks for offering your help,” you whisper into the crook of his neck. “But I really can’t accept it,” you continue. “Let me just do it by myself.”
Jungkook simply holds you tighter, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll lose you over again. You can feel his breath slow against your shoulder, heavy with everything he’s not saying.
He really wants to help you, but he can’t force you to accept it. However, what he can do is be by your side now, be an emotional support, and make sure that you take care of yourself.
“Okay,” he says in defeat. “I won’t push, but don’t push me away either, yn. Not this time.”
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. It’s painful for the two of you to remember the time when you were putting as much distance as possible between you.
“Let me help you in the way you’ll let me. Just let me be by your side.”
You simply nod before holding him tight again in your arms.
“Plus, I’m sure Hana would be happy to spend more time in your library,” he chuckles.
A smile grows on your face as you remember his adorable daughter. He, for sure, did an amazing job of raising her. She’s just as equally charming as he is. Jungkook hasn’t spoken yet about her mother, probably because it’s a sensitive subject. In the end, their relationship didn’t work out, so it mustn’t be easy to speak about it.
Eleven years ago
Your heart is beating crazily in your chest as you stand on the diving board. Your eyes are focused on the water, your ears on the whistle, but your mind is ages away from here. It somehow feels like you’re completely high, while you know you haven’t touched anything.
You think that it could be tiredness, but for the past days, you’ve been sleeping eight hours at least per day. So, it shouldn’t be that. You actually ignore totally why you feel like that. However, one thing is certain: something is off.
But you push the thought away as you need to focus. This is a competition, the biggest one in swimming. You’re already proud to be here. You’ve worked so hard. And now, you just have to give your best.
You’re not hoping to win; some of the best swimmers are standing next to you, so you know you don’t stand a chance. Nonetheless, you still want to impress the jury. You’ll probably see them again in other competitions, and you want them to have a good souvenir of you.
Your parents and Jungkook are present. They always are. They have been incredibly supportive, and it always gives you so much strength when you know they are there. You almost feel invincible.
The starter blows the whistle, announcing the beginning of the competition.
All the swimmers throw themselves into the water, but as you do so, everything goes pitch black. It’s like you’re jumping into the void.
The second Jungkook realizes you’re not going to resurface, he runs to the swimming pool. Everybody around him is slowly understanding that you’re drowning, but by the time they do, Jungkook is already jumping into the water.
He might not be as fast as you, but man, seeing you dying gives him superpowers. He’s invincible now.
A red spot appears around you as it’s noticeable that you’re bleeding. Jungkook doesn’t let himself think; he just swims towards you. The other swimmers are also heading in your direction.
Your best friend catches you while you’re convulsing in his arms, and everybody around him helps him to get you out of the water. They place you in the safety lateral position. The medical staff approaches you all.
“Please take a step back,” one of them yells.
Jungkook does it without even blinking, but his heart is literally dying. He’s powerlessly watching you convulsing on the floor, drool dripping from your mouth, and your eyes rolling back. Your face is as pale as he has ever seen before, but what pains him the most is the blood running through your body. Your blue swimsuit is even turning into a violet shade.
He's trying to see where the blood is coming from, but it feels like it’s coming from everywhere. He knows that the injury is bad, more like really bad. There will be months of recovery from this. Maybe even more.
His eyes are glued to the scene playing in front of him. You’re clearly having a seizure, you were basically drowning, and you’re bleeding from everywhere. Never in his life has he ever felt like this. Powerless and in pain.
“What’s going on?” your mom screams when she calls for you.
“Ma’am,” one of the staff turns around to look at your mother. “Please stay back.”
“That’s my daughter,” her voice trembles as she says those words out loud.
“We need to give her some room,” he explains. “She’s having a seizure.”
The world under his feet opens and swallows him entirely. This is too heartbreaking.
“There’s nothing we can do right now, and it’s best we give her some space so she doesn’t get hurt.”
Your mother simply nods.
Then, you stop convulsing. Instantly, the medical staff checks for your heartbeat. Jungkook can see by the look on their faces that they are dead worried. Your heartbeat is faint. Too faint. For a terrifying second, he thinks he’s losing you.
But for the first time, he finally breathes when he sees you opening your eyes. Without thinking twice, he gets even closer, hoping to reach for you. However, he forces himself to stay back. They are the professional ones. They know what they’re doing. They are the ones who can help you.
You cough violently, water spilling past your lips, your body shaking weakly with the effort. He’s never heard a sound so awful at the same time.
“Yn,” a medical calls for you.
You don’t react at all. You just look into the void for a couple of seconds before falling asleep again. Jungkook’s heart sinks again. Are you dying?
It feels like a lifetime has happened since he jumped into the water, when in fact, it’s been maybe five minutes. Everybody is watching the medical staff taking care of you, hoping to hear some good news in the next seconds.
A minute later, you open your eyes again. You look around with confusion, but as the medical staff speaks to you, you focus on them and reply to their basic questions like ‘what’s your name?’, ‘what day is it?’, ‘what’s your birthday?’, ‘how old are you?’, and ‘where are we?’
Luckily, you manage to reply to all of the questions, which reassures everybody around you.
“My lungs hurt,” you then say. “A lot.”
And before they can even check you up, you’re having another seizure. Jungkook never thought it would be possible to be this devastated. The pain in his heart is something he has never experienced, and it’s not because you rejected him.
It just looks like you’re dying.
The rest blurs together in a haze of sirens and hands lifting you onto a stretcher. The paramedics work quickly, voices sharp with urgency, and before Jungkook can even process it, you’re being rushed to the hospital.
Hours later, the verdict comes: surgery. You’d perforated a lung, water filling where it should never have been. They think you struck something under the surface when you went under. The thought of how close he came to losing you will haunt Jungkook forever.
The following months are nothing short of hell. You’re alive, yes, but barely holding on—your body a battleground of seizures and relentless pain. Nights blur into days filled with monitors beeping, the metallic tang of hospitals, and your quiet sobs muffled against a pillow. Every time you remember you’ll never swim professionally again, the grief rips fresh through you. You cry until there’s nothing left, until anger becomes easier than despair.
And so you push everyone away. Coaches. Friends. Even Jungkook. Especially Jungkook. He keeps trying—showing up, sitting by your bedside, waiting for you to let him in. But every time, your walls are higher, your words sharper, designed to wound because the pain inside you needs somewhere to go.
When it’s time for him to leave for university, Jungkook makes one last attempt. He stands outside your room for a long time, heart pounding, rehearsing the words he’s wanted to tell you for years. But the moment he steps in, the air is heavy with bitterness, and your voice—cold, harsh, nothing like the girl he loves—cuts through him.
He swallows his confession, tucks it away where you’ll never hear it, and walks out instead.
It’s the one decision that will brand itself into him forever—the moment he let fear and heartbreak silence him. The moment he let you go.
The stadium is still humming with leftover energy—a low, electric buzz from the roaring crowd, the echo of the final whistle still hanging in the night air. Fans are filing out slowly, waving flags and shouting chants, while reporters swarm the edge of the field, barking questions into microphones, cameras flashing like tiny bursts of lightning.
But Jungkook doesn’t hear any of it.
He hears her.
“Daddy!”
The moment her voice cuts through the noise, his helmeted head turns, scanning the crowd until he finds her—right where she always waits, behind the security rope near the tunnel. She’s bouncing on her toes, arms waving like she’s trying to flag down an airplane.
She’s wearing his team’s hoodie, three sizes too big, practically swallowing her whole. The sleeves flop past her fingers, the hem brushing her knees. Her cheeks are flushed pink from excitement, and her dark curls are flying in every direction, messy from jumping and cheering.
But that smile hits him like a punch straight to the heart. Pure joy, all for him. Nothing else matters.
He jogs over without even unstrapping his helmet, weaving past the cameras and security. His cleats thud against the turf, the adrenaline of the game still buzzing through his limbs, but everything slows when he reaches her.
He bends down and scoops her into his arms in one fluid motion, lifting her like she weighs nothing.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs.
She squeals as he spins her once, her giggle ringing out over the chaos. He presses a kiss to her temple through her curls, and her tiny arms squeeze tightly around his neck.
“You were so fast!” she exclaims, beaming.
He chuckles, finally catching his breath.
“Only because I knew you were watching.”
And for a few precious seconds, with his daughter in his arms and the world blurring behind them, Jungkook doesn’t feel like the most famous quarterback in the country. He just feels like her dad.
Right next to them stands his mother, fondly watching this scene. When it’s his week and he has a game, his mother comes with her. It is a grandma and granddaughter time before he joins them after the game.
This right here is the only medicine he needs.
But for a moment, his mind drifts to you, and he wishes you were here.
“How’d I do?” he grins.
She squints dramatically, pretending to think.
“Mmm... six out of ten.”
He seems offended by her answer.
“Six?! I threw two touchdowns and didn’t get sacked once!”
“Yeah, but you didn’t wave at me when they showed you on the big screen.”
Jungkook groans, exaggerated, but it doesn’t surprise him. She always complains when he doesn’t wave at her after he scores.
“I knew I forgot something important.”
She giggles, tugging at his chin strap like she’s inspecting him. Her hands seem so small as she touches it.
“You’re sweaty.”
Now, he’s the one giggling. Well, it’s more than normal to be sweating after an hour of intense game, otherwise it would have been surprising.
“That’s what greatness smells like,” he replies, his eyes glued to his little girl.
She makes a face, but even like that, he finds her absolutely adorable.
“Greatness smells gross.”
He laughs and sets her down gently before he fully removes his helmet. She immediately reaches for the towel slung over his shoulder and starts wiping at his face, way too seriously for someone who still mixes up her left and right shoes.
“Let me fix you,” she says with a frown of concentration. “You’re all crooked.”
Jungkook kneels so she can straighten his jersey collar, then lightly bops his nose.
His eyes quickly look up at his mother. She’s fondly looking at them, and he offers her a bright smile. Even though he adores having his daughter here, he also always looks forward to seeing her. She’s always been there, long before Hana came into the picture.
“There,” she announces, his eyes drifting back to her. “Superpowers back on.”
He just stares at her for a second, a stupid grin softening his entire face. He’s so weak around her, but he’s also the happiest dad. Everything feels a lot better when she’s near him.
“You know,” he says quietly, “scoring in front of thousands of people doesn’t feel half as good as seeing you right after.”
She beams, rocking on her heels.
“Even if I only give you six out of ten?”
“Even then.”
He grabs her hand and stands up, lacing their fingers together. They walk closer to his mom.
“Wanna go get ice cream? My treat. For surviving another one of Daddy’s games.”
“Only if I get to pick the music in the car.”
“Even if it’s that same song twenty times in a row?”
She nods, and he still asks his mother if she wants to join, but it’s not really a question. Even if she says ‘no’, he’ll bring her along. There’s no way he’s leaving her out when she always takes care of Hana while he plays.
As they walk away, the noise of the crowd fades. Because for Jungkook, the real win is always waiting at the end of the tunnel—hoodie too big, judgment sharp, and love unconditional.
After getting the ice cream, Jungkook drives his mother back home. She’s sitting next to him, in the passenger’s seat. Hana’s booster seat is buckled in the back, her sneakers swinging just above the floor. She had a fancy ice cream. That’s how she calls a chocolate with rainbow sprinkles ice cream.
Her music of choice is playing in the car: a sparkly pop song she knows every word to.
Jungkook drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly to the beat. He glances in the rearview mirror and smiles as she sings along, slightly off-key, but with full commitment.
His mother also knows all the lyrics—she also gets to hear it on repeat whenever her granddaughter is around. The three of them happily sing along.
“You know the entire setlist better than me,” he teases Hana.
“That’s because you’re always listening to boring adult songs.”
“Hey,” he laughs, “Queen is not boring.”
“It sounds like something grandpas listen to.”
She goes quiet for a moment, staring out the window. The lights of the stadium are still visible behind them, glowing against the night sky.
“You looked really cool today,” she says suddenly. “When you ran and threw that ball. Everyone cheered.”
Jungkook’s chest tightens just slightly—not from pride, but from how small her voice sounds when she says it.
“Thanks, baby,” he says softly.
Another pause.
“But you’re still my dad first, right?”
That gets him. He glances at her again in the mirror—her face half-lit by passing streetlights, her eyebrows pulled together just a little.
“Always,” he says, his voice low and certain. “Before the game, during the game, after the game. Every second.”
She looks satisfied with that answer and goes silent once more. Jungkook then discusses with his mother about the game and what she did with Hana while watching the game.
It’s more than evident to him how proud his mother is, and although he’s a dad now, he’ll forever do anything to make his mother proud.
“Can we get pancakes tomorrow?” Hana suddenly asks.
“You just had ice cream,” Jungkook instantly says.
“Yeah, but that was for after the game. Pancakes are for the next morning. It’s tradition.”
Jungkook grins, shaking his head.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I know,” she mumbles.
Both Jungkook and his mother laugh at her answer. She’s unbelievable.
A couple of minutes later, they reach his mother’s house. Hana almost starts crying when she leaves the car because she doesn’t want her grandma to go, but in the end, his mother promises to come tomorrow.
While he drives back to his place, she falls asleep in the back. A smile grows on his face when he sees her peacefully sleeping in the back.
This definitely was a good day for him.
At night, in his bed, as he’s falling asleep, his phone buzzes, notifying him that he just received a text message. By reflex, he grabs his phone, and a smile grows on his face when he sees your name.
you: i saw the game
Then a second message appears.
you: congrats for the victory 🥳
A strange but welcomed warmth wraps around him like a blanket, and it feels absolutely wonderful. Everything feels wonderful with you.
jk: thanks ☺️ it wasn’t an easy win
His heart burns for you. It always has. But now it burns differently. Slower. Deeper. Steadier.
Back then, it was all adrenaline, fleeting glances in crowded hallways, nerves before a text, the ache of wanting and never quite saying it. But now, it’s something else.
you: yeah, seems like it, but you smashed them all 👀
Jungkook hesitates for a long time. Does he tell how much he wanted to have you there? Does he not? What’s sure is that he definitely wanted you there.
jk: wished you were there, too
His heart is beating fast, too nervous about what he is going to say.
jk: like old times
Eleven years ago, you’d go to all his games. You’d never miss any of them, and he’d always look for you in the crowd. When he’d see you, his heart would skip a beat. However, any time he’d find you, you wouldn’t be looking at all at the game which sometimes would make him sad. But in the end, what mattered was your presence.
you: well hopefully next time i’m invited
He smiles because he’ll for sure invite you to the next game.
jk: then consider yourself invited for the next game
Tomorrow morning, he’ll grab a ticket for the next game. Hana will be with her mom by then, so she won’t be waiting by the tunnel, but maybe someone else will.
jk: try actually watching this one this time 😏
He smirks as he sends it, not expecting anything serious. But your reply comes quickly.
you: what!! i always watch 😤
He laughs under his breath. He’s not buying it.
jk: you just stared at the ground half the time & i saw you
you: excuse me i’m offended now
He can see your pouty face. Probably crossing your arms. Maybe rolling your eyes too.
jk: not as offended as i was in high school
He pauses for a second.
jk: you never looked at me when i played
His fingers hover for a second before he types again.
jk: but i didn’t care. you were there and that was enough
This part—that’s the honest part. The one he’s not sure he should’ve sent. He exhales, waiting.
you: i always supported you even when i pretended not to watch
His pulse quickens.
jk: pretended?
You don’t answer right away. He sits up straighter, eyes fixed on your typing bubble.
you: i was always watching, just… not when you looked at me
He tilts his head, lips twitching into a knowing smile.
jk: you got shy?
you: yes
jk: why?
That question hangs heavy. His heart kicks a little harder. He already knows. But still—
jk: we were best friends…
you: you were different on the field
jk: different how?
He already feels where this is going, but he wants to hear it. Needs to.
jk: hotter?
He winces a little. Did he go too far? But then—
you: yes
jk: and now?
He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer, and he closes his eyes when he hears the ping, notifying him that you answered.
The second he reads it, he swears that he will die in his bed.
you: still the case
Fuck, the girl he’s been having a crush on has been finding him hot all this time. And man, it makes him weak. Thank god that he’s in his bed because otherwise, his knees would have betrayed him.
Jungkook decides then to press on the little microphone to record a voice note.
“Fuck… yn—” he softly exhales. “You’ve no idea how fucking hot you are.”
Jungkook knows how to flirt. If there’s anything else other than football in which he excels, it’s flirting. All the girls he has been with, he seduced them before, even though nothing happened in the bedroom.
But here with you, it’s different. It’s not flirting. It’s admitting the raw truth. The truth is that he has been dreaming about you for years. His mind has been going crazy since the second his eyes landed on you. He can’t really pinpoint the moment he fell in love with you because it was happening slowly until he couldn’t think about anything other than you.
“You’re messing with my head right now,” he finishes.
He presses the bottom send and patiently waits for your answer. He was expecting a simple text message, but you surprised him by sending a voice note.
“Jungkook,” you whisper—or should he say, moan.
Fuck, you shouldn’t have sent that. Now he’s growing hard in his Calvin Klein boxers.
“Don’t say it just because I did,” you continue.
He rolls his eyes. This is so typical of you. You’re always scared that somebody might actually be into you. He still perfectly remembers how you were when Jin, another student, was flirting with you. You were convinced that he was doing it out of pity—when, truth being told, he was so down bad for you.
“I’m serious, yn,” he whispers with a deep voice. “You’re so fucking hot that I could come in my pants like a fucking teenager by simply looking at you.”
Jungkook feels so vulnerable right now, but he couldn’t care less. He’s finally confessing his feelings for you, and he wants to do it properly. He doesn’t want to half-confess.
He runs a hand through his hair, his breath shaky.
“God, I sound insane…” he mutters with a breathless laugh, “but I don’t care. I’ve wanted you for so long. I still do. It’s not just the way you look—it’s everything.”
His voice drops again. Slower. Rougher.
“The way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you look at me like I’m still that kid you knew… it drives me fucking crazy.”
He hesitates. Then adds, quieter:
“It always has.”
Then your answer comes quite quickly. His mind is going absolutely feral, and if you were here with him, he’s absolutely sure that it would end with you both in his bed going wild.
“I don’t know how you expect me to breathe after that,” your voice is shaky. “I’ve wanted to hear you say those things since I was 16, and now that you are…”
There’s a pause, your breathing is heavy, and your voice is obviously filled with lust and heat.
“I’ve never stopped wanting you, and it was never just physical,” you say, and for a moment, you seem to hesitate to continue. “But god… if you touched me right now, I’d probably melt.”
Jungkook’s hand is always going south, palming his hard cock.
“A part of me has always been yours, and I didn’t even realize how much,” you pause, your breathing heavier than before, “until you said my name like that.”
He knows he’s fucked. Way too fucked. There’s no way that after this, he’ll keep his hands to himself when he’s near you. Man, if he could, he’d already be on his way to your place to have you contorting with pleasure beneath him.
“Fuck—,” his raspy voice murmurs. “If I didn’t need to wake up early tomorrow, I would be on my way to your place.”
He knows damn well that you can hear him palming himself, but he wants it. He wants you to know how much he craves you right now.
What he doesn’t expect, though, is your call. You don’t answer with a voice note. No, you’re actually calling him. And the second he picks up, he hears how desperate, needy, and fucked you are. He never thought he’d hear that one day.
“Jungkook—,” you moan when he picks up. “You can’t turn me on like that over the phone,” you’re having difficulty breathing.
And then, he hears it. The lewd sound of your arousal.
“Are you touching yourself?” he asks without answering you.
You hesitate for a second.
“Yes,” you honestly say. “You?”
“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “I’ve been rock hard since you moaned my name.”
You softly moan at his words. Fuck, he won’t last long if you keep moaning like that when he hasn’t even touched you.
“Tell me how you’re doing it,” he says.
He can’t be with you right now, but he wants to imagine it. And he can only do that if you describe it.
“I’m rubbing my fingers between my folds.”
His cock throbs in his hand, his rhythm increasing while he closes his eyes. This pleasure is consuming him like never before.
“But it’s not enough,” you moan. “I need you, Guk.”
Oh damn, you can’t say it like that. You can’t beg him to be with you; he’s losing himself.
“Don’t beg, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I can’t be with you right now.”
Now, he’s cursing his job for being this intense. He doesn’t even know when he can be with you. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to see you before his next game, which is next week. But he can’t wait that long. Not after this call.
“Keep touching yourself,” he continues.
His mind is going crazy with all the things he wants to do to you, so he’s just going to say them out loud to give you a preview of what he’ll do to you.
“When we’ll be together, I’ll kiss you like a starved man. I’ll take my time to taste those sweet lips of yours before going down to your jaw, then to your collarbone until I reach your perfect breasts.”
You whimper, his name falling from your lips for the thousandth time tonight.
“I’ll suck and lick your nipples while you moan my name like you’re doing right now. And just as you did seconds ago, you’ll be begging me to touch you,” he halts for a second, his breathing heavier than ever. “As the weak man that I am, I’ll give in and give you what you want.”
He has dreamed of this so many times. He has jerked himself off—as right now—to the thought of you moaning his name while he fucks you nice and slow.
“I’ll kiss your pussy before sucking and licking it like my life depended on it,” he exhales softly, his voice only getting deeper and deeper. “And once you’re dripping on my tongue, I’ll push my fingers inside you, showing you no mercy.”
Now, his ears only hear you moaning and the sound of your arousal. It’s the sweetest melody he has ever heard.
“Right after you orgasm, I’ll push my hard dick inside you to fuck you nice and slow.”
He can hear that you’re very close to your orgasm. And that only makes him closer to coming shamelessly on his hand. This time around, he won’t be coming because of his wild imagination. He’ll be coming to the sound of your voice.
“Fuck, Guk,” you moan.
“As the perfect baby girl that you are, you’ll take everything that I give you. You’ll be moaning out loud while I fuck you over and over again.”
Well, he can’t keep talking as he’s moaning too. And well, he absolutely doesn’t care. He just moans to the sound of your voice.
“I’m gonna cum,” you tell him.
“Then come for me, sweetheart,” he barely manages to say. “Let me hear your pretty voice.”
And that’s it, you’re coming loudly, his name falling from your lips.
“Fuck,” he groans, “you sound so perfect.”
Right there and then, he ejaculates, deep groans leaving his lips. His hand goes still while he pushes his dick in it.
You're both breathing heavily, and none of you hangs up. You stay on the phone while recovering from this wild moment.
“Yn,” he whispers your name.
“Yes?” you reply.
“Next time I see you, I’ll fuck you for hours.”
“And I’ll let you do it.”
Now, Jungkook only wants to ruin you even though he hasn’t had sex in a very long time, and he probably doesn’t know how anymore. But man, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is hearing you moan his name over and over again.
The past week has been intense—exhausting, chaotic, and honestly? Torturous. But in the best way.
The library’s been busier than ever, and it’s becoming painfully clear that you need to hire someone to help. But every night, without fail, you’ve been on the phone with Jungkook. The conversations have gotten… interesting, to say the least.
Ever since that night—the one where you basically confessed how you felt—things escalated. Fast. You’ve had phone sex. More than once. And let’s just say: no one’s ever made you come that hard without even laying a finger on you. His voice? Dangerous. His dirty talk? Absolutely filthy.
And today? It’s game day.
Which means you’ll finally see him. In person. And you’re excited—probably just as excited as Hana was when she visited your library for the first time.
But you’re also a little nervous. Because if his voice alone can undo you… there’s no telling what will happen when you’re alone with him.
You’ve finally reached your seat located in the VIP area. The area where only close friends and family are allowed. It’s a bit weird to be here, but somehow, it makes you feel important. Like really important.
Jungkook explained to you how to access the area, especially since it was your first time. You’ll also get the opportunity to walk to the tunnels before the game ends, so you can see him right when he leaves.
The VIP area is already buzzing when you arrive, eyes following you as you find your seat. For a second, you feel like an outsider—like you’ve stumbled into a world you don’t quite belong to. But honestly? You couldn’t care less. You’re here for Jungkook.
So you give a polite little smile to the curious stares. Some of these people are probably insanely famous. Or ridiculously important. Or maybe both. But you don’t know any of them.
After a couple of minutes, the team bursts onto the field. The supporters instantly start clapping, screaming, and chanting. On TV, the noise already seemed huge, but in person, it seems electric. You can feel it in your bones.
Then, through all that chaos, Jungkook looks up. His eyes scan the stands until they lock on you. Just like he does when his daughter is present, he waves at you.
From an outsider's perspective, this would seem rather normal. But you know better. There’s nothing fatherly in the way he’s looking at you right now. It’s a slow burn—intense, direct, like he’s already undressing you in his head.
You try as much as possible to remain composed, but your pulse is racing. This right here makes it even clearer that after the game, things will get very heated between you.
And if this is how he looks at you in front of thousands of people, you can only imagine what’s coming after the last whistle.
Jungkook was a beast during the game. Nobody could stop him, not even a bit. He has scored more than usual, bringing his team to the victory. It was absolutely impressive, and it felt like old times. It felt like you were sixteen again, and Jungkook was a machine.
However, this time around, whenever he’d look at you, you wouldn’t look away. You’d look back at him with the same intensity.
Towards the end of the game, you’re almost panting because he’s looking hotter and hotter. Maybe, you can barely see him under the helmet, but you see enough.
“Jungkook is on fire,” someone says behind you. “Not sure why but I hope he keeps playing like that. We’ll win everything.”
A smile grows on your face as you hear those people talking behind you about the man that has been making your heart beats for years.
As you used to before, you’re only watching him. You’re not even following the game. You don’t even know and realize what’s going on, but you’re certain of one thing: he’s leading the team to victory.
Every time he scores, he looks at you with the biggest smile on his face, winks and finally waves. Your cheeks heat at his attention, and you get all shy, but it definitely warms your heart. It means more than you can put into words.
As the game edges toward its final minutes, you slip out of the VIP section and make your way toward the tunnels. Jungkook had asked you to wait for him there just like his daughter and mother always do when they come to watch him play.
The fact that he wanted you in that spot, part of that circle, made something warm settle deep in your chest. You couldn’t have said ‘no’ even if you’d tried.
You walk in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd still echoing through the stadium. Every cheer vibrates through the concrete, the sound wrapping around you in waves. Out here, it feels different—contained, heavy with anticipation. Your hands clutch the strap of your bag as you’re holding it with your dear life, your pulse already picking up even though the game hasn’t officially ended.
After this entire week of teasing and steamy phone calls filled with moans, it feels unreal that you’re finally going to be standing in front of him. You’re finally going to be with him, and lord knows what will happen. But you can’t wait to see him.
From your spot, you can glimpse the edge of the field. The clock is winding down. The noise swells, then explodes into deafening celebration. The game is over. Jungkook’s team has won, and the full stadium is cheering their victory. You can’t be prouder.
And then—he’s there.
Jungkook steps into the tunnel, helmet dangling from his fingers, hair damp. His chest is still rising and falling with the aftershock of adrenaline, the black streaks under his eyes making his gaze even sharper. For a moment, he scans the space, searching. Searching for you.
When he finds you, everything about him shifts. His posture straightens. His steps quicken. His eyes—God, those eyes—are locked on you, unblinking, like nothing else exists.
“Yn,” he says as he’s closing the last few feet between you.
You smile at him while you’re simply looking at each other, the world completely disappearing around you. There’s only you and Jungkook. Nobody else.
After all these years, he finally knows about your feelings for him. It makes you feel absolutely vulnerable because he could break your heart. Nevertheless, it feels like a heavy weight has been taken off your shoulders.
But what truly warms your heart is the fact that those feelings have been reciprocated all these years. Jungkook has always loved you more than a friend, and that changes everything.
“Guk,” you say.
“I’m happy you came,” he says with heavy breathing.
The way his eyes linger on you feels like he’s memorizing your face, afraid it might vanish if he blinks.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.
His lips twitch, almost a smile, but there’s too much emotion in his gaze for him to hide it behind something casual. His hand comes up slowly, hesitating for a second before cupping your cheek. The warmth of his palm sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb traces lightly along your skin, and you can feel his breath growing warmer as he leans closer.
It's absolutely clear what is about to happen, but it doesn’t frighten you. You’ve been dreaming of this since the moment you first met him. You’ve been dreaming of it since you’re sixteen so it’s definitely been a while.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his breathing caressing your lips.
You simply nod, knowing perfectly that your voice will betray you if you speak.
And then—his lips are on yours. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test. It’s a collision.
His mouth moves over yours with urgency, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. You taste salt and heat, his breath still fast from the game.
Your fingers clutch the front of his jersey, feeling the damp fabric, the solid wall of muscle underneath. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you closer—tighter—until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the thud of his heartbeat against your chest, matching your own.
The world around you fades—no crowd, no team, no cameras. Just the muffled roar in the distance and the way he’s kissing you like he’s afraid to waste another second.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and almost reverent. His lips are still so close you can feel the ghost of his breath as he murmurs, low and certain: “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.
This time it’s slower, deeper—less the urgency of a first taste, more the ache of finally getting to savor it. His hand slips into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as his mouth moves against yours, coaxing rather than claiming.
You melt into him, your palms sliding up over the broad plane of his shoulders. The world is still there—teammates jogging past, the faint metallic clatter of equipment—but you couldn’t care less.
He tilts his head just slightly, changing the angle, and the kiss deepens. A low sound rumbles in his chest—half sigh, half growl—and you feel it reverberate through you.
When he breaks away, his thumb brushes over your lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape of it. His gaze locks with yours, heat simmering there, and you know this isn’t just a kiss—it’s a line you’ve both finally crossed.
Somewhere, someone calls his name, but he doesn’t look away. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he murmurs. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Jungkook opens the door of his impressive apartment, but he doesn’t really give you the time to admire it. It’s crystal clear that he’s fucking desperate, and he only wants you to see his bedroom for now. Maybe later—or tomorrow— he’ll give you a little home tour.
Once inside his bedroom, he hungrily kisses you. His hands are everywhere on your body, worshipping every part of you. He’s touching what he’s been craving for a damn week, even more if he’s honest.
The kiss is intense, filled with hunger and passion. Somehow, it feels like you’ve been doing this for years when your first kiss only happened minutes ago. But damn, his lips are addictive. You could kiss them forever.
When he breaks the kiss, his lips get closer to your ear, whispering what his mind has been thinking of during the entire game.
“You’re gonna let me fuck you?”
You nod with no hesitation. There’s nothing else you’d want right now.
Your hands slide up his chest, greedy now, and your fingers trace the lines of his muscles under the shirt. He’s so bulky. You always knew it. You’ve seen him shirtless many times, but this time around, it feels different.
Your eyes are mesmerized by the way your fingers move along his chest, and Jungkook just takes in the view before him. He shivers at the contact of your hand on his body. It feels even better than in his wildest dreams.
“You look so pretty,” he says, voice low and teasing. “Got all dressed up for me?”
A smirk arises on his face while you look up at him. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. It takes you a couple of seconds to answer him.
Of course, you dressed up for him. You fucking knew what to expect after the game. You knew he’d ruin you after playing like a god on the field. But you wanted to impress him. To look good just for him. To look good before you have sex with him for the first time.
“Yes,” you finally say. “Black is your favorite color.”
When you first met him, he was constantly wearing black, which you found odd for someone so bright like him. So, one day you asked him why, and he simply said that it was his favorite color. And you never forgot it.
His heart flutters. He thought you’d forget it. That it was just a simple detail, but he’s starting to realize that you remembered every single detail just like he did.
“Fuck,” he swears before his lips find your neck.
His hands grip the back of your thighs and ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he pulls you closer. The dress rides up shamelessly, bunching at your waist while he grinds against you—hard and getting harder.
Yes, he’s fucking desperate, and he doesn’t even hide it. He doesn’t want to. He wants you to see it. Feel it.
“I need this so bad, sweetheart,” he groans, rutting his hips against you. “Fuck, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”
A chuckle leaves your lips, which causes him to tilt his head, looking up at you.
“I guess I can imagine,” you say, your hands cupping his cute cheeks. “I’ve been dreaming about this since I was sixteen.”
His eyes widen.
“Probably since the day we met.”
To say he’s surprised is an understatement. Yes, he’s been craving you with his entire soul since he was young, but probably like two or three months after meeting you.
“Do you remember that day?” you ask, your thumbs stroking the skin of his cheeks.
That simple touch comforts him in a way he can’t explain.
“How could I forget it?” he admits. “For sure, my chest didn’t forget how you hurt it.”
A smile grows on your face. His favorite smile.
“You were late for your swimming training, and I was warming up on the running track of our high school,” he says while he perfectly remembers that moment. One that shook his world completely. “You hit me so violently that we both fell on the floor.”
“And when you made sure I arrived safe and sound at my training, it’s when I fell in love with you,” you confess. “I had literally hurt you, but you didn’t care. And that meant a lot.”
Back then, Jungkook wasn’t yet the golden boy that he’d become. He was still training a lot to get better, but he was already a great player. His mind was only focused on improving. He’d train night and day. And then, after your embarrassing meeting, you trained together.
“And after that day, we’d run together every day,” he concludes.
It feels like it was a lifetime ago. So many things have happened since then, but one thing hasn’t changed. The way your heart burns for him.
One of his hands slides to your chest, his gaze locked on yours. His eyes watch the way you shiver under his touch. It’s the best feeling in the world. Without an ounce of hesitation, he pulls down the cleavage of your dress, revealing your red bra underneath.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Red looks good on you. Might be my new favorite color.”
Before he goes deeper, his gaze shifts up to you.
“Is sex safe with epilepsy?” he asks with concern. “Pleasure won’t be too overwhelming for you?”
His concern warms your heart. Your epilepsy is well under control now, so there’s nothing to worry about.
“No, everything will be fine, Guk,” you press a quick peck on his lips. “As long as you don’t push me to exhaustion and let me sleep after, I’ll be fine.”
“Well, I’ll be careful then,” he smirks. “I’ll let you sleep in between rounds, but I intend to go wild all night long.”
You shake your head with a bright smile on your face.
“You’re incredible,” you whisper before he intensely kisses you.
“I’ve been craving this all my life,” he murmurs, “and I intend to make it memorable.”
And then, he strips you out of your dress and unhooks your bra. He lets out a soft and filthy sound as he traces your nipples with his thumb. Then, he dips his head to suck at the sensitive skin on your neck.
“Guk,” you gasp.
Your mind keeps going to his hard cock pressed against your belly. He’s so fucking hard, and it’s turning you on incredibly. Your hand then slips between you two, pressing against the thick bulge in his pants and rubbing gently.
He hisses before his hands roam lower again, squeezing your ass harder this time. His eyes look down at you for a moment, appreciating the view before his hungry eyes.
“You’re so perfect,” he groans, his lips finding yours again for a filthy kiss. “So fucking perfect.”
And even though he regretted his entire life for not having confessed his feelings for you, he knows that this right here wouldn’t feel this great. All the longing is making this moment a hundred times better than if it had happened years ago.
Jungkook pushes you against his pretty big bed, and you gasp as you feel it pressed against the back of your thighs. His hands are everywhere now as he kisses you again. The kiss is hard, messy, and full of tongue. His hand slips between your thighs and pushes them apart. His fingers drag up the heat between your legs, over the soaked fabric of your panties.
“Fuck,” he breaths, pulling away. “You’re dripping.”
“I’ve been thinking about this for a full week,” you admit.
As he did. The burning longing between you has been consuming you more and more as time goes by. Surviving this week with only phone sex was like training nonstop for days. It was nearly impossible.
And somehow, you don’t really know how, you get bold.
“I’ve been thinking how it’d feel to have your dick in my hands,” you whisper in his ear. “How it’d feel against my tongue, and how I’d suck it.”
“Do as you dreamed, sweetheart,” he growls, low and dangerous.
You get down on your knees while Jungkook pushes his pants down. You look up, your heart hammering and your breath shaky.
Yes, it’s about to happen. You’re about to engage in sexual intercourse with the man of your dreams. You’re literally about to blow him off.
When he frees himself, your eyes widen.
Fuck.
He’s thick and heavy, tip flushed and glistening, veins running the length like something carved out of marble. It should be a sin to possess such a cock.
“How?” you whisper.
He furrows his brows, not quite understanding your question.
“How did you contain this beast all this time?” you ask, eyes looking up to meet his.
He giggles as he wasn’t expecting this question.
“Don’t know,” he admits. “But it wasn’t easy when my mind would get lost on you.”
“Oh,” you simply say.
You wrap one hand around him, trying to understand how much you can fit in your mouth, and honestly, you don’t know how.
“Tell me what your mind would think,” you say as you lean in and lick a stripe from the base to the tip, your tongue tracing the curve of a vein.
The taste of him makes you moan. An honest and desperate sound that vibrates against him. He swears that he’ll come right now if you keep moaning like that.
“You’d be exactly like this,” he begins to say, his hand moving to your hair while his head falls back and his eyes close. “On your knees, your hand around my cock before you’d engulf it in your mouth.”
You wrap your lips around the head, following his words.
“Fuck—,” he groans. “You’d suck it like a good girl.”
You gently suck the tip, swirling your tongue. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t take yet, which honestly is already a lot. Jungkook doesn’t dare to look down because he doesn’t want to come yet. It’d make him look like a weak man while he clearly wants to impress you tonight, even though he doesn’t know how. He hasn’t done this in a while.
“Just like in my dreams, you look so fucking pretty,” he groans. “Mouth full of cock…”
You moan again, louder this time, as you take more. Well, Jungkook is absolutely sure right now that he won’t last long. You’re the death of him.
“You’d even choke on it because of how big it is,” he continues.
Spit drips from the corners of your mouth while you suck him harder and deeper. Your makeup is probably starting to look like a mess, but you don’t care. You’re enjoying having him inside your mouth, and you even let yourself choke on it.
Jungkook looks completely wrecked. His lips are parted, chest rising like he’s barely holding on. The fact that he hasn’t had sex in a long time and the fact that you’re sucking him off are making him extremely sensitive.
You don’t know how, but you suck him even harder, your hands gripping his thighs now, and your cheeks hollow with every movement of your head. Nobody has ever driven him this crazy. The pleasure is taking full control of his body.
“Sweetheart—” he mumbles.
You can feel him getting closer and closer to his release. It’s in the way his body tenses and his cock throbs inside your mouth, and you really want him to come inside you. You want to taste him.
And just when he’s starting to tremble and your throat is getting used to it, he pulls you off with a wet and obscene pop.
“Don’t wanna come inside your mouth,” he admits. “At least not the first time.”
You’re a bit sad, though, but now, you’re closer to having his dick inside you, which excites you more.
Jungkook kisses you like a starved man, then spins you around to bend you over the bed. His eyes instantly move down to your soaked panties. He pulls them aside and wastes no time in sliding two fingers into you.
You cry out, your fists holding the soft and silky bedsheets like your life depended on it.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let me open you up, sweetheart.”
He fucks you with his fingers, slow and deep, while watching you fall apart in front of him. Jungkook bends down, his chest pressed against your back, and his fingers never stop torturing you.
“You’re taking my fingers so well,” he whispers. “Such a good girl.”
Before Jungkook, you didn’t know you were into dirty talking. You actually never imagined yourself enjoying it. At least, your exes would never talk during sex. But he takes the dirty talking to another level. He could have you come just with his deep voice murmuring the deepest filth in your ear.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers out to remove your panties. He then removes the only remaining piece of clothing from his body. Now you’re both naked. You look over your shoulder and admire the man behind you.
He’s a literal god.
It seems impossible to be this hot, and at this precise moment, you feel lucky that, amongst all people, he chooses you. His eyes meet yours, and the softest smile appears on his face. He looks so adorable in the middle of this filthy and steamy moment.
“Put your knees on the bed,” he gently slaps your ass.
You nod before following his instructions. You press your chest against his bed while you push your ass in the air. His hands instantly stroke your ass cheek.
“Please stop me if you don’t feel right, okay?” he asks.
“I told you that it’s safe,” you repeat what you said minutes earlier.
“I know,” he replies. “But I just want to make sure.”
He sounds like a baby, and that couldn’t make you melt more. He’s simply adorable. That’s unfair!
“I’ll let you know in case something happens,” you reassure him.
You bury your face in the bedsheets while his eyes remain on your body. His hand caresses your back, moving down to your ass.
The position is filthy. Your knees are spread wide, your back arched, your ass up in the air, while his fingers are back to teasing your folds. Your heart is hammering in your chest, waiting patiently for him to push his monster inside you. You’re not really sure if you’ll be able to handle it, but you just want him to stretch you out. To make love to you.
“You’re so beautiful, yn,” he whispers more to himself than to you.
He gently removes his fingers before looking through the drawers of the nightstand next to his bed. A couple of days ago, he bought condoms to be ready for when the real deed with you would happen. But he can’t seem to find them.
“Fuck, I can’t find the condoms,” he says with frustration.
You look behind you, watching him go a bit crazy as he searches for the condoms.
“It’s okay,” you softly reply. “I’m clean. I haven’t had sex for the past three years,” you explain.
Admitting that you haven’t been sexually active in so long makes you feel vulnerable, but you feel absolutely safe around him.
“I’m clean too,” he confesses. “Haven’t done anything in years.”
To say that you’re surprised is an understatement. How can Jungkook not have had sex in years? This man has been dating women over women for years now, and now, he’s telling you that he hasn’t done anything with them. That’s a shock.
“Really?”
He chuckles when he sees your surprised face.
“Yep,” he admits. “Nobody was ever worthy of my dick.”
Now, you’re the one chuckling. This sounds so like him.
“But we’re not going to talk about my lack of sexual activities for the past three years,” he adds as he steps closer to you, his body right behind you.
“It’s for sure something we need to discuss after,” you reply.
He shakes his head with the biggest smile on his face. He’s not sure he really wants to discuss that with you, but if you bring the topic to the table, he’ll be honest with you. He’ll tell you just how much he couldn’t fuck anyone if it wasn’t you.
“Are you on the pill?” he then asks.
“No,” you answer. “There was no need if I were single.”
And also, it’s not really recommended to take the pill when you’re under an epileptic treatment. Well, your previous partners always used condoms, so you’ve never really discussed the pill with your gynecologist.
“Right,” he nods. “So we will need to be careful.”
He rubs his shaft along your folds, coating himself with your arousal. Little moans leave your lips as you close your eyes, enjoying this sensation. He’s not teasing; he couldn’t do it. He’s simply preparing the two of you for what’s coming.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks.
“I’m absolutely sure, Jungkook,” you answer.
And then, he pushes into you in one smooth stroke. Your cry is instant, fingers clawing at the sheets as he bottoms out. The stretch is almost impossible. He’s massive. He feels massive. But fuck, it feels so good.
You haven’t had sex in three years. But god, you missed it. Your body was calling for it. And now, you have it with none other than Jungkook, the guy you had a crush on for more years than you can count.
“You’re so big,” you say.
“Sorry,” Jungkook mumbles.
“Don’t be,” you reply as you turn your head to look at him. “It feels so good.”
“Really?”
While this man is so good at dirty talking, he sounds so innocent right now. Like it’s the first time he’s having sex. Like he’s about to lose his virginity. But in fact, he has a daughter, so he’s definitely far from being a virgin.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, giving you both time to adjust. This all feels new to you two, and well, your walls are swallowing him in a way nobody ever did before. You’re so tight around him, which could make him come undone right now.
And then, slowly, he starts to thrust into you. At first, he goes slow and deep, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. Moans leave both your lips as pleasure consumes you both. This feels marvelous.
“Yn,” he moans your name like a prayer. “You’re taking me so well.”
His praise causes pride to swell in your chest. Nobody ever said that to you. And honestly, it looks almost impossible to take him inside you, but you’re doing it. Like a good girl.
His thrusts slowly become more brutal, which makes you jolt forward, your breasts rubbing against the sheets with every bounce. The wet sounds between you are unforgivable, together with the loud moans leaving your lips.
“This is better than anything I imagined,” he mutters. “Wayyy better.”
Then, Jungkook starts to show no mercy to you. His thrusts are absolutely wild, deep, and brutal, but you wouldn’t want it any other way. It feels so fucking good. The sound of his creaking bed starts the echo in the room while you get further lost in the kingdom of pleasure.
“Look at you,” he growls, his voice breaking between thrusts. “Taking my cock like you were made for me.”
Your fingers twist in the sheets as a shiver runs through you, the filthy praise making you grow wetter.
“I’ve thought about this for years,” he confesses, low and rough in your ear. “But nothing—nothing—compares to feeling you like this.”
His hand slides to your hip, gripping hard before pushing your back against him.
“You feel so fucking perfect. So tight. So warm. Like you never want to let me go.”
Your moan is answer enough, and his pace turns downright ruthless.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me hear you. Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good,” he hisses, his hand wrapping around your throat.
Jungkook doesn’t tighten his grip; he just applies pressure on your throat. That alone makes you grow wetter, something that he feels as his dick pistons inside you. Your eyes roll back, the pleasure slowly becoming overwhelming.
“You like being choked,” he whispers in your ear. “Such a dirty girl.”
His words send shivers down your spine. This man has you literally wrapped around his fingers. He can make whatever he pleases with you.
“Luckily for you, I love dirty girls.”
He licks the inside of your ear, and god, you’re completely falling apart. But you wouldn’t have it in any other way.
You’re a complete moaning mess by now, only adding to the obscene symphony in the room—the creak of the bed, the wet slap of skin, the tangled chorus of your moans.
“So good,” you manage to say in between moans.
His eyes take a moment to look at you. Your body is trembling with every punishing thrust from behind, your breasts are bouncing at the rhythm of his thrusts, his hand is wrapped around your throat, and your back is pressed against his chest.
It’s a fucking sight he’ll burn into his memory.
His hand lets go of your throat, and you instantly fall forward. He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. He goes deeper, his hips meeting your ass with a loud slap that echoes in the room.
Jungkook grips your hips tight and fucks you rough and fast now. He doesn’t show any mercy to you.
“Fuck—” he whimpers. “Wanna cum inside you so bad.”
“Do it,” you reply without any hesitation.
You pregnant with his child… Damn, there’s nothing in the world he’d like more. The simple thought brings him closer to the edge.
Fuck, he wants to get you pregnant so badly. He wants to lie in his bed with you in his arms and dick deep inside you, cockwarming you to sleep. And just to be sure it took, he'd give it to you again and again until it did. And then he’d give you more.
Until his balls were fully drained and the sheets beneath you soaked, a mix of both your juices sticky over your thighs and his belly, his cum leaking from your pounded out pussy.
The way you'd whimper when he'd gently finger it back inside you, scooping it up and massaging your clit with it, making you cry with overstimulation just to make you cum again with his seed-slicked fingers…
But he can’t.
Not right now.
“Not this time, baby girl,” he replies.
He’s driving into you so hard that it makes you see stars. The two of you are reaching your orgasm; you can feel it. Your legs are shaking, your moans completely out of control, while his thrusts are sloppy and deep.
Jungkook decides to help you out. One of his hands slowly goes down on your body, landing on your throbbing clit. His fingers start to rub your sensitive spot as his cock keeps slamming roughly inside you.
His fingers on your clit make you explode intensely, and you come hard around him. Your walls squeeze him over and over again while you come all over him. Jungkook doesn’t stop at all; he even speeds up his torturing pace. The coil in his lower stomach tightens, and he knows it’s a matter of seconds before he comes undone.
So he takes his cock, leaving a feeling of emptiness inside you, before he strokes it above your ass. He groans when his orgasm hits him hard, your name rolling off his tongue. His eyes roll back with pleasure, and his body tenses up, his sperm now falling over your ass cheeks.
You both collapse on his bed with heavy breathing. Jungkook rests next to you while his hand strokes your back. After a couple of seconds, he stands up to disappear into the bathroom. He comes back with a towel.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” he says as he gently slaps your ass.
You whimper as he’s gently cleaning your legs and pussy. It feels good to be taken care of, especially from the guy you’ve had a crush on for years. Once he’s over with you, you turn around to look at him. A smile appears on his face when your eyes meet.
Your eyes flicker down to his hand that is cleaning his softened length with the towel. Flaccid, he almost looks ordinary—almost. But you know better. You’ve felt just how far from average he really is.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is low but edged with worry as his eyes search yours. He’s not asking out of politeness; he needs to know.
“Barely alive,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. But Jungkook doesn’t really smile. His brow stays furrowed, jaw tense, like he’s replaying every second in his head to check if he pushed you too far.
You rise onto shaky legs, your body deliciously sore, and step closer. Your fingers trace lightly over his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your touch.
“I’m really fine,” you whisper, softer now, wanting him to hear the truth in your voice. “This was… mind-blowing, yes. And sure, I might need a couple of days to recover from you…” you tease, lips curving. “But other than that, I feel good. I feel safe.”
His shoulders ease, just barely, but his gaze doesn’t waver from you. There’s still that flicker of fear in his eyes—that he might have hurt you, triggered something, missed a sign.
You cup his face gently. “Guk,” you murmur, “you could never hurt me. As I said before, everything is under control now.”
He simply nods before wrapping his strong arms around you. He’s definitely worried about you and probably will for a long time, but that’s only because he deeply loves you. He never wants to relive again the day he had to save you in the pool.
“Let me get us some water,” he whispers, his lips getting closer to yours to press the most gentle kiss.
As he leaves the room, you take a look around. His bedroom is impressive, like anything else about him, and surprisingly, it’s not devoid of decoration. Of course, he chose darker colors for the wall painting, but it feels like him. Being here is the same as being cuddled by him.
There are pictures of Hana everywhere. In some, she’s just days old. Some other, she’s a couple of months old. In some other, she’s already two. And there’s one on his nightstand. It’s your actual favorite. He’s holding her on his shoulders, and they have the brightest smiles.
“That picture was taken a year ago,” his voice comes from behind you, warm and low. “On her birthday.”
Jungkook steps closer, handing you the glass of water.
“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers brushing his as you take it and sip. “It’s a really good picture.”
He places his glass of water on the nightstand before his hands wrap around your waist, his head placed on your shoulder.
“It’s nice having you here,” he whispers.
You smile, but you don’t dare to look at him. You know you’ll fall even more for him, or worse, you’ll get on your knees.
“It’s nice to be here, too,” you reply.
Jungkook peppers your neck with kisses while you close your eyes, your hands wrapping tightly around the glass of water. As his kisses start to move to your jaw, little and barely audible moans leave your lips. Slowly, his bulge grows against your back. No doubt where this is going.
“Round 2?” he whispers against your jaw.
Things have completely changed since Jungkook came back into your life. Everything is lighter now, as if some invisible weight has been lifted off your chest.
You even stopped fighting him in the library. Eventually, you accepted his financial help, and now it’s thriving even more, which you didn’t think was possible. Every day, when you walk in and see more people, more laughter, more books in readers’ hands, you’re reminded that he didn’t just save the library—he saved a piece of you, too.
And it’s not just you who’s thriving. Since you’ve been back in his life, Jungkook’s been sharper, faster, hungrier on the field. The fans call it his best season yet, and every time he throws that perfect pass or crushes another record, he swears it’s because of you. He says you’re in his head before every snap—your smile, your laugh, the sound of your moans keeping him steady and reckless all at once.
But the real change happens at night. Behind closed doors, your world narrows to him—the rasp of his voice, the heat of his skin, the relentless way he claims you over and over again. Your bedrooms have become sanctuaries of fire and whispers, where moans echo against the walls, skin slaps in frantic rhythm, and headboards knock like desperate applause.
Sex has never been like this before. It’s not just good—it’s consuming. He doesn’t just fuck you; he ruins you, bends you until you’re trembling and begging, only to drag another orgasm out of you when you swore you had no more to give. He never seems to tire. Sometimes he teases you slow, murmuring filth against your ear until you’re dripping and desperate. Other times, he takes you like a man starved, pounding into you until you can’t think of anything but him.
And the craziest part? Every time, he makes you feel like this is the best he’s ever had. Like nothing else has ever compared. His praise is endless—you’re so fucking tight, yn… look at the mess you’re making for me… taking me so good, baby—and the more he talks, the hotter it gets.
Still, when it’s over, when your bodies are tangled together, slick with sweat and trembling, there’s a softness in the way he holds you that no words can match. The man who spends his days destroying defenses and his nights destroying you is the same man who pulls you into his chest, kisses the top of your head, and whispers like you’re his whole world. And that, more than anything, is why everything feels better now.
Genre: angst, smut, royalty au, arranged marriage au
Word Count: 14.8k
Summary: She was never his choice- until she became his world.
Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, angst, smut, royalty au, slow burn?, power struggle, age gap (10 yrs), older jungkook, arranged marriage, (somewhat) enemies to lovers, jealousy, jungkook is a meanie 🙁, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, politics, soft love, declarations, explicit: multiple smut scenes, consensual, unprotected sex, cold/obligatory sex, power play, loving sex, praise, degradation, oral (f. receiving), fingering, clit play, overstimulation
A/N: this was a request from a lovely anon 🫶 friends, i redid the outline for this multiple times bc i normally shy away from fantasies/royalty, so it was cool to try it out! hopefully it lives up to expectations!! (also i rlly don’t know what time period this so just imagine wtv )
Note: jungkook’s pov is noted. if it isn’t- it’s y/n’s! also y/n is 21, jungkook is 31, jisoo is 26
♡ MASTERLIST
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The mirror stares back at you like it’s trying to convince you of something.
That you’re beautiful. That you’re lucky. That this is what you’ve always wanted.
But the mirror lies.
You’re dressed in layers of ivory lace and silk so heavy it feels like armor. Gold threads snake across your bodice like vines, binding you into a shape you barely recognize. Somewhere behind you, handmaidens fuss with ribbons and brocade, cooing soft words you don’t hear. Your reflection looks poised- majestic, even.
But you feel like you’re drowning beneath the weight of expectation.
Your chest tightens. Not from nerves. No, you’d welcome nerves. This is worse. This is suffocation. The perfume in the room is too sweet. The silence, too loud. Every delicate “Princess” that slips from a servant’s tongue hits like a blade.
You’re getting married today.
To a man you’ve barely spoken to.
A man who’s ten years older.
A prince from a kingdom that needed a treaty more than a love story.
You catch your own gaze in the mirror again. Your lips are painted, your hair perfectly pinned, your veil stitched with symbols older than your name. You look like a queen-in-the-making.
But inside?
You’re unraveling.
“Too tight,” you say sharply, not looking at the handmaiden tying your corset.
She freezes. “Apologies, Your Highness…”
You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the laces yourself until the pressure eases from your ribs.
“Leave,” you murmur.
They hesitate.
“I said leave.”
Their skirts whisper across the marble floor as they vanish, one by one, until the room is yours again. Quiet. Empty. Suffocating.
You exhale shakily and lower yourself onto the velvet stool near the fire. You should feel like a bride. Instead, you feel like a pawn being moved across a glittering board.
A knock at the door makes your spine go rigid.
“Come in,” you say, voice tighter than you’d like.
The door creaks open. And there she is.
Jisoo.
Your older sister. Your kingdom’s golden girl.
She steps inside delicately, wrapped in blush silk with her hair softly swept up, eyes wide with sympathy you don’t want. She’s everything gentle and graceful the court adores. She looks like spring in human form.
And she looks like someone’s first choice.
“Soo,” you say, your tone unsure- too many emotions knotted in one syllable.
She smiles. Soft. Almost apologetic. “You look… stunning.”
You blink at her. “Why weren’t you here earlier?”
“I thought you’d want to be alone.”
“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not today.”
She hesitates a step from you. Her fingers curl into each other.
You feel the question bubbling before you can stop it. “Does he love you?”
The words spill out like poison.
Jisoo’s expression flickers- guilt, shock, something unreadable but she catches it before it fully forms. “Y/N…”
“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper. “Not today.”
“I never encouraged it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You must’ve known.” Your voice cracks just slightly. “He looks at you like you’re the crown he lost.”
Jisoo swallows, her voice quiet. “He’s marrying you.”
You stare into the fire, the flickering light licking at your gown like flame to paper. “But he wanted you.”
She doesn’t answer. And her silence says more than a confession ever could.
You don’t blame her. Not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Maybe you should be the one marrying him,” you say, not able to meet her eyes.
“I would never take this from you,” she breathes.
You turn to face her finally. “Would it really be stealing if I was just keeping your seat warm?”
The air between you thickens. You’re not angry at her. Not really. You’re angry at fate. At politics. At the cold man waiting at the altar who wants a different bride.
Jisoo takes a step closer. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“No, I’m just better at pretending.”
She reaches out to touch your shoulder. You don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.
“He’ll learn to love you,” she says gently. “Anyone would.”
You let out a dry laugh, sharp as glass. “You don’t learn to love someone like me. You endure her.”
The bell tolls outside- three slow, echoing chimes that stretch across the walls like the opening notes of a funeral dirge.
It’s time.
You rise. Your gown shifts like water. You steady your shoulders, straighten your crown. You feel her watching you, but you can’t look at her again.
Because you are walking down the aisle
Not as the girl he dreamed of. Not as the sister he wanted. But as the bride he’s stuck with.
The chapel smells like ancient roses and old prayers.
You glide down the aisle slowly, deliberately, as the eyes of two kingdoms drink you in. The train of your gown trails behind you like spilled moonlight. Hundreds of royals, nobles, and dignitaries line the carved pews, all dressed in silks and golds, but none of them matter. You feel them watching, judging, whispering about your age, your family, your worth.
But you only look forward.
You keep your eyes on the altar where Prince Jeon Jungkook stands like he’s carved from ice.
He doesn’t smile.
Not even a flicker of warmth touches his face when he sees you. His expression remains cold, impassive, lips a straight line, shoulders square. You wonder if he even sees you or if he’s just counting the seconds until this political obligation is complete.
The music swells. The world fades.
You reach him.
He doesn’t offer his hand.
The High Cleric begins the ceremony with blessings in a language older than either of your kingdoms. You barely hear the words. Your fingers are trembling in your gloves. You feel like you’re underwater. Everything is soft and distant and slow.
Until it’s time for the vows.
You turn to face him. And his eyes aren’t on you.
They’re on her.
You see it. Just for a second. A flicker. A heartbeat. But it’s real.
His gaze shifts- barely, subtly- but you know the direction. You don’t even have to look.
Jisoo.
She’s seated near the front. Pale dress. Downcast eyes. Perfect posture. As still and serene as a statue. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge it.
But you feel it. All of it.
The phantom of his feelings for her settles like a chill between your ribs.
“Repeat after me,” the Cleric intones, unaware of the slow fracture blooming in your chest.
You say the words.
You pledge your body, your name, your crown.
You do not cry.
He says the words, too. Calm. Flat. Emotionless. He binds himself to you in front of gods and ghosts, but his voice doesn’t tremble. Not from nerves. Not from affection.
Because he feels nothing.
He lifts your veil. His hands are steady. Distant.
Your first kiss as husband and wife is just that- a formality. His lips brush yours like the passing of winter wind. No passion. No warmth. No curiosity.
The crowd erupts into applause.
You smile.
You have to.
He offers you his arm.
You take it.
You walk down the aisle together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, as cheers rain down from the golden arches of the chapel.
You smile.
You have to.
And though you can feel him beside you…
he says nothing.
═══════
The ballroom gleams with gold and artifice.
You’re standing in the center of it, hand in hand with a man who hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Not during the procession. Not during the ceremony. Not after the kiss. Not when he escorted you down the aisle like he was walking beside a shadow.
And now, in front of hundreds of watching eyes, it’s time for the first dance.
The music begins. You take one step forward, and so does he.
His gloved hand rests against your waist like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly- as if contact might imply something that isn’t there. His other hand holds yours, just tight enough to be respectful, just distant enough to make your stomach sink.
You lift your eyes to his.
And for the first time, he speaks, “You should smile.”
Your breath catches.
“That’s what they’re expecting,” he continues, voice low, precise. “A happy bride. A glowing princess.”
You try to smile, but it curls wrong on your lips.
“And you?” you murmur, eyes still fixed on his. “Are you pretending too?”
His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I’m fulfilling a role.”
You laugh- soft, bitter. “And what role is that? Dutiful husband or heartless executioner?”
He doesn’t answer.
You move together across the marble floor like strangers trapped in the same song. The music is beautiful, swelling in delicate arcs around you. But you can’t feel any of it.
“What did I do to make you hate this so much?” you whisper.
He blinks, slowly. “I don’t hate you.”
“No?” you scoff. “Then why won’t you look at me the way you looked at her?”
The words are out before you can stop them. His jaw clenches.
“Don’t bring her into this.”
“She’s already in it,” you breathe. “You put her there when you looked at her during our vows.”
The music swells again, a waltz that sounds too pretty for this kind of pain.
“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he says finally, voice tight.
You force a smile- sharp, graceful, empty. “Too late.”
He turns you in a slow spin, elegant, effortless. From a distance, the court sees perfection. A prince and his new bride, radiant under the candlelight.
But you know better.
You feel the space between your bodies like a scar that hasn’t healed yet.
“Do you love her?” you ask, quiet enough for only him to hear.
He doesn’t answer.
His silence slices deeper than any truth could.
You feel your chest tighten, throat burning. But your face? Your face stays royal. Untouched. Serene.
“Will I ever be more than her shadow to you?”
You see something flicker in his gaze, but it’s gone as fast as it comes.
“You were not the choice,” he says at last.
You blink. You stop moving for half a second. Your shoes nearly slip on the polished floor. The world tilts.
But then the music carries on.
So you do too.
He guides you back into motion, and you match him- fluid, poised, empty.
When the music ends, he steps back. Bows. You curtsy.
Applause erupts across the hall. And you smile so wide it almost cracks your face open.
═══════
The halls are empty when you’re escorted to the royal bedchamber.
No music now. No guests. No watching eyes. Just the sound of your heels against marble and your pulse humming beneath your skin.
The doors are already open.
He’s already inside.
You step in carefully, unsure of what you’ll find. The room is as grand as you imagined- pillars of carved obsidian, embroidered silks draped from the high ceiling, a fire crackling in the hearth like it’s mocking you with its warmth. A table is set with untouched wine. Rose petals litter the floor like someone believed romance could be faked.
He stands by the window, facing away from you. Still dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Still silent.
The doors shut behind you with a hollow thud.
You wait.
You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Instructions? Affection? A beginning?
Instead, you get nothing.
You unclasp your cloak. It falls silently around your feet. Your hair is pinned and tight, your corset aching against your ribs. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to be held.
But he still won’t look at you.
“It’s done,” you say quietly, just to break the silence.
He hums in acknowledgment. Doesn’t turn.
You take a step forward, cautious. “Is there something you’d like me to do?”
At last, he speaks. “Sleep. That’s all.”
That’s all.
The words hang heavy in the air.
You try not to show it, but your fingers curl against your side. “Isn’t this… expected?”
“I don’t owe them a performance.”
“And me?” you ask.
He turns to face you now, slowly. His expression unreadable. Cold. He looks at you like a decision he regrets making. Like a formality he’s been assigned.
“You don’t want this,” he says.
You flinch at the assumption. “You don’t know what I want.”
“You want love. Passion. Devotion.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not the man who gives those things.”
“No,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re the man who gives silence. Distance. Glances meant for someone else.”
His jaw ticks.
You keep going. You’re tired of swallowing pain. “You said your vows. You kissed me. You danced with me. And not once did you pretend I was enough.”
“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Oh, so this is honesty?” you snap. “This- coldness. This rejection. This… emptiness?”
He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is quieter now. “It’s mercy.”
You shake your head. “It’s cruelty.”
Neither of you speak for a long moment.
You break the silence again. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to be just some treaty girl, either? That I didn’t want to marry a man in love with someone else?”
His face flickers. Just briefly.
You don’t know what emotion it is. Pity? Guilt? Regret?
But it fades too quickly to hold onto.
“You can sleep in here if you want,” he says, voice controlled again. “Or I’ll have a separate room prepared.”
You take a deep breath, walk past him toward the bed. You don’t look at him. Not this time.
“I’ll stay here,” you say softly. “Not because I want you. But because this is my marriage, too.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, spine straight, heart hollow. And he walks away without another word.
The doors close.
You are alone.
Again.
You unlace your corset with trembling fingers. You slide the jewelry off your skin like it’s shackles. You curl beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling that feels more like sky than stone.
And for the first time since the ceremony began, you let the tears fall. No one hears them. No one sees. And when morning comes, you will wear the crown like it never hurt.
═══════
The palace is dead quiet after midnight.
You lie still in the enormous bed, staring up at the carved ceiling, your body wrapped in satin, your heart wrapped in stone.
Jungkook came back hours ago.
He didn’t speak when he entered.
He didn’t speak when he undressed, carefully, methodically, folding his ceremonial uniform with military precision and draping a robe over his bare chest. He didn’t speak when he climbed into the opposite side of the bed, a world away from your side.
He just turned his back to you.
And that was that.
You listened to his breathing even out. Watched the fire in the hearth dim into embers. Let the weight of the sheets press your body down like a crown too heavy to wear.
Sleep never came.
The silence around you was too loud.
You watched the moonlight crawl across the walls until your eyes ached. You imagined what it might’ve felt like to be chosen. To be wanted. To be seen.
You almost didn’t hear it.
A whisper. Barely there.
You blink, breath catching, your body frozen as stone.
Then again- soft. Muffled. Threaded with sleep.
“…Jisoo…”
Your heart stops.
The name barely drips from his mouth- half breath, half confession- but it’s real. It slithers through the shadows between you like smoke.
“…Jisoo…”
He shifts in the bed beside you, still deep in dreams.
And you?
You’re wide awake.
The ache in your chest is immediate and consuming. Sharp enough to make your eyes water, soft enough to break you slowly. You don’t speak. Don’t move.
You lie there, paralyzed. Because how can you scream when the knife was never even meant for you?
It was a whisper. A sleep-talk. A mistake.
But it was her name. Not yours.
Not once tonight- not in his gaze, not in his vows, not in his arms- did you belong to him. But her? She owns the quietest part of him. The part he doesn’t even guard.
You turn your head toward him slowly. His face is peaceful in sleep. Untroubled. Like he hasn’t just carved you open.
You stare at him for a long time.
And for the first time since this all began, you don’t feel sad. You feel cold.
Numb. Resolved.
You pull the covers tighter around you- not for warmth, but for armor.
He may have married you.
But he dreams of her.
And if he thinks you’ll stay quiet forever, if he thinks you’ll simply live in her shadow…
He doesn’t know you at all.
═══════
The first week of marriage does not belong to you.
It belongs to the court.
Every morning begins with a maid waking you before the sun, layering you in gowns chosen by someone else, and fitting a crown so heavy you can feel it in your spine. Every day ends with aching cheeks from holding the same smile for hours.
They don’t call you by name anymore.
You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess Consort of the Northern Kingdom.
A title. Not a person.
The palace calendar is full- parades, charity luncheons, handshakes with foreign diplomats, appearances at schools, hospitals, markets. At each stop, you are arranged like part of the decor. A jeweled accessory for the prince’s arm.
He almost never offers it.
When he does, it’s for the benefit of the crowd. An elbow bent at a perfect angle, a smile carved into place like it was taught, not felt. He’s a master of performance.
So are you.
The people cheer for the image of you both. They throw flower petals into the street, shout blessings, push forward to glimpse their fairytale couple.
If only they knew fairytales rot when the gold is only paint.
At the textile factory, you stand beside him while the foreman gushes about the kingdom’s prosperity. At the ribbon-cutting for a new bridge, you’re handed the scissors, smiling for the press while Jungkook stares past you at some distant point, as though the moment doesn’t require him.
Sometimes, you catch yourself wondering if he forgets you’re even there.
You’ve learned the choreography. Sit still. Smile faintly. Look engaged, but not outspoken. Be regal, but not commanding. Be graceful, but not bold.
Be there.
But never be.
The only time you feel remotely human is during the carriage rides between engagements, when the curtains are drawn, and the crowds can’t see you.
That’s when the silence between you becomes unbearable. He doesn’t speak.
You don’t either.
But you glance at him once, catching his profile in the dim light. It’s like looking at a portrait- beautiful, distant, untouchable. You turn away before he can feel you watching.
By the end of the week, you’ve perfected the role:
A crown without a voice.
═══════
It happens because it has to.
Not because he wants you. Not because you want him. But because it’s expected. Because the kingdom will talk if it doesn’t.
The door opens without a knock. You glance up from your seat on the edge of the bed, silk robe tied loosely around your waist, hair falling over your shoulders. He steps inside, closing the door with quiet finality.
“We need to talk,” you say.
“Not tonight.” His voice is low, clipped, as he shrugs out of his coat. “This isn’t a conversation.”
Your brow furrows. “Then what is it?”
He looks at you but it’s the way a jeweler inspects a gem before deciding if it’s worth setting. “It’s what’s required,” he says. “For the line. For the crown.”
Your chest tightens. You know the court’s whispers- how the marriage will be scrutinized until you produce an heir. You know the timeline they expect. You’d expected distance. You hadn’t expected to feel like an appointment.
He approaches slowly, rolling his cuffs to his forearms. When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t touch you right away- just stands there until the air between you grows heavy.
When he stops in front of you, he looks down at you with the same expression he wears in court- measured, guarded, cold.
“Stand up,” he says.
The command leaves no room for hesitation. You rise.
His hands land on your waist, not with affection but with control, guiding you closer. His mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t really a kiss- no give, no hunger, no softness. You press harder anyway, trying to spark something. He responds by gripping your jaw, holding you still.
“You’re trying too hard,” he murmurs.
“At least I’m trying,” you bite back.
A slow, humorless smile curves his lips. “Careful.”
He turns you with deliberate force until your knees meet the bed. You sit. He follows, untying your robe in one smooth pull. It falls to your sides, cool air grazing bare skin.
His gaze sweeps over you- assessing, not admiring. “Beautiful,” he says, tone flat. “But beauty doesn’t make you powerful.”
You swallow. “Then what does?”
His eyes lift to yours, sharp as steel. “Control. And you don’t have any here.”
The word sends a shiver down your spine- half fear, half something you don’t want to name.
He presses you back into the mattress with a firm hand to your shoulder, sliding the robe from your arms. His touch is skilled, confident, but there’s no tenderness. Every movement feels deliberate- designed to take without giving.
You arch into him once, testing him. His palm flattens against your sternum, holding you down.
“Do you think I’ll lose myself for you?” he asks softly, mockingly. “You can’t provoke me into wanting you.”
The words burn hotter than his hands.
When he finally takes you, it’s with the same efficiency as everything else he does- controlled, unhurried, purposeful. The sounds in the room are soft but sharp: the creak of the bed, your shallow breaths, the low rumble of his voice telling you to hold still.
His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you exactly how he wants. You try to match his rhythm, to pull him closer. He shifts his hold, pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress.
“Not yours to lead,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
It’s almost clinical. Almost mechanical. Your body reacts anyway- heat, breathlessness, the helpless ache for more. But you know he’s watching every flicker of your expression like a general studying an opponent’s next move.
When it’s over, he pulls away immediately. No lingering touch. No kiss. Just rises, adjusting his clothes with the same precision he undid them.
You’re still catching your breath when he looks at you one last time. “This is duty, Princess. Don’t confuse it with anything else.”
And then he’s gone.
The door shuts behind him.
You stay there, robe open, pulse still racing- not from closeness, but from the sting of his words.
═══════
The council chamber smells faintly of parchment, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of ambition.
You sit in the gilded chair to Jungkook’s right, posture flawless, hands folded in your lap. It’s your first time attending a full royal council since the wedding. You’re here to listen. To be silent. To play the part of the well-bred consort.
At least, that’s what they expect.
The chamber doors close, and the discussion begins. Ministers rise, presenting their concerns: border tensions with the Western Kingdom, grain shortages in the southern provinces, a brewing dispute with the merchant guilds.
Your husband listens with that same infuriating calm, speaking only when necessary, voice even, deliberate. A king in training.
But when the Minister of Trade suggests raising tariffs on imported grain to “incentivize” local production, something twists in your chest.
“That would starve half the southern provinces,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
Every head in the room turns.
Jungkook’s gaze cuts to you. Sharp. Warning.
The Minister blinks, surprised. “Your Highness, the measure-”
“-would drive up prices so high,” you continue, “that families already struggling would have to choose between bread and rent. And if the people are hungry, unrest follows. That is not ‘incentive,’ Minister. That is negligence.”
Murmurs ripple through the chamber.
Jungkook’s voice is quiet but firm. “Princess-”
You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. “Am I mistaken?”
A pause. His jaw tightens.
“You are… uninformed,” he says at last.
You lean forward, resting your hands on the table. “Then perhaps inform me. Tell me how destabilizing our food supply will help secure your rule. Or ours.”
A faint gasp from one of the scribes. A few ministers look away, hiding smirks. The Minister of Trade fidgets.
Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker in his eyes- anger, yes, but something else. Curiosity.
You look back at the table. “Instead of tariffs, subsidize local farmers to increase production. Buy excess grain directly from them at fair prices, then sell it cheaply in the provinces that need it most. The treasury loses nothing if the surplus is sold abroad. Everyone wins. The farmers, the provinces, the crown.”
The room goes still.
Then, slowly, the Minister of Agriculture nods. “It’s… a sound plan.”
More murmurs. Agreement.
Jungkook leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You can feel his gaze on your skin, hot and assessing.
“Very well,” he says finally. “We’ll consider the Princess’s… suggestion.”
It’s not an admission. Not in his tone.
But you’ve already won.
When the meeting ends, you rise before he does, smoothing your skirts. As you pass his chair, you feel his hand catch your wrist under the table.
You glance down at him.
His voice is low, for you alone. “We will discuss this later.”
You smile sweetly. “Of course, Your Highness.”
And you leave the chamber with your head high, the echo of your heels a victory drumbeat in the quiet hall. Yet, the moment the council doors close behind you, you know he’s following.
Your heels click against the marble corridor, echoing between the towering pillars. You don’t turn around, but you can feel him gaining on you- steady, purposeful, silent.
You make it halfway to your chambers before his hand closes around your wrist.
He pulls you into a side room- an antechamber lined with bookshelves and an unused writing desk- and shuts the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
The air changes instantly.
He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the weight of him, the way his presence seems to draw the oxygen from the room.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice low, razor-edged.
You arch a brow. “Speak?”
“Undermine me in front of my council.” His gaze is molten steel, locked on yours. “You embarrassed me.”
You take a deliberate step forward, closing some of the space between you. “I saved you from making a decision that would’ve turned half your kingdom against you.”
His jaw flexes. “That’s not your place.”
“And sitting there like a decorative vase is?” Your voice is calm, but each word lands sharp.
He moves closer, forcing you to back up until the edge of the desk presses against the back of your thighs. His hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is to overstep in that room.”
You tilt your chin up. “I understand perfectly. They’ll eat you alive if they think you’re weak. And nothing says weakness like a wife too afraid to speak her mind.”
His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”
“I know I am.”
For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing. His gaze drops briefly- not to your mouth, but to the stubborn lift of your chin- then returns to your eyes.
“You enjoy provoking me,” he says quietly.
“Only when you deserve it.”
One corner of his mouth twitches- not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Careful, Princess. If you make a habit of this, you might find I have… inventive ways of teaching obedience.”
You lean just slightly into the space between you, your voice a whisper. “And if you keep underestimating me, you might find I have inventive ways of winning.”
The tension between you is almost unbearable- not heat, not tenderness, just raw defiance meeting raw authority.
Finally, he pushes back, giving you space. “You’re not stupid,” he says. “But you are mine to manage.”
You smooth your skirts, stepping past him toward the door. “If you think I’ll be managed, Your Highness… you really haven’t been paying attention.”
You don’t wait for him to follow.
═══════
5 years earlier (jungkook’s pov):
The gala had been suffocating.
Perfume and politics choked the air inside the ballroom. Every step, every word, every glance felt calculated. The music was loud enough to cover whispers but not loud enough to drown them out.
Jungkook slipped through a side door.
The night air hit him like a blessing- cool, crisp, tinged with the scent of rain. He loosened his collar and exhaled, letting the weight of the crown’s expectations roll off his shoulders, if only for a breath.
That’s when he saw her.
Jisoo.
She was standing at the edge of the balcony, moonlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. A pale silk gown flowed around her like water. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her lips moving faintly as she hummed something he didn’t recognize.
She turned when she heard him.
“Oh- Your Highness,” she said, voice light, careful. She curtsied, the movement graceful, unhurried. “I didn’t realize anyone else would be out here.”
“I needed air,” he admitted.
Her smile was small but knowing. “So did I.”
They stood there for a moment, the muffled music from the ballroom spilling through the open doors. He should have gone back inside. Instead, he found himself asking, “Do you come to many of these events?”
“More than I’d like.” Her gaze drifted toward the gardens below. “But my father says it’s important to be seen.”
The words were simple. Obvious, even. But the way she said them- steady, resigned, without bitterness- struck him. She wasn’t like the others inside, scrambling for attention or advantage.
“I suppose he’s right,” he said.
She looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, he thought she might see past the prince to the man beneath. “You wear the pressure well.”
The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It was the kind of thing royals said to each other all the time. But there was no jest in her tone, no false sweetness. It felt… clean.
Someone called her name from inside- a soft summons from a lady-in-waiting.
She dipped her head. “I should go.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Jungkook stayed on that balcony long after, the faint sound of her humming still in his ears.
It had been nothing- a polite exchange in the quiet. But in a life where every word was a weapon, her simplicity had felt like a shield.
Years later, he still told himself she was different.
He never noticed that he didn’t know a single thing more about her.
═══════
Two months change nothing… and everything.
The last time you and Jungkook stood together in the council chamber, you defied him in front of his ministers. He hasn’t forgotten. Neither have you.
The winter gala is your first appearance together since then.
The ballroom glitters under crystal chandeliers, every corner alive with silks, jewels, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation. Gold light spills across polished marble, and the air is warm with the scent of champagne and candle wax.
You’ve chosen your gown carefully.
Silk the color of deep wine, cut low enough at the back to reveal the elegant dip of your spine, the fabric clinging to your curves before spilling loose in a daring slit high on your thigh. By court standards, it’s scandalous. By yours, it’s perfect.
You don’t tell Jungkook you’ve done it for him.
You tell yourself it’s for you.
The heads turn as soon as you enter on his arm. Ministers pause mid-sentence. Noblewomen whisper behind jeweled fans. Men look longer than they should. You feel the power in it- the way the room bends toward you.
Jungkook’s grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise.
“Enjoying yourself already?” you murmur, eyes fixed forward.
“You think this is clever?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Every man here staring at what’s mine?”
“Every man here staring at their future queen,” you correct softly.
He doesn’t reply, but you feel the tension radiating off him.
And then you see her.
Jisoo.
She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by a small cluster of dignitaries. She’s dressed in soft silver, hair pinned in perfect curls, a picture of refined restraint. The kind of elegance that draws admiration without scandal.
She sees you. She smiles- polite, warm, and just a little too knowing. You smile back, the kind that could be taken for friendliness or challenge.
You make your rounds, greeting nobles, shaking hands, accepting compliments that dance on the edge of impropriety. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you even when he’s not beside you- especially when you laugh at another man’s joke, your fingers brushing his sleeve as you speak.
When you finally return to Jungkook’s side, his jaw is tight.
“Careful, Princess,” he says under his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
You sip your champagne, unbothered. “So are you.”
The orchestra swells, the floor clears for the next dance. He offers his hand, not out of romance, but because tradition demands it.
You place your hand in his and let him lead you into the spotlight.
Around you, the court watches. Some curious, some envious, some waiting for one of you to slip.
Under the chandeliers, his hand rests low on your back, almost possessive.
You wonder if he’s imagining Jisoo in your place. You wonder if it’s killing him that he can’t look away from you.
═══════
The ride back to the palace is silent.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that crackles with things unsaid.
You can feel him beside you in the carriage, his body still wound tight, his hand flexing once on his knee as though resisting the urge to act. He doesn’t look at you, but his gaze burns into the side of your face all the same.
When the carriage stops, he’s out first, striding through the palace doors without a word. You follow, heels clicking against marble. He doesn’t slow down until you’re inside your chambers.
The door shuts hard behind you.
“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” His voice is sharp, each word laced with steel.
You slip off your gloves one finger at a time. “Do you enjoy pretending you own me?”
He takes two steps forward, closing the space between you. “Everything you did tonight- the dress, the smiles, touching him-”
“-was diplomacy,” you cut in. “Something a ruler should understand.”
His eyes flash, and then he’s crowding you backward until your spine meets the wall. His hand presses against it beside your head, trapping you in place.
“You wanted my attention?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “Now you have it.”
Your heart kicks hard, but you lift your chin. “And what will you do with it, Your Highness?”
His mouth crashes onto yours- not gentle, not tentative, but claiming. His other hand drags up your thigh, finding the slit in your gown and shoving the silk higher.
“Prove to you,” he murmurs against your lips, “that you can play with anyone else in the room… but you’ll still end up here.”
You bite his lower lip, pulling back just enough to smirk. “And if I’m not impressed?”
His grip tightens on your hip. “Then I’ll try harder.”
He turns you toward the bed in one swift movement, the skirt of your gown bunching in his fist. You go willingly, but when he pushes you down, you twist to look over your shoulder.
“Still just duty?” you taunt.
He freezes for a fraction of a second- then his hands are on you again, rougher now, dragging you back against the hard, unmistakable shape of his cock through his trousers. “Tonight? It’s a lesson.”
The dress comes off in a series of impatient tugs, pooling on the floor. His palms roam over your bare skin like he’s taking inventory, thumbs digging into your ass before parting you just enough to feel the heat of his breath between your legs. You shiver, but refuse to turn your face away.
His clothes follow- not rushed, but stripped with deliberate precision, every motion dripping with control. When he finally presses the heavy, hot length of him against your entrance, he holds there for a moment, letting you feel every inch before he pushes in.
The stretch is deep and sudden, making your breath catch, your nails digging into the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust- his hips drive forward in hard, unrelenting strokes, the thick slide of him hitting deep enough to make you gasp every time. His hands lock your hips in place, forcing you to take him exactly how he wants, his pace a brutal, steady rhythm meant to grind down your defiance.
But you meet every thrust, rocking back against him with just as much force, your slick making every connection filthy and loud.
“Say you belong to me,” he orders, voice ragged.
You shake your head, breathless but smiling even as pleasure twists low in your belly. “No.”
His mouth is at your ear in the next breath, teeth grazing the shell before his words pour over you like molten heat. “You will.”
You push back harder, grinding until the head of his cock drags against that sweet, swollen spot inside you. A moan slips free- you swallow it down before it can give him satisfaction. “Or you’ll learn I don’t belong to anyone.”
The challenge hangs between you, thick as the sweat on your skin. Neither of you slow down, each thrust sharper, wetter, more desperate. The slap of skin fills the room, your breaths tangled with curses and broken sounds you’d never admit to making.
You’re so close you can feel it buzzing in your bones but you hold it back out of spite, out of sheer will. His fingers slip down between your thighs, finding your clit and circling hard until your resolve cracks and your body shudders around him.
He follows with a deep, savage thrust, spilling into you with a low groan, hips grinding through the aftershocks like he’s branding you from the inside.
When it ends, you’re both breathless, flushed, staring at each other across the tangle of sheets.
He doesn’t kiss you. You don’t ask him to.
“You’re exhausting,” he says finally.
“You’re obsessed,” you reply.
And you both know you’re right.
═══════
Two weeks have passed since that night.
The night where anger blurred with want, where neither of you surrendered but both of you took.
Since then, you’ve spoken little. Polite exchanges in public, calculated silences in private.
The world sees perfection. You see the cracks.
This morning, the palace gardens are alive with late winter sunlight. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of blooming camellias and damp earth. You’ve always preferred this part of the palace- away from the council chambers, away from the eyes of the court.
Your ladies follow at a respectful distance as you take the marble path toward the upper terrace. The view from there sweeps over the river, the towers, and the city beyond- a reminder of everything that belongs to the crown, if not to you.
You’re halfway up the wide steps when your heel catches on the edge of your gown.
The world tilts.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as your foot slides on the slick marble. You stumble forward, ankle twisting hard. The pain shoots up your leg before your knees hit the ground.
And then-
Strong hands catch you before you collapse completely.
The scent of warm spice and leather floods your senses.
“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent.
You blink up into Jungkook’s face. For once, his expression isn’t composed. His eyes are wide, scanning you for injury.
“My ankle,” you breathe, wincing as the weight shifts.
Without hesitation, he bends and sweeps you into his arms. The motion startles you, your hands gripping his shoulders instinctively.
“Put me down,” you protest.
“Not a chance,” he says, his tone sharp but not cold. It’s threaded with something you’ve never heard from him before. Fear.
He carries you to a shaded bench, lowering you carefully. His fingers are warm and gentle as they press around the swelling ankle, his jaw tight.
“You’ll be off it for a day at least,” he says.
“It’s just a twist-”
“You’ll rest,” he interrupts, brooking no argument. “I’ll have a physician sent immediately.”
You tilt your head. “Are you… worried?”
His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. “You are my wife,” he says finally, voice softer than you expect. “What happens to you matters.”
“You’ll stay in your chambers today. I’ll make the arrangements.”
And before you can protest, he bends again, one arm hooking under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing.
“Jungkook-”
“Save your breath,” he says, eyes fixed forward. “You’re not walking on it.”
The world tilts in a different way now, the solid heat of him under you, the steady rhythm of his steps carrying you through the garden paths. Court attendants bow as he passes, some openly staring, but he doesn’t slow.
He carries you up the palace steps, down the corridors, and straight into your chambers- only setting you down on the bed once you’re surrounded by the familiar silk and shadow.
His hands linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he steps back. “Rest.”
Then the mask is back, and he’s gone.
═══════
The physician leaves just before noon.
“It’s only a mild sprain,” he’d said, binding your ankle with clean linen and instructing you to stay off it for a day or two. “Nothing serious, Your Highness. As long as you rest.”
You’re propped against a fortress of pillows in your bed, silk sheets spilling over your legs, a cup of cooling tea at your side. The room is too still, too quiet. You’ve never been good at sitting still.
Your ladies-in-waiting keep offering to read to you or bring fresh flowers, but you send them away after the fourth polite interruption. It’s not their fault you feel caged. The crown fits heavy enough without being confined to your chambers.
You’re staring at the gilded canopy when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” you call.
Jungkook steps inside.
You blink. “I thought you had meetings all afternoon.”
“I do,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. He crosses the room, the sound of his boots muffled against the carpet. “I wanted to see if you were following orders.”
“Orders?” you repeat, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize marriage came with a chain of command.”
His gaze flicks to your bandaged ankle. “You’re still in bed. That’s a start.”
You expect him to leave after that, but instead, he moves toward the table and pours you fresh tea, setting the cup within reach. You catch the faintest furrow between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too much.
“You didn’t have to-”
“It was closer to me than to you,” he cuts in.
“Right,” you murmur, hiding a small smile behind the rim of your cup.
He stands there a moment longer, as if debating something. “If you need anything-”
“I’ll send for a guard?” you finish for him, teasing.
His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no heat in it. “Exactly.”
He turns to go, and something in you flares- curiosity, stubbornness, maybe both. “Jungkook.”
He pauses at the door.
“You caught me before I fell,” you say. “Why?”
For a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours. “Because you’re mine to protect.”
Then the door shuts behind him.
You’re left staring at it, unsure whether his words were a claim, a duty… or something else entirely.
═══════
By morning, the dull ache in your ankle has faded to something tolerable. Not gone- but not enough to keep you trapped in bed.
You dress yourself in a pale blue day gown, something soft and unassuming, and braid your hair back in a way that says I am perfectly fine, thank you. Your ladies-in-waiting hover nervously as you make your way to the sitting room.
“Your Highness,” one begins gently, “perhaps you should-”
“I’ve rested long enough,” you say, taking the first careful step toward the door. “There are things I need to see to.”
They exchange looks but say nothing.
The moment you open the door, you nearly collide with him.
Jungkook stands there, dressed in deep charcoal, the morning light catching on the silver clasp at his cloak. His gaze drops immediately to your feet, to the subtle limp you try- and fail- to hide.
“Where are you going?” His tone is calm, but there’s a weight to it.
“For a walk,” you say. “It’s a palace, not a prison.”
His jaw flexes. “Not without me.”
You fold your arms. “You’re busy. I can manage.”
He steps past you into the room, closing the door behind him. “You can barely walk without favoring that ankle.”
“I can walk,” you counter. “And I intend to.”
Something flickers in his eyes- not anger, not quite- before he exhales sharply. “Then I’ll escort you.”
It’s not a request.
You consider arguing, but there’s something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that tells you it will only waste time. So instead, you smile- sweet, false. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
He offers his arm. You take it, because refusing would feel like losing, and you refuse to lose to him in anything.
The walk is slow, deliberate. The gardens are busy with attendants pruning roses and sweeping paths. You can feel the eyes on you- the court always watches. Jungkook’s hand stays steady under yours, guiding you away from uneven ground, adjusting his pace without comment when you falter.
It’s infuriating how natural it feels.
When you reach the far end of the garden, you stop beside the fountain, pretending to admire the lilies floating on the surface.
“See?” you say. “Perfectly capable.”
He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re stubborn.”
“And you’re controlling,” you reply. “Somehow, we make it work.”
For a moment, it almost feels like truce.
Almost.
Then he says, “Next time, I’ll carry you from the start.”
And before you can respond, he turns and starts back toward the palace, leaving you to follow with the faintest, most infuriating smile tugging at your lips.
═══════
The royal conservatory smells faintly of jasmine and politics.
Today’s luncheon is meant to honor a visiting trade delegation, but as always, it’s also a performance- a showcase of unity between the prince and his consort. You sit at Jungkook’s right, posture perfect, hands folded loosely in your lap.
The conversation drifts from tariffs to art to upcoming festivals. You answer politely when addressed, keeping your smile fixed in place.
Until Lord Jimin speaks.
He’s old money, old power, and old enough to think his opinion is law. Leaning back in his chair with a practiced smile, he says, “It’s lovely to see you out and about again, Your Highness. I’d heard you’d been… recovering from a fall? I suppose marble steps can be dangerous… for those unused to palace life.”
A polite ripple of laughter travels the table. The words are coated in courtesy, but the meaning is sharp- a reminder you’re an outsider, unaccustomed, and perhaps unfit.
You meet his gaze without flinching. “It’s true. I fell. Luckily, my husband was there to catch me.”
“Yes,” Jimin says smoothly, “though I imagine His Highness has far more pressing matters than tending to scraped ankles. Affairs of state require… sturdier footing.”
It’s a dig. Gentle enough to pass as banter, but you hear the insinuation beneath it: fragile, ornamental, a burden.
You’re ready to respond, but Jungkook speaks first.
“Lord Jimin,” he says, voice even but edged with steel, “you mistake grace for weakness.” The table quiets instantly. “The Princess has already proven herself in council and in matters of policy. She is not a burden. She is my partner.”
Jimin blinks, caught off guard.
“And,” Jungkook continues, his gaze locking with the older lord’s, “if I ever hear you suggest otherwise again- even in jest- I will ensure you regret it.”
A ripple of stunned silence follows. Somewhere down the table, a glass is set down a little too quickly.
Jimin forces a smile. “Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”
“Then perhaps,” Jungkook says, his tone softening but not losing its weight, “you should choose your words more carefully.”
The conversation resumes, but the balance at the table has shifted.
You glance at Jungkook. His expression is unreadable, his focus already on the next course being served.
But under the table, you let your fingers brush his hand- not a thank-you, exactly, but an acknowledgment.
He doesn’t pull away.
The luncheon ends in a blur of polite farewells and murmured congratulations. You don’t remember half the names of the people you shook hands with- not because they weren’t important, but because you could feel Jungkook beside you.
Not just beside you. With you.
Every time you replay his words- “She is my partner”- your pulse stirs a little faster.
The doors close behind the last of the guests. Servants move to collect the empty glasses, but Jungkook’s voice stops them.
“Leave us.”
The room empties quickly. You’re still standing by the long banquet table when he crosses to you, his steps unhurried, but his gaze locked on yours like he’s already made a decision.
“You enjoyed that,” you murmur, chin lifting.
“What?” he says, stopping just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
“Defending me.” You allow a slow smile. “Making it clear I’m yours.”
His hand is at your waist before you can react, pulling you flush against him. “You are mine.”
The words aren’t cold this time. They’re hot. Dangerous.
You open your mouth to retort, but his lips crash onto yours- not claiming like before, but taking, deep and insistent, like he’s been holding it back all afternoon. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you, coaxing a soft sound from the back of your throat.
Your fingers curl into his jacket, dragging him closer. The kiss breaks just long enough for him to murmur, voice rough, “Tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
He lifts you onto the table in one motion, your skirts spilling over polished wood. His mouth moves to your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before his hands shove fabric higher and higher, until your thighs are bare.
“This isn’t about duty,” you breathe, half dazed.
He pushes you back so you’re lying on the table, bunching your dress up, and then he drops to his knees between your legs. Your breath catches. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open.
“No,” he agrees, his voice low, almost dangerous. “This is about you.”
And then his mouth is on you- a slow, deliberate lick over your slit that makes you jolt.
He doesn’t give you time to think before his mouth is on you- hot, wet, and devastatingly slow. His tongue slides from your entrance to your clit in one unhurried stroke, making you jolt.
His hands grip your thighs like steel, keeping you open while his tongue circles lazily, deliberately avoiding giving you enough pressure to push you over. He pulls back just enough to blow a warm breath over you, watching the way you shiver.
“Already wet,” he murmurs, smirking before diving in again, licking you like he’s savoring every drop. He alternates between slow, languid strokes and fast, focused flicks over your clit until your hips are rocking into his face.
You try to pull him closer, but he shakes his head against you, forcing you to take his pace. “You’ll come when I say,” he growls, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard. The sound that tears from your throat is half-moan, half-curse.
He doesn’t stop. His tongue fucks into you, wet and insistent, before returning to your clit. The obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room, mingling with your ragged breathing. You’re panting now, thighs trembling against his grip, every muscle wound tight.
When your climax finally breaks, it’s sharp and shuddering, your back arching off the table. He holds you there, riding out every wave, his mouth never leaving you until you whimper from oversensitivity.
Only then does he rise, mouth slick, eyes dark. He leans over you, his cock already pressing against your thigh. “You don’t get to keep pretending after this,” you whisper, still catching your breath.
His hips still for a second, gaze locked on yours. Then he leans to your ear. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”
He frees himself and pushes into you in one deep, steady thrust, the thick stretch forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. The aftershocks of your orgasm make every inch of him feel amplified, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out.
He doesn’t give you time to settle- his hips draw back slow, almost teasing, before slamming forward again, the table groaning under the force. The rhythm he finds is hard and sure, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your breath hitch. His hands grip your hips, dragging you into every snap of his body, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the quiet room.
You cling to him, nails digging into the back of his jacket as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand himself into your muscles. The slick slide between you is filthy, your wetness coating him, making each thrust faster, harder.
When his mouth finds yours again, the kiss is desperate- teeth, tongue, shared breath- his pace never faltering. He swallows your moans, dragging them out until they’re rough, uncontrolled sounds you swore you wouldn’t make for him.
Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, angling him deeper, and he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and circling just hard enough to make your vision blur.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice ragged. You do- helplessly- your body clenching around him as the climax rips through you. He groans, hips driving deep one last time before he spills inside you, grinding through the aftershocks until you’re both shaking.
For a moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing.
When it’s over, he stays inside you just long enough to make you feel the weight of it- then pulls out, tucking himself back in with slow precision. He adjusts his jacket, then reaches down, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“You should eat dinner in your chambers tonight,” he says.
It sounds like an order. It feels like care.
═══════
It’s only been a few days since the luncheon- and what happened after- but already, the edges between you and Jungkook are back to cutting.
The council chamber is thick with debate. A dispute over land rights has ministers talking over one another, and you’ve had enough. You speak up, cutting through the noise with a solution that’s both strategic and bold.
The room goes quiet. Even the scribe pauses his pen.
Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the way his knuckles tap the table once- a subtle warning meant for you.
When the meeting adjourns, you rise with the others, smoothing your skirts. You expect him to walk beside you. Instead, he barely glances your way.
“You enjoy taking command in front of my council,” he says as you step into the corridor. His tone is light enough that an outsider wouldn’t catch the bite beneath it.
“They were wasting time,” you reply evenly. “I offered a solution.”
“You offered my solution,” he says, eyes forward. “Before I could give it.”
“That’s not my fault,” you counter, but he’s already striding ahead.
By the time you reach the great hall, he’s gone. No explanation. No dismissal. Just gone.
You wander the palace to cool your temper, your steps echoing in the quiet corridors. You’ve never cared much for the east wing- it’s quieter, more private- but today, you find yourself there.
A door at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar.
Jungkook’s office.
You hesitate, but curiosity wins.
Inside, the space is meticulously ordered- shelves lined with ledgers, a polished desk, the faint scent of ink and parchment in the air. You trail your fingers along the edge of the desk, noticing the papers stacked with military precision.
And then, near the bottom of one stack, you see it.
An envelope. Unsealed. Your name isn’t on it and the handwriting is Jungkook’s.
The date at the top freezes your breath in your chest- the day after your wedding.
You shouldn’t read it. You know that. But your fingers are already sliding the page free.
The first word you see is her.
Jisoo.
Your stomach twists.
You look toward the door- still closed- then back at the page, your pulse loud in your ears.
You sink into his chair, the letter trembling slightly in your hands.
Whatever’s written here, you already know it’s going to hurt.
═══════
My dearest Jisoo,
I should not be writing to you. Every reason I have been given tells me to let go- to accept the reality they have bound me to. But it is not reality I am living in. It is a sentence.
Yesterday, I stood at the altar with your sister. I said the vows. I placed the ring on her finger. I lifted her veil. And the entire time, all I could think was how wrong it was that it was her standing there, and not you.
You should have been my bride. You should have worn the crown beside me.
But politics is a crueler ruler than either of us. You know as well as I do that your father would never have allowed it- not with the trade agreement your marriage prospects could secure for your kingdom.
You were promised long before I had the right to ask.
Lord Dae-Hyun’s second son was a match your father could not afford to lose, and once your name was spoken, it could not be withdrawn. By the time I realized, you were already gone- sealed off by duty, unreachable by even my title.
They told me it was impossible. That I had to take the match offered. That she was the only way to solidify the alliance.
As though I should be grateful.
I am not.
Y/N is… restless. Too quick to speak, too unwilling to simply be still. She moves like she’s waiting for a fight that no one has offered her, and perhaps that is the part I resent most- her constant need to be seen, to be heard. Even in these first hours as husband and wife, she seems determined to prove something, though I cannot imagine what it is, or to whom.
She will make noise, I am sure, and perhaps even cause enough distraction to make the ministers believe she is worth the trouble.
But she is not you.
She does not have your grace. Your steadiness. The way you can command a room without raising your voice.
When I look at her, I see only the shadow of what could have been. And it is unbearable to wake each day beside the wrong sister, knowing the one I wanted most is still within reach, yet impossibly far.
I do not expect you to answer this. Perhaps you will not even read it. But I needed you to know that, in every way that matters, I am still yours.
I will always be yours.
- Jungkook
═══════
You don’t remember standing.
One moment, you’re staring at the ink- the words curling across the page like they were meant to strangle you- and the next, you’re shoving the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands.
Your legs move without thought, carrying you out of his office and through the palace corridors. You don’t care if anyone sees you. You just need to be away from there. Away from him.
By the time you reach your chambers, your breath is uneven, your vision swimming. The ladies-in-waiting rush to greet you, offering tea, asking if you’d like to change before dinner.
“Leave,” you say, your voice tight.
They freeze. “Your Highness-”
“Please,” you add, softer this time, but your voice cracks around the word. “I need to be alone.”
They bow and file out, glancing back as though worried to leave you like this. The door shuts.
The silence is crushing.
You press your back against it for a moment before sliding down to the floor. The sob breaks free before you can stop it- raw, shattering, the kind that leaves you gasping.
You push yourself up and stagger to the bed, sinking into the mattress as if the weight of the letter is still pressing down on you. The tears come harder now, unstoppable. You press your hands over your mouth to muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one left to hear.
Every word replays in your mind- restless, wrong sister, always be yours. Each one cuts deeper, tearing through every fragile thread of dignity you’ve tried to hold together since the wedding.
Hours pass. The light outside dims to gold, then gray, then nothing. You don’t move. Dinner comes and goes. You don’t send for food. You don’t light the lamps. The only glow in the room is the faint spill of moonlight across the floor.
The knock at the door comes late. Before you can answer, it opens.
Jungkook steps inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You weren’t at dinner.”
You don’t reply.
His gaze shifts to your face- the flushed skin, the reddened eyes, the damp lashes. His body stills.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
You just stare at him, the letter’s words burning between you like a secret only you know.
You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet when he steps closer.
“What happened?” he asks again.
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “If my father let you marry her right now,” you say, your voice shaking, “would I still be here?”
His brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”
“Answer me!” Your voice rises, breaking against the walls. “Would I still be here, Jungkook?”
His eyes narrow. “You went through my things.”
“You wrote it!” you shout, the tears burning hot again. “You wrote it the day after our wedding! You said you wished it was her. You said I was the wrong sister. You said you’d always be hers.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice stays level- too level. “And what if I did? It was the truth.”
Your breath catches.
“I married you for politics,” he says, each word deliberate, cold. “Not for love. And yes, everything in that letter is true.”
It feels like the floor drops out from under you.
You take a step back, but he follows, his voice sharper now. “You think snooping through my office will make you more than what you are? It doesn’t. You were a convenience, Y/N. Nothing more.”
The sob rips from your throat before you can stop it. “You’re cruel.”
“And you’re naive,” he snaps. “If you thought this marriage was anything else, that’s on you.”
It’s the final blow- not just the words, but the way he says them, like they’re facts, not daggers.
Your vision blurs. You turn away before he can see the collapse happening inside you. “I’m going home.”
“You can’t just-”
But you’re already moving, shoving past him, through the door, and down the corridor.
Within the hour, you’re in the stables, your guards scrambling to follow orders they didn’t expect. The palace fades behind you as the carriage rattles toward your father’s kingdom.
You don’t look back.
If you did, you might see the shadow in the window- a figure watching you leave, unmoving until you vanish from sight.
═══════
jungkook’s pov:
The door slammed behind her hours ago. And yet, the echo of her voice still lingers.
Jungkook sits at his desk, the untouched glass of brandy in front of him reflecting the moonlight. He’d been furious when she confronted him- furious she’d been in his office, furious she’d read the letter. But fury fades fast when it’s replaced by the memory of her face, wet with tears, breaking in front of him.
Six months.
They’ve been married six months. Long enough for him to know the sound of her laughter when she’s not guarding it, the precise way her brow furrows when she’s deciding whether to speak her mind, the warmth in her voice when she’s talking to anyone who isn’t him.
And long enough for him to notice her- truly notice her. The way she moves, carries herself, commands attention without even trying. The way her beauty isn’t something the court dresses gave her, but something she wears like armor.
He’d told himself from the start that she was a political necessity, nothing more. The letter he’d written to Jisoo had been the truth back then or at least the truth he’d chosen to believe. But now?
Now he remembers the garden. How light she’d felt in his arms when he carried her back to her chambers. How she hadn’t flinched when Lord Jimin made his sly dig, but met it with a smile that made Jungkook want to break the man’s teeth.
The way her hand had brushed his under the table after he defended her. The faint smile she tried to hide.
And after everyone left , the way she’d come apart under his hands. How the urgency between them had been more than anger, more than duty. The taste of her still lingers on his tongue, the sound of her voice when she moaned his name still carved into his memory. It hadn’t been detached, like before- not when he was buried inside her, not when his mouth was on her, not when her nails clawed at his shoulders like she was trying to hold him there forever. He’d been closer to her in that hour than in the entire six months of their marriage.
God, he’d said she was a convenience. Nothing more.
The lie tastes bitter.
He pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. His coat is on in seconds, boots echoing against the stone floors as he makes for the stables.
It doesn’t matter that it’s past midnight. It doesn’t matter that the journey to her father’s kingdom will take hours.
He has to see her.
Not as a prince, not as a husband fulfilling some duty- but as a man who knows he’s made a mistake.
The groomsman barely has time to saddle his horse before Jungkook swings into the saddle. The cold night air bites at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness in the palace without her.
He rides hard.
He’s going to bring her home.
═══════
The warmth of your father’s manor is different from the one you left.
Here, the air doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on you. The corridors smell faintly of cedar and fresh bread instead of cold stone. You can breathe without worrying about who’s watching.
For the first time in months, you let yourself sit without the weight of the crown. Wrapped in a thick blanket in your father’s private sitting room, you sip tea, listening to the muted hum of distant conversation.
You’re not healed. You know that. But for now, you’re home.
The knock on the front doors comes just as you set your cup down. Footsteps cross the marble foyer, and then- a voice you never thought you’d hear here.
“Is she here?”
Your blood runs cold.
Jisoo’s voice answers, careful but unmistakably surprised. “Jungkook.”
You freeze, every muscle locking in place.
“I need to see her,” he says- no hesitation, no preamble.
Before you can even decide whether to stand or run, he’s inside. His eyes find you across the room in an instant. And then he’s moving- past Jisoo, past the threshold, crossing the space between you like nothing else exists. He’s in front of you before you can even get to your feet.
Jungkook drops to his knees, the movement sharp and sudden, his hands coming up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. His eyes search yours- not for anger, not for forgiveness, but for proof you’re real.
“Y/N-”
You shove his hands away, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Don’t.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then Jisoo, sensing the air between you, murmurs something to your father and slips from the room. The door shuts behind them, leaving only the two of you.
Your voice is low, but cutting. “You don’t get to come here, after what you said, and pretend it never happened.”
He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you- truly looks- as though you’ve hung the stars and he’s only just realizing it.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the letter. For what I said after. For every time I made you feel unwanted.”
You fold your arms, holding your ground.
“I didn’t know I was falling for you,” he continues, “until it was already happening.”
You scoff. “Falling for me?”
“The winter gala,” he says, and you can hear the truth in his voice. “You walked into that room and the whole court bent toward you, even when I was furious. The garden- when you fell, I’ve never been that afraid in my life. Your wit, the way you see through people at council. The luncheon- the way you touched my hand under the table like you knew exactly what it meant. And after… when we were together, it wasn’t just anger or duty anymore. For the first time, I felt like I was with you, not just my wife.”
He swallows hard. “And the quieter things. Dinners where you laughed with the servants and made them forget you were royalty. The way you read late at night, biting your lip when you turn the page. The way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”
Your breath catches, but you mask it with a shake of your head. “Words are easy, Jungkook. You’ve had six months to show me I matter and you didn’t. Why should I believe you now?”
His jaw tightens. “Because I’m standing here, asking you to come home.”
You meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “No. Not until you prove it.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but you don’t look away. For the first time since you’ve known him, he nods- not in dismissal, but in acceptance.
“I will.”
═══════
jungkook’s pov:
The court is already buzzing when Jungkook walks into the great hall. Ministers in rich silks murmur over parchment, their jeweled rings catching the light. They fall silent when they see what he’s carrying.
An envelope. Old. Unsealed.
He walks to the center of the room, past the council table, past the throne. The letter-the one he wrote to Jisoo six months ago- feels like it weighs more than steel in his hand.
Without preamble, he sets it atop the silver brazier meant for burning old decrees.
“This letter,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the vaulted hall, “is a lie I let live too long.”
The ministers glance at one another.
He strikes a match and drops it onto the parchment. Flame curls the edges, swallowing the words, until nothing remains but black ash.
“I have one queen,” he continues. “Not simply a wife to fulfill politics, not a placeholder for another. Y/N is my queen- in title, in duty, and in my heart.”
Murmurs ripple through the chamber.
“She is the woman who has stood beside me when I gave her no reason to. Who has shown strength where others expected silence. Who has matched me in wit, in will, and in fire.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “And I love her.”
The last of the letter collapses into ash.
He turns to the royal scribe. “Send word to her father’s court. Let it be known across both kingdoms.”
═══════
The day is uneventful until the envoy arrives.
The royal messenger steps into your father’s receiving room, his cloak still dusted with travel, the sealed scroll in his hand gleaming with Jungkook’s crest.
“For Her Highness, the Princess Consort,” he says, bowing as he offers it.
Your father watches you break the seal.
The parchment is brief but formal- the kind of statement meant to be read in public squares and whispered over in taverns:
A letter burned. Your name spoken in the great hall. You, named not only wife, but queen. And the final line, in Jungkook’s unmistakable hand: I love you.
Your fingers tighten on the parchment. You can hear the pounding of your own heart.
“Seems he’s made his choice,” your father says quietly.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet.
You’re still staring at the proclamation when Jisoo slips into your room.
“So… he burned it?” she says, perching lightly on the edge of your bed.
You nod, the parchment still in your lap. “In front of everyone. Declared me his queen. Said he loves me.”
Jisoo studies your face. “And you don’t believe him?”
“I want to,” you admit, your voice low. “But wanting to and trusting are two different things.”
Jisoo’s expression softens. “You’ve always been braver than you think, Y/N. Go see him. Make him prove it in person.”
The next day, you do.
The journey back to his kingdom feels shorter this time, though your heart is heavier with each mile.
When the carriage pulls into the palace courtyard, you expect the usual line of attendants and guards. You don’t expect him- standing at the base of the steps, dressed simply, holding a bouquet of deep red roses.
The door opens, and the early Spring air rushes in.
He looks up at you, something unguarded in his eyes. “Welcome home, Y/N.”
You step down from the carriage, the scent of the roses reaching you before his hands do.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he offers them to you. You take the roses, the petals velvety against your fingers.
“They’re beautiful,” you say, your voice careful.
“They’re not enough,” Jungkook replies.
You blink up at him. “Then why give them to me?”
“Because I needed something in my hands when I saw you,” he admits. “Otherwise I might not have been able to keep from-” He stops himself, his jaw flexing. “-from saying too much, too soon.”
The words catch you off guard.
An attendant moves to take your luggage, but Jungkook waves them off. “I’ll walk her.”
You glance at him, then at the long climb up the palace steps. “You don’t usually play porter.”
“I don’t usually try to win back my wife,” he says, matter-of-fact.
Inside, the corridors are quieter than usual. He walks beside you, matching your pace, and doesn’t speak again until you reach your chambers.
“I know words won’t be enough,” he says, stopping at the threshold. “So I’ll show you.”
“How?” you ask, wary but curious.
“By being the man you deserve,” he answers without hesitation. “By giving you reason to believe me every day, not just when it’s convenient for me. By making sure you never have to doubt you are my queen- in every way that matters.”
You search his face, looking for cracks in the resolve. But his gaze holds steady.
“Then start proving it,” you say finally, stepping into the room.
Before the door closes, you hear him say softly, “I already am.”
═══════
The council chamber feels different this morning.
The air isn’t thick with the weight of being tolerated- it hums with the quiet acknowledgment of your place at the table. The ministers rise when you enter, bowing not out of obligation, but something closer to respect.
Jungkook takes his seat at the head of the table. You take yours at his right but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re in his shadow.
A dispute over the naval fleet’s funding takes center stage. Two ministers argue over whether to cut costs or invest in new shipbuilding.
You listen. And when their voices climb over each other, you speak.
“Cutting costs now will cost us more later,” you say, your tone firm but measured. “If we invest in the fleet, we secure our trade routes. That’s more revenue in the long term- and more security for our allies.”
All eyes shift to you.
One minister hesitates. “But, Your Highness-”
“She’s right,” Jungkook cuts in smoothly, his gaze steady on you. “The Princess’s proposal is sound. It will be implemented.”
You allow yourself a small smile, meeting his eyes.
The discussion moves on, but the shift lingers- ministers asking for your opinion, valuing it, weighing it as they would his. And each time you speak, Jungkook listens. Not with the detached patience of before, but with intent, his attention fixed on you as though no other voice in the room matters.
By the end of the session, the room feels different again. Not because you’ve changed, but because they’ve started to see you as you’ve always been.
A queen in the room.
═══════
The council chamber has long since emptied, but the weight of the day lingers in your shoulders.
You find him in his office, the golden light of late afternoon spilling over the maps and scrolls spread across his desk. He looks up when you enter, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.
“You were remarkable today,” Jungkook says, leaning back in his chair. “The fleet’s commanders will be sending you wine for that decision.”
You smile faintly but don’t sit. Instead, you step closer, your skirts whispering over the polished floor. “I need to ask you something.”
His gaze sharpens. “Anything.”
You stop a few feet from him, folding your hands in front of you. “What do you see in me,” you ask slowly, “that you never saw in Jisoo?”
The room stills.
He blinks once, as if he’s not sure he heard you right. “Why are you asking me that now?”
“Because,” you say, keeping your voice even, “you’ve told me you love me. You’ve burned your letter. You’ve defended me in court. But there’s still a part of me that wonders if you love me for me, or because I became what you needed.”
He rises from the chair, closing the distance until he’s standing right in front of you. “You think I’d confuse the two?”
“I think,” you answer, meeting his eyes, “that I deserve to know the difference.”
For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle, marking each second between you.
And then he nods once- slow, deliberate. “Alright. I’ll tell you.”
He doesn’t look away when he speaks.
“When I thought of Jisoo,” Jungkook begins, “I saw… calm. The kind of quiet the court praises. She was gentle, and she fit the image of a queen in everyone’s mind, including mine. But it was a dream I built out of fragments. I didn’t know her. I had a single conversation with her.”
He takes another step closer. “And when I married you… I told myself it was only politics. But then the reality of you started undoing me.”
Your breath catches, but you don’t interrupt.
“The winter gala,” he says softly. “You walked in wearing that wine-red gown, and the entire court turned toward you- not because of your title, but because you owned the room. And I hated how much I noticed. The garden, when you fell- I’ve been in battles where men were dying around me, and I wasn’t as scared as I was in that moment.”
His voice lowers. “Your wit in council. The way you don’t back down, even when I’ve given you every reason to. That day you outmaneuvered Lord Jimin with a single look and a sharper tongue- I wanted to kiss you in front of everyone.”
You swallow hard, your heart pounding.
“And the luncheon,” he continues. “When you touched my hand under the table, I thought it was nothing. But afterwards… when I had you in my arms, when you let me in completely- it wasn’t anger, or duty, or proving a point. It was you. Just you. And I realized I’d never had that with anyone before.”
He exhales slowly. “You don’t just fit the image of a queen. You are one. And I see you, Y/N- not the crown, not the alliance, not my title beside yours. Just you. And I love what I see.”
He runs a hand through his hair, almost like he’s searching for the right words. “I think I was in love with you before I even understood it. Before I let myself admit it. Every time you challenged me, every time you made me see the world differently, it was another thread pulling me toward you. And now… now I can’t imagine a world where you’re not mine.”
The silence between you is different now- not the sharp-edged kind that’s filled your marriage, but something warmer. Something that pulls you toward him instead of pushing you away.
When he reaches for you, it’s not rushed. His hands frame your face gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His kiss is unhurried, deep, and you taste the truth of everything he’s just said in the way his mouth moves against yours.
You let him guide you back toward the bed, but this time there’s no battle for control- only the steady pull of his hands and the unspoken promise in his touch. Every glance, every brush of his fingers is a question, and you answer without hesitation, giving him all of you.
When his lips trail down your throat, you feel the weight of his love in the way he lingers, his mouth pressing gentle kisses, his nose brushing your skin like he’s breathing you in.
Clothing falls away slowly- not torn, but removed like it’s precious. He studies every inch of revealed skin with eyes that are soft and heavy with want, his hands tracing you as though he’s committing each curve to memory.
He eases you back onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs, and lowers himself until his breath ghosts over your core. The first kiss he presses there is slow, deliberate, making you gasp. “You’re so beautiful here,” he murmurs, before his tongue drags through your folds.
The first wave comes quickly- his mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking just right while two fingers slide inside you, curling until you’re gasping his name. He hums, the sound sending shivers through you as you clench around him, hips rocking helplessly.
He doesn’t let you come down. His mouth never leaves you, his fingers easing out only to be replaced by the wet slide of his tongue dipping inside you, tasting everything you give him. You whimper, overstimulated already, but his hands pin your hips to the mattress, holding you there until the second orgasm crashes over you- sharper this time, your thighs trembling around his head.
When you sag against the bed, panting, he kisses your inner thigh, his voice low and reverent. “One more for me, love.”
You can barely shake your head before his mouth is back on your clit, slower this time, coaxing instead of demanding. His fingers return, pumping deep and steady while his tongue traces lazy circles. The build is excruciatingly tender, your body tightening until you spill over again, crying out and clinging to him like you might drown without him.
Only then does he finally come up to you, his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Perfect,” he whispers, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “You’re perfect.”
He lines himself up and pushes into you with a long, steady thrust, the head of his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried fully inside. Your lips part in a shuddering gasp, your body still fluttering from the last climax, the aftershocks wrapping around him and drawing a deep groan from his chest.
He stills there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s savoring every second of being inside you. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I love you so much.”
His hips begin to move- slow at first, dragging all the way out before pressing back into the hilt, making you feel every inch. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hand finding yours between your bodies and lacing your fingers together like he’s anchoring himself.
He kisses you through it, the kind of kisses that steal your breath- soft one moment, hungry the next. His free hand strokes your cheek, tucks your hair back, touches you like you’re fragile and the most precious thing he’s ever held.
“You take me so well,” he breathes against your lips. “Every time… every time you feel like home.”
The words make your chest ache in the best way, your hips rising to meet his as the rhythm builds. He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts until the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His thumb finds your clit again, stroking in slow, perfect circles that have you gasping into his mouth.
“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice almost desperate. “Please… I need to feel you.”
It hits you fast, your body clenching hard around him as your climax rips through you. He follows instantly, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside, groaning your name into the crook of your neck. He keeps moving, slow and gentle now, riding out every aftershock until you’re both trembling and breathless.
When it’s over, he stays inside you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand still laced with yours. Finally, he eases out, tucks himself back in, and gathers you against him. His lips brush your temple in a soft, lingering kiss.
“I love you,” he murmurs again, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and for the first time since you married him, you let yourself believe it.
═══════
Four months pass, and the court is no longer divided over you.
You’ve stood in the council chamber beside Jungkook, your voice carrying as much weight as his. You’ve walked the gardens with visiting dignitaries, negotiated trade proposals, and heard the people’s petitions in the great hall. Every step, every decision, every glance exchanged with him has been watched- and now, no one doubts.
Today is the day it becomes official.
The great hall is a sea of color, banners of both your kingdoms and his draped from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight pours through stained glass, scattering jewels of light across the marble floor. Nobles, ministers, and foreign rulers fill the room, their eyes on the dais where two thrones sit side by side.
Jungkook is already there, dressed in ceremonial black and gold, a crown resting lightly on his head. He turns when you enter, and the faint smile that touches his lips is for you alone.
The High Chancellor’s voice rings out, carrying over the hush. “By the will of the Crown and the grace of Almighty God, let it be known throughout this realm and beyond its borders: Princess consort Y/N, beloved daughter of the realm and consort to His Majesty the King, having been found worthy in faith, in honor, and in steadfast devotion, is this day anointed and crowned.
From henceforth she shall be known as Her Most Gracious Majesty, Y/N, Queen Consort of this Kingdom, Guardian of the Crown’s dignity, and sworn companion to the Sovereign.
May her counsel be wise, her heart steadfast, and her reign beside His Majesty bring peace, prosperity, and glory to the realm.
Long live the Queen!”
You step forward, and the crown- lighter than you imagined, yet impossibly heavy with meaning- is placed upon your head.
When you rise, Jungkook takes your hand in front of the entire court, his grip warm and steady. The cheers that follow echo through the hall, the sound of a kingdom bearing witness.
You glance at him, your heart steady and certain.
Once, his heart was elsewhere. Now, it beats for me alone.
═══════
♡ MASTERLIST
♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡
These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.
summary: Jeon Jeongguk. A name that had dominated headlines and splashed across the front pages of every major newspaper for weeks. Accused of being a serial murderer, he was the centre of a storm that gripped the entire nation.
And now, you were standing in the eye of that storm—assigned as his criminal defense lawyer, with no choice but to defend him.
warnings: none (i think) :)
word count: 4k
authors note: this is a shorter chapter(and also a more boring one), idk why but i really struggled with figuring out what to write for the past couple of days…i just wanna jump right into the good parts 😢. this is a build up to that! remember don’t be a silent reader and tell me ur thoughts
< BACK | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >
“W-What do you mean it’s gone?” you questioned, trying to move closer to the screen.
“It was deleted, I don’t know by who.” the man replied, appearing just as clueless as you, if not more with his fingers frozen on the mouse.
You stepped back, looking over at Taehyung who’s eyebrows were scrunched together before glancing back at the screen. “Do you have it backed up anywhere?”
“No, we don’t really use the cameras often, so there was never a need to back it up.”
You exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over your face.
“Is that the only footage that’s been deleted?” Taehyung asks, one hand rubbing on his chin.
“It appears so,” he mumbles before standing up and facing the two of you. He almost looked like he felt bad.
“Well, has anyone been here before us? Anyone else asking about the cameras?” you questioned, realising what this meant.
The man looked up at nothing in particular, as if he was deep in thought before his face lit up. “Yes, yes. A young man,” he met your expectant gaze, “His name was… uhm…” his eyebrows scrunched together, and he looked down at his feet. “I can’t seem to remember.”
You smiled at him gently, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”
You held back a sigh, afraid to make the poor old man feel more guilty. There wasn’t much he could do about it. This was just another dead end.
Instead, you met Taehyung’s disappointed gaze, and gestured to him to leave. You both politely bowed to the old man, thanking him and making your exit.
The door dinged softly behind you as you stepped out. The air had grown heavier, the clouds darker.
“Welp,” Taehyung muttered, staring up at the sky. “What now?”
You slipped your hands into your pockets. “I was thinking… maybe we visit Jeongguk’s grandmother. See if she can confirm his alibi.”
He turned to you with a raised brow. “Do you even know what hospital she’s in?”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course I do. Don’t doubt me, Kim. Come on—I’ll drive this time.”
The drive to the hospital was mostly quiet, the tension lingering between you like fog on a windowpane. Taehyung occasionally glanced your way but didn’t say much, letting the silence settle while your mind replayed the deleted footage over and over again.
You arrived at Sarang Medical Center just past 3:30PM. It was a mid-sized, well-kept hospital tucked into the quieter part of town—clean white walls, soft beige tiling, and the sterile scent of antiseptic wafting through the air. The kind of place meant to soothe, though it only made your nerves sharper.
“Room 407,” you muttered, scanning the clipboard at the front desk after giving Jeongguk’s grandmother’s name. The nurse gave a polite nod and pointed down the hallway.
You and Taehyung made your way past the steady beeping of monitors and the low murmur of conversations, your footsteps muffled against the tiled floor. The hallway felt endless until you finally reached the door.
You knocked twice, gently.
A frail but warm voice called out, “Come in.”
Inside, the room was bathed in soft sunlight spilling through partially open blinds. Jeongguk’s grandmother sat up in bed, small and delicate in her hospital gown, a crocheted blanket tucked around her legs. Her eyes lit up when she saw you, though they held a glint of caution.
“Hello,” you said, offering a small smile. “My name is Y/N, and this is my colleague Taehyung. We’re… looking into something important, and we were hoping to ask you a few questions.”
Her expression shifted, brows knitting in confusion. Deep lines creased her forehead as she repeated, almost disbelieving, “My grandson?”
You opened your mouth to clarify, but the door creaked open behind you, halting your words. All three of you turned toward the sound.
A nurse stood in the doorway—young, dressed in pale blue scrubs, her ID badge clipped neatly to her chest. She looked mildly startled to see the room occupied.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t know you had visitors.”
“It’s okay, we were just about to leave.” Taehyung said smoothly, tugging at your sleeve.
“W-Wait,” she began, stopping the two of you from slipping past her. “How do you know her?”
Almost comically, you and Taehyung turned to look at each other, waiting for the other to speak.
He gave you the tiniest smirk, eyes silently telling you your turn.
You sighed internally.
He was putting you on the spot, leaving you with no choice but to come up with a lie.
“We’re acquaintances…” you started, watching as her eyebrows raised, “of Jeongguk. We came to visit his grandma since.. you know..he’s not able to.”
She nodded in acknowledgement, realising what you meant, seemingly believing your blatant lie.
“Okay, she doesn't get many visitors, so if you’d like to stay, then go ahead.” she gestured towards the two seats placed beside the bed.
But you shook your head. You hadn’t come to stay.
Her smile faded a little, turning sad as she read your expression, then quietly stepped past you to the bedside. You turned to watch the exchange, unable to tear your eyes away.
“I have a grandson?” Jeongguk’s grandmother asked, her voice small and bewildered.
Your chest tightened. The realization settled in like a weight: her memory had slipped so far, she couldn’t even recall her own family.
As if reading your mind, Taehyung gently placed a hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay, Y/N. Come on.” He wrapped an arm around you, carefully leading you outside and only releasing you once you were back in the hallway.
“Another dead end. What now?” he questioned, turning his head towards you as you walked side by side.
“We have to check the records.” you replied, eyes fixed ahead.
“I–what? You know we’ll need a subpoena. They won’t give it to us.”
You shrugged, “We can try convince them.”
“Anddd if we don’t?” he scoffs. “What then?”
“Then we can get the subpoena.” you responded with a roll of your eyes. Here he goes again, underestimating your abilities.
You pushed open the double doors to the reception area, the smell of disinfectant sharp in your nose. The fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead as you walked up to the front desk, Taehyung right behind you.
A young woman sat typing at a computer, her expression unreadable until she looked up.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
You offered a polite smile. “Yes, we’re here to access patient visit records. Specifically, for June 6th. It’s regarding Jeon Hae-sook.”
Her fingers paused over the keyboard. “Are you family?”
“No,” Taehyung stepped in smoothly, “We’re legal counsel.”
“She blinked, unsure. “You have authorization?”
“Not… yet,” you said quickly, before she could shut you down. “But it’s a matter tied to an ongoing investigation. If we could just speak to someone in records or admin—”
“I’m sorry. Without a subpoena or a direct family member’s approval, that’s confidential information.” Her tone had cooled.
You inhaled through your nose, trying to stay calm. “Listen. We’re not here to dig around for gossip. There’s a young man on the verge of being wrongly convicted, and this hospital might have the proof that clears his name. We just need to confirm if he visited his grandmother that night.”
She hesitated. You could see the flicker of uncertainty cross her features.
Taehyung leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make her listen. “One name. One timestamp. That’s all we need.”
She glanced around the empty reception hall, then back at the screen. Her fingers hovered. “Give me a minute,” she muttered.
You and Taehyung exchanged a look as she began typing rapidly, scrolling through the system.
A tense silence stretched between you all until she finally stopped. “There’s no entry logged under Jeon Jeongguk for that date.”
Your stomach dropped. “Wait—are you sure?”
“Positive. The last recorded visit under his name was… May 29th.” She turned the monitor slightly for you to see.
Taehyung stepped back, his jaw tightening. “Then it’s either he used another name… or someone’s been wiping records.”
You swallowed the rising frustration in your chest.
Another dead end. Or maybe a deeper clue.
“Is it possible if we could see the security footage?” you asked eagerly. Both Taehyung and the receptionist looked at you with raised eyebrows. It was a lot to ask.
“I don’t have access to that, you’ll have to ask the security team.”
She showed you the directions to the security team's room, and the two of you thanked her before heading that way.
“Y/N…” Taehyung began, noticing the irritation seeping out your skin.
“Don’t.” you sighed, raising a finger to silence him. He took the hint and shut up the rest of the way.
The hallway leading to the security office was dimmer, quieter—almost as if the hospital itself was holding its breath. You reached a heavy, windowless door labeled Security – Staff Only and gave it two sharp knocks.
After a beat, the door creaked open.
A man in uniform stood behind it, his brows furrowing as he took in the sight of you and Taehyung. Then, recognition sparked in his eyes.
“Taehyung?”
Taehyung blinked. “Jimin?”
A wide grin stretched across the man’s face. “No way. It’s been forever!”
You looked between them as Jimin stepped aside, motioning for you both to come in.
“Y/N, this is Park Jimin. We were in undergrad together,” Taehyung explained, shaking Jimin’s hand with a warm familiarity. “Didn’t know you worked hospital security.”
“Transferred here last year,” Jimin said, returning the handshake. “You’re a lawyer now, right? What brings you here?”
You stepped forward. “We’re working on a case. We need to check the security footage from June 6th—late evening. A man named Jeon Jeongguk came to visit someone here. We’re hoping the cameras caught it.”
Jimin’s playful smile faded slightly, replaced by a more professional expression. He nodded, stepping toward his desk. “If it’s in the system and within our retention window, I’ll find it.”
You and Taehyung exchanged a glance as Jimin clicked around on his computer, the screen reflecting across his face. Minutes ticked by in tense silence.
“Got it,” he finally said. “You’re in luck. We keep backups for three months.”
He turned the monitor slightly, and you leaned in.
A grainy timestamp in the corner read June 6, 8:42 PM. The footage showed Jeongguk stepping through the main entrance, hands in his pockets, face clear.
Jimin fast-forwarded a bit—Jeongguk was signing in at the reception desk, then heading down a hallway.
“Let me find when he leaves…” More clicking. “Here. 10:14 PM. Same entrance. He’s alone. Doesn’t look like he’s in any kind of rush.”
You exhaled slowly, relief washing over you. “That’s his alibi.”
Jimin looked between you both. “Want me to export the footage?”
“Please,” you said.
As he worked, Taehyung grinned. “Can’t believe we ran into you.”
Jimin smirked. “Same. Guess it’s good to have friends in high places, huh?”
Jimin reached into a drawer, pulling out a blank USB drive. “I’ll export the footage onto this—it’s encoded, hospital policy. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
He slotted the USB into the side of the computer, clicked a few more times, and the screen displayed a progress bar.
You felt the tension leave your body, leaning back against the door as Taehyung and Jimin caught up.
“You’re lucky I’m here,” Jimin began with a smirk, “The other guy… isn’t as nice.” he involuntarily shivered and Taehyung chuckled, nudging him.
You tuned out their banter after that, mind turning back to Jeongguk. Who was trying to erase all of Jeongguk’s alibis? And how come the camera footage was still here? It clearly illustrated Jeongguk going to the desk and signing up.
Your thoughts were interrupted with Taehyung calling your name. Lifting your head, you met his gaze. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Don’t be a stranger, Tae,” Jimin called out from his seat, spinning it around to look at you. “And it’s nice to meet you, Y/N!”
You laughed gently at his upbeat personality, “It’s nice to meet you too, and thank you.”
They stepped out of the security room, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the heavy door clicked shut behind them.
Taehyung stretched his arms above his head, a tired but satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Well, that wasn’t too bad.”
You nodded, still deep in thought. “At least we have the footage. It’s something solid for Jeongguk’s alibi.”
He glanced over at you, brow raised. “You think it’ll be enough?”
You shrugged, feeling the weight of uncertainty settle back in. “It’s a start. We’ll cross the rest of the bridges when we get to them.”
Outside, the overcast sky threatened rain again, the cool breeze tugging at your jacket as you both made your way to the car.
“Ready to head back?” Taehyung asked.
“Yeah. Let’s figure out our next move.”
As you slid into the passenger seat, you pulled out your phone, already thinking about what calls you needed to make next.
Taehyung started the engine, and you both set off, the city’s grey streets blurring past the windows — a calm before the storm you both knew was coming.
“So, are you taking the case?” Taehyung spoke, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting casually on the gear stick as he came to a stop at a red light.
“Looks like his story adds up, so yes.”
He turned to look at you with a goofy smile, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”
“I knew you’d take the case.” he responded, turning back and driving as the light turned green.
“Really? How?”
“Because I know you, Y/N,” he responded gently, eyes still on the road while yours lingered on the side of his face.
“Yeah, right.” you scoffed.
“No, really. That’s why I recommended it,” Taehyung admitted, hands spinning the steering wheel. “And you have to admit, these types of cases are quite entertaining.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not about entertainment, it’s–”
“‘It’s about serving justice’, yeah yeah, whatever.” he interrupted, raising his voice higher in mockery of yours and laughing as you looked at him incredulously.
“I do not sound like that.”
“‘I do not sound like that.’” he repeats, voice somehow becoming higher than before.
You both burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the enclosed space of the car before the laughter eased.
“You okay now?” Taehyung asked, his voice still quiet and strangely soothing.
The laughter eventually faded, replaced by a comfortable silence as Taehyung drove. The city passed by your window in a blur of muted colors—grey skies, slick roads, people huddled under umbrellas.
“So… what’s next?” Taehyung asked, glancing at you.
You leaned your head against the window, watching a couple dart across the street holding hands.
“We need to talk to Jeongguk again,” you said after a beat. “Now that we’ve confirmed his hospital alibi, I want to know if he remembers anything else. Something small. Anything.”
Taehyung hummed in agreement. “Think he’ll be happy to see us?”
You gave him a look. “He’s a murder suspect. I doubt he’s thrilled about anything right now.”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
The car slowed as he pulled into the underground parking garage beneath your firm’s building. The familiar echo of tires on concrete filled the silence, and soon, the car was parked.
You unbuckled your seatbelt, but paused before getting out.
“Thanks, Tae.”
He turned to you, brows slightly lifted.
“For today,” you added. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He smiled. “Anytime. You’d do the same for me.”
You nodded, the moment lingering before you both climbed out of the car and walked toward the entrance.
“Y/N, let’s order food to your office.” Taehyung says, grinning and delicately draping an arm around your shoulders.
“Why my office… I’m not even hungry.” You laughed, lightheartedly shrugging his arms off of you.
“We need to make some calls, tell people that you’re officially taking the case. Duh.”
“Ugh,” you groaned, running a hand along your face. “I completely forgot about that.”
Chuckling, he pressed his forefinger against the elevators button, calling it up. “Of course you did.”
Taehyung sat on the opposite side of you, phone pressed against his ear as he took slow sips of his coffee. He had brought you one, too, of course. You held the coffee cup in your hands, letting the warmth transfer to your body as he wrapped up the call.
“Yeah, okay, thank you,” he grinned as he met your eyes, ending the call and placing it down on the desk. “I ordered pizza.”
“Well, you better finish it all,” you smiled, placing your cup down. “Where do we start?”
“It’s up to you.” he shrugged, leaning back slightly.
“We need to inform Jeongguk… make him sign the retainer agreement.” you sighed, face palming on the table. “And the court. The DA. The prosecutor."
“You’re gonna have to go see Jeongguk again. I’ll let the DA and the prosecutor know, don't worry.” he said softly, placing an affectionate hand on your arm.
“Thanks.” you grumbled back, once again genuinely grateful to have him working beside you.
“What’s up with you today?”
“What do you mean?” you reply, lifting your eyebrows and furrowing your eyebrows.
“You don’t seem like yourself.” he let go of your arm and leaned back again whilst maintaining eye contact.
“I– There’s just something off about this case,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know what it is.”
“We’ll figure it out.” he assured, his voice steady with certainty.
A comfortable silence fell over both of you again as you both worked on your own laptops, typing away to inform anyone of importance when Taehyung’s phone rang. He eagerly picked it up, mumbling something about going to get the pizza to you and practically sprinted out to get it. You laughed to yourself. He must’ve been hungry.
Taking a slow slip from your cup, you read over the email you had written just a minute ago, cursor hovering over the send button. Were you really ready to take this case? Did you really believe him?
Taehyung came bursting back in, carrying not one but two boxes of pizza with a boxy smile engulfing his entire face. You rolled your eyes and created some space on the desk for him to place down the boxes.
“Why’d you get so much? There’s gonna be leftovers.” you groaned, settling back in the seat.
He shrugged nonchalantly, ungracefully taking a seat. “Not a problem.”
You grabbed a slice, still warm and gooey, and leaned back in your chair with a sigh. Taehyung was already halfway through his first, chewing contentedly with zero shame.
“You eat like you haven’t touched food in days.”
“Because I haven’t, not properly,” he replied with a full mouth. “Your workload has ruined me.”
You rolled your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips before your eyes drifted to the laptop screen. The retainer agreement sat there, staring at you, waiting to be printed and signed.
The familiar feeling of unease returned, and a shudder ran through you that thankfully went unnoticed by Taehyung who was too busy inhaling the food.
You shut your laptop closed before focusing back on the pizza in front of you.
After another hour of scattered conversation, pizza crusts, and half-hearted scrolling, you finally convinced Taehyung to call it a night. He left with a yawn and a playful salute, mumbling something about needing “at least six hours of sleep to remain this handsome.” You didn’t even argue. The truth was, you needed to be alone.
The silence after the door clicked shut was almost deafening. You stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. No more jokes. No more banter. Just you, the leftover scent of garlic, and the retainer agreement waiting patiently on your laptop screen.
You opened the device, the glow of the screen washing over your face in the dimly lit office. The document was still there, untouched, as if it had been holding its breath all this time.
You stared at it.
Then, with a steady inhale, you clicked "Print."
The soft hum of the printer broke the silence. You moved toward it slowly, each step heavier than the last. The warm paper slid out, and you caught it delicately, holding the weight of a decision you weren’t entirely sure you’d made yet.
You sat back down, smoothing the page out on your desk, and began reading.
“This Agreement is made between Y/N L/N, Attorney at Law, and Jeon Jeongguk…”
Your eyes scanned line by line—terms, conditions, scope of representation, client responsibilities. It was all standard. But something about seeing it in black and white made it real.
You reached the end of the page. The blank line for Jeongguk’s signature stared back at you, empty but expectant.
Your fingers hovered over it.
This was more than just another case. You could feel it. Something was buried beneath all of this—beneath the missing footage, the forgotten grandma, the erased alibis.
And you were in it now.
You leaned back, paper still in your hands, and let out a long breath. Tomorrow, you’d take this to Jeongguk. Tomorrow, you’d officially represent him.
♚ Summary | a negative and a negative becomes positive. An irrevocably tasteless, distressful craze is who you are. For you perceive the world negatively like no other. Wherefore, a shadow mirrors your acts, Jeon Jungkook. He finds devotion and obsession like no other in your being. Whoever could predict the glacial assassin would find comfort in wintry you, when he stumbles upon you lurking in the dark alleys of the underworld. Il est très très désolé
♔ Word count (pt)| 5.0k
Word count (Series)| 5.0k+ to come
♚ Status: Ongoing
Life was bleak, just like the skies tonight. Without a mother from a young age, and a father who had disowned you to start a new family by himself, you were left with nothing, not even breadcrumbs. Without contact with the man who raised you for quite some time, you had been living, let's call it, a very depressing life.
You are the epitome of negativity. It's like the math equation that never made sense. You released adverse emotions, and life spit out horrendous situations, which you would think would result in something positive. But unlike the formula, nothing ever resulted in something good for you.
And so, you lived in a dusty abode, not quite conducive for a young woman but it is acceptable if the only other option was being homeless. A death like warrant, was what your job was.
Tending to cranky abandoned old people all day long who were cynical, oppressive and misogynistic is not what you would call an ideal day job, but it did pay. Very, very meek of course, but it puts food on the table, twice a day.
You had just finished a very important job. Yes, you were loitering around the psychiatric ward near a mental institution. Why? It was a government funded hospital, therefore the psychiatrists who worked there would sometimes open doors for people like you. Sad people who don't have enough money to seek help from professionals.
The dangerous part of said hospital was it was far away from the city life. On the outskirts for which you walked 4 miles from your place. But it was also the entrance to the forest, where many gangs and gang headquarters resided. There was a shady sign that told you it was a dangerous area. But that didn't stop you. It was government property after all.
But you couldn't do it. You couldn't go inside. You just weren't competent enough to take help. You stood for hours. But you couldn't make up your mind. You decided that today would be the day. You wouldn't need saving, for the water would gulp you and hopefully take you to the silver city.
Not a tear dropped when your brain told you it was time. You didn't look behind for a grim reaper. Nor did you make a plaque on your face. Whose house would it be in? Would anyone ever notice you were gone? Maybe the clerk of the store near your home might miss you for not buying more instant ramen.
And so, you laughed. Laughed in hatred and despise. It was a long way from home. And you didn't even know the way back. There was no reception for your phone, and so you just hoped that unlike Hansel and Grethel your footprints wouldn't have disappeared, so you could make your way back.
You walked with a grace, a poise that a third person couldn't place. It was like a walk or a dance, that swan may act like. An interpretive dance of death. Kind of like when a supermodel serves the best look on her last runway. You served the best look of winter upon your face.
Billie Eilish couldn't write a song about you even if she tried her hardest. Which was stereotypical because Eilish made happy songs as well. A beautiful swan like you had so much potential. But without a place to stay, you obviously couldn't afford music classes.
You think back to the happy days, where you played your violin for your mother, and your father. Your mother clapped along while your father hid his smile behind the coffee he was drinking. He would then look at your mother, like how a man would look to his wife who painted the world.
That was your mother.
She made everyone proud. She made the people around you stand with love and respect, not just admiration. But you didn't have her long enough. Well maybe long enough to love her and then have her taken away from you like a wooden stake to your heart. Fate never smiled at you after.
You thought you could love a man. But you hid. Hid from everyone who posed a threat to your already frail heart that had somehow survived the worst. But today, it had cracked into fractals that resembled the thunder that took over the sky above you. And you needed a soft landing for when it truly broke.
You remembered the bridge over a lake full of rocky stones that was far enough for your departure but not far enough that no one would notice the morning after. you conclude that someone from the asylum would cremate you or would harvest your organs.
You never did drugs, but you would seem like a person who would have. Maybe they’ll test you.
Thoughts like these weren't new to you. They should be, but they weren't. To be unfazed by death should be studied. Guess the hospital won't ever get to diagnose all the disorders you have managed to develop.
You think it is because of the high number of expiry dates that you have been through during your work at the old age home. You hated the old people, but they had a life, and to pass away with none of their loved ones beside them. Just like you. You find comfort in the fact that you relate to people who have lived sixty to seventy years. At the young age of 22, other than cleaning and tending to said old people, you had no purpose.
None to love you, and no one to love.
You continue to walk away from the hospital. You feel a rising anger, at yourself and everything around you. Your hone was almost dead and fuck you didn't have connectivity here. You look around, trying to make your way through an unknown forest. 4 miles away from your home was not conducive at all.
You hear a sharp shout from a while away.
“Fuck what was that” you mumble. You follow the screams, and behind a bush you sit. You see three men, one with a baton in his hand, the other two punching the man whose blood is pouring out his body. Face covered in red, and teeth bleeding.
“Please, please I’m sorry, I’ll pay you back I-I pr-promise" the man stutters anxiously. “Fuck no, you betrayed us, this is your punishment Lin, be a man and take it” says a man, tall with black hair, a sharp jaw, a beauty to look at, and then he gives one blow to the back of the kneeling man.
He falls forward, unmoving. He was dead. You had just seen a murder. You wanted to feel fear, but you didn't. Disgust? Nothing. But then you feel something crawl of your calf.
You let out a scream.
All the three men look at you. You jump up, swatting away the centipede, but then you look up. You see the three men looking at you, one with his jaw fallen.
“I won't say anything” you shout and run. You look back to see all of them running behind you. You run, unable to find your way to the outside of the forest. You look back.
“Sunny go north” shouts the one with the baton. “I’m going up east” shouts the other, spreading out to catch you. You pause, and it seems your body knows the way better than you ever did, you spot the danger sign in the distance, you run.
The other you, would've given up and let them kill you, hell that's what you wanted. But it was a basic human instinct.
But you ran towards the sign. They were catching up with you. You go back the way you left from the stop sign. But you knew you couldn't win, you lived four miles, no vehicle to take you anywhere. They'll catch up with you and you know they’ll kill you. But you don't stop. You run. You try to survive. You look back and they’ve stopped at the sign. They should follow you.
But they don't.
You start jogging. And they leave your view. It was a long way from here. You'll be home by sunrise.
In approximately three hours you finally reach your dusty attic. It was a funny thing, you’re home. It was a small room, above a banquet that was never rented out as it was far away from the city life. The owner had disowned it informally as he was a real estate tycoon. He didn't even know you were living there. It was big for one person, you would admit. A bed on the floor, a rackety washing machine, a small stove and rickety utensils that were tearing apart.
A small shower that could barely be considered such., you had unlimited water and electricity, so you felt it was a score. But you had books. A good number of notebooks that you were collecting.
School children would throw them away, and you would take them from recycling shops. A lot of pages are still left in the unused books you wrote. Sonnets and haikus, about death and remorse. About guilt, fear and abandonment.
For no one in your life would ever write anything positive.
You stripped down and entered the shower. Never had you ever felt ungrateful for the free room you had gotten. So, you would use the lights and shower very rarely. But today was different. You felt the need to wash off the sins you had encountered.
But you hardly felt regret. You were religious. At some point in your life, mother would drag you to church to meet all her sweet church friends. They all said they would take care of you. But when your mother passed, they became nonexistent. They tried to exit as discreetly as possible.
The heat radiated off your body and fogged up the mirror. You finally felt sleep coming to you. Maybe that was a psychopathy you thought. Who would ever feel sleepy after seeing what you just did?
You drag yourself out of the shower.
You think of all the times you needed someone before. When you had a fever and brought 3 mugs of cold water so you could change and dip the cloth yourself to put on your forehead.
You think about the numerous times you had to fill in your panties with extra ones just to quickly run to the store and pads or tampons because no one could, and you hadn't planned.
You think about the times you had to slowly breathe and calm yourself down to avoid getting a panic attack because you couldn't afford to be vulnerable at night. You keep telling yourself you will end your misery. But you pause.
Hating the fact that you ran like a basic human on instinct after tonight, when you could've stayed.
You sleep far too soundly, never letting yourself be pampered, but you thought God wouldn't punish you if you felt nice on your last day.
That night you slept the most sound you had in years.
The next morning, you get to the old age home a little sooner. Your sad eyes bloomed a little more today.
“Finally found a boyfriend ___?” asked Mrs. Yun, a crocheting 70-year-old, new to the home. “No, Mrs. Yun, why would you say so?” you asked.
“You seem happy, girl, now go get me some tablets, i need to take my tablets” she commanded.
You struggle to keep composure.
“____ are you going to go off the rails today? Seems lighter” Mr. Kim asked with a kind smile. You smiled, “No Mr. Kim I wish I could”.
Mr. Kim was kind, but only to a certain point. He liked you, but it was only because you went through a hard time as well. He was as fit as a fifty-year-old man and had invested a lot in the home. He wanted to be away from his family. But it is like he was still running his company or whatever it was.
A star burns its brightest in its final days.
You make your way to the same bridge 4 miles away. Your heart begged you to walk towards the hospital and just give it one more chance. Maybe you could see a different perspective. Maybe you weren't as miserable as you thought. But your legs didn't move. You stood at the bridge.
You had 3 covers full of food. You were in your prettiest dress, and the only piece of jewelry you had ever owned. A pair of cheap ears, that kept the pierced holed apart, and your mother's necklace. Nothing fancy, just a necklace with small pearls the size of beads splattered asymmetrically over the necklace.
Your best pair of flats. The last of your lip gloss. So, you sat at the little bench and ate all the food you had bought. It would be your last meal. Your phone was dying but you wouldn't need it. Your tattered sling held your id and your note.
A note that you had written with your favorite pen.
A pen that clicked into 6 colors. And you had used all of them in your note. You had no idea if the ink was over, but yours was over for sure. And there was no refill for you.
You look out into the sea of trees, and crickets chirping. You see bats fly, and the street light flickers. You smile and laugh. You write your final poem in the last pager of your most recent notebook. You must go picking if you want another.
“Life had time
Love was conditional for me but not for her
My cells flew with the touch of my cat's fur
Not with the clothes on my back
Or the intelligence I lacked
But I feel beauty today
I find myself sway
The music shows comfort
The reaper smiles at my wings that soar
He will give me company
With the swan's symphony
The skies were blue when I was younger
But now my eyes repeatedly blunder
To stare into ether that's empty
So, I must see above it, simply”
Jeon Jungkook, oh the man he was. The second in line to everything his brothers had built. A sleek jaw that cut the throats of the untouchable, a nose sharp and dainty that was beautiful with his eyes.
Oh, his eyes.
Big and beautiful, deer like, lashes that suited him like, touch suited pleasure. so logical and yet inexplainable. His being held purpose and presence.
He was untouchable. A guard of his own, a master of fate, a writer of destiny, not his no, but others.
You'd see those beautiful eyes, once and only once, which was considered a gift for your departure. They were divine, and flashing, just like the clouds and what they surpassed above.
The angels would sing, while the demons danced, as his knife slowly made its way through his target's body.
He was special. One of a kind. He had a purpose, a sublimity that wouldn't be found amongst the people of earth. He was mortal and celestial simultaneously.
A body built like the statues you see in museums, his anger like the ones you see in fire, and his punishment like the ones you see in books.
He was different. Laughter was simple to him.
Nothing new, but nothing often. He went by Desolé, the part of Ira. A set of seven. They carried out punishments, and induced wrath into the beings of the underworld. They’d get to work in a frenzy, scared Ira would come after them.
As discreetly as possible.
But Ira was in the underworld. And to do so, they made a few friends in the government happy, by assassinating people in high positions.
But Ira was untouchable. The government could take them down, but why would they?
Ira was a gift to them.
Desole has been explained.
But who are the other six?
Ira’s Intelligence was Suga. If he had your name, he would also have your life, your relationships, your place, your work, your deepest secrets, hell he’d even know what you had for breakfast this morning. He'd hate you if the answer to that question was rice. Because according to him rice was always, always lunch.
Ira’s ammunition was Hobi. He was sweet but you couldn't trust him with a secret, because he had guns in his socks, pockets, behind his back, his clothes were layers of bullets, grenades, reloads and then a basic tee.
Ira’s diplomat was Park Jimin. He was all flared up at his lack of a code name, but his government name was how Ira was identified in the higher ups. Jimin's role was tackier than the others. He doesn't leave the house without a vest and a pen. He negotiates and makes friends with gangs, threatens officials, and brings secrets of those around him with him. He’d teach you how to be you.
Ira’s assassin was V. Today, you could be enjoying a family dinner with your third secret family, with black money ridged inside your walls, and tomorrow, the world wouldn't know you’ve existed. And even if they had known, you would be here to defend that, nor would your corpse be seen in a vicinity of the country. V was more precise and cleaner than the indent of your pen onto a paper, because he’d make sure the paper never existed in the first place.
Jin, the money lord. His mind could consume numbers like no other, he’d know who owed what and to whom. He'd know who was pretending to have actual companies, and how many of them were just shell companies. Your money wouldn't be yours if he didn't let it be yours. He makes the sexiest pancakes though.
RM controlled Ira. Ira was him and he was Ira. His personality was Ira, and it wouldn't be there today if RM hadn't molded each one of them, seeing potential and nurturing them into deadly warlords. He was God. And no one would question him. But the greatest part of him was he had never misused his power, otherwise, again, Ira wouldn't be here today. He loved Jungkook to death and he’d take bullets for him. He loved the others just as much, but he always felt responsible for Jungkook.
He was always down when Jungkook was. Jungkook didn't love like one normally did. He had love that was treacherous and prickled with thorns. Thorns that didn't pierce but would engulf you into itself. His pain was a well without water, but also a well without end. And RM would fill the well every moment.
Ira was pain. Glass engraved amidst embers that never extinguished.
And they were kings and horses and knights and whatever they did, whatever their purpose was, it was nothing more than a particle in the world, they knew. But they would make sure your particle wasn't bigger than theirs.
And that's all that one needed.
To be the biggest in the room.
But who was Jungkook then? Why Desolé? He apologizes for being clean and thorough. He apologizes because it was him being the one to take care of you. That V was clean, but he was cleaner. That you wouldn't know it was him until he wanted you to know.
He apologizes to be the one to push down the canyon of death, and that he didn't mean to. But there are a million things he doesn't apologize for, like how he wasn't responsible for your death, because you called to him with your wrong doings. Because you were so cruel to others, he was to be cruel to you.
It is difficult to be Jungkook. His past holds nothing to his present but neither does his future. How do you come to terms with that? But at the same time, it was a s simple as saying sorry.
How do you come to terms with that??
That your being was nonexistent because you had too much ego to accept and you had to make Desolé come to your rescue.
That was purely, purely on you.
Hurt was removable misery wasn't. Ira was a lovely underworld gang compared to the others. They took out bad people, but it doesn't mean they weren't bad. From drug trafficking to ammunition dealing, was done under Ira. But to be good you needed to know the bad and do the bad.
Classic wrong thing for the greater good. The children and teenagers in debt for cocaine, the old people on the streets for gambling away their savings to Ira, the banks that were under Ira who were pushed into also laundering money.
Just like now, when Mr. Lin would be punished for his wrong doings.
“You betrayed us Lin” RM’s voice boomed in the palace. “Unexpected but not surprising. You will pay”.
“Please Sir, I didn't mean to, I just needed the money please, please” Mr. Lin Pleads on his knees. “If you don't want to die, tell me why you wanted it?” He asks.
“I owed Wang some money,” Mr. Lin admits. “Wang as in Wang who deals with prostitutes?” Hobi asks. “Yes, I just had to pay off my nights RM, I will have the money just give me some time” Mr. Lin begs.
“You are paying off nights with prostitutes when your pregnant wife sleeps at home? You deserve death” Suga pipes up. RM twists his neck, anger boiling in his body. “I don't want your money after all” RM says.
Mr. Lin calms down. “Well, what do you want then?”
“Your death”
“V take Mika and Sunny and finish him in the forest. Be clean.” RM commands. V nods and walks towards the door. Mika and Sunny, both V’s helpers, pick up Mr. Lin and drag him behind V.
Jungkook plays with his knives. They were curved, a round hole at the stem of the knife, for his index finger to fit into. They were his favorites, a pair of bow karambits.
“Such a prick, banks” he comments lazily. “I didn't expect Lin would sell our accounts when he handles so many other gangs. The audacity!” Jin exclaims.
“You can't control what people do, but you can control how you take care of them” RM smirks. Everyone's lips tilt up.
It's so hard to say no when you’re dancing with Ira.
RM doesn't forgive; he makes examples. They all go back to their work after the drama. Jungkook blades away at his knives, while Suga codes on his computer. Hobi examines the new load of rifles and snipers that just dot descended from the trucks. RM resumes reading the newspaper, and Jin starts writing a grocery list. He should be writing accounts, but sue him, he’s hungry.
“Jungkook, bless the next one by finishing them, V’s already done two for you now” RM says. “Fine. You know it's not fun when it's known punishment” Jungkook laments.
He liked the surprise, and the fear when he walked into his killers' abode. He likes him struggling on the floor, looking for something to throw at Jungkook while he just moves to the side.
He likes the fear of having your life taken from you. People like Lin already knew what was coming. They would have only pathetic attempts at saying sorry in the end. They were noisy.
Ah well.
But the night shifts. It's been 5 hours and V isn't back. Nor is Mika or Sunny. RM wakes up, to check up on everyone. He wakes Suga when they realize the three of them aren't back yet.
Hobi runs down, and Jungkook comes out of the home gym, wiping his sweat away.
“We have a problem, V and the others haven't come back yet, encrypted phones are ringing but he isn't picking them up” Suga catches up with everyone. “Just track their phones,” Jungkook says.
“They're encrypted fucker, I can't, plus at least Mika's and Sunny's is cheaper. V’s is higher level; it’ll take months to even break the fucking code” He shouts.
“Shit” Hobi mumbles. Jin walks around looking for a solution. RM shouts, banging onto Jimin’s door. He was always a deep sleeper. Jimin opens the door in panic. “What the fuck RM what’s the problem!” Jimin asks briskly.
Everybody brainstorms on the situation when a loud banging on the front door interrupts everybody.
Suga looks at the camera surveillance of the front door. “It’s Mika” he announces as he opens the door. The titanium door falls apart and there stands Mika. Covered in dirt and mud with few leaves sticking out of his tousled hair, he pants like a dog.
“What the fuck happened and where is V?” RM asks.
“Well boss, we have a slight problem”
“YOU’RE TELLING ME A GIRL SAW YOU KILL LIN AND SHE RAN OUT OF THE FOREST?! AND YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW HER WHY?!” RM shrieks.
“Well, that's because it's out of the forest”
“Fuck I forgot to switch of the cameras” Suga admits.
“Shit!” Hobi says.
There were cameras outside the forest. One, was if anyone from the hospital ran away, they needed surveillance. Second, if there were no cameras, Ira’s palace would be suspected to be there, and so by keeping the camera, people would never think ira was situated there.
Suga whips out the camera footage.
V and Sunny enter the house. “We didn't want to leave the forest RM, Suga didn't switch the cameras off. I wanted to call you, but my antenna broke away. Sorry guys” V apologizes.
“I got her face,” Suga declares.
All the seven with Mika and Sunny huddle over Suga. Your face plastered over his monitor. A white sweater now dirty, fear consuming you. He plays the video, and they see you thinking and running. Running towards the right from where the camera was placed.
Jungkook sees your frame. Examines it. He thinks you would be beautiful to kill.
“What do you have on her?” Jimin asks.
“I only have an ID from her old school. The DMV mentions her name, but it's wiped out her face, so I can't place it as her. I don't know where she lives, so she must be homeless” says Suga.
“Why was she there in the first place? To visit the hospital?” Jin wonders. “She dropped out of school when she was 9. Mother dead. Father with a new family. No inheritance. No place to live. I'll run a program to check all rentals and houses in the two mile radius from here” and Suga does the same.
The search comes up empty.
“Are you telling me she doesn't live anywhere? That’s ridiculous” RM says anguished.
“She looks poor, and she is definitely not mental, so why is she at this hospital? For something that she can't afford and private city hospitals. Check in a 6 mile radius, she might be a squatter” V hypothesizes.
“Fine” and Suga gets to work.
For six hours Suga works tirelessly.
Jungkook gets his bags, with his karambits sharpened and ready to tear your body apart.
Jimin contacts the higher ups to see if anyone knows anything about you. Hobi trains the newbies to kill you, a guinea pig, maybe he’ll go with V and teach them how to gut intestines and bury in a way that you’ll decompose faster.
You were a perfect kill for them.
They'll find you. Your license was registered 5 miles away from the forest. Which meant you lived 2 miles from it, which meant you were 4 miles away.
Suga keeps browsing his computer until RM slams a pillow onto his face and asks him to go to bed.
Jungkook boxes well that night, he wants to gouge your eyes out and makes sure that you'll never see again, and then he cut you in ways where you'll feel pain until you breathe for the very last time. He was excited to finally have a kill.
Like a lion waiting for his gazelle.
This wasn't a fairytale, where you would be magically spared.
You were at the wrong place at the wrong time and that was no one's fault, but someone had to pay for that, and that someone was you.
Tonight, you’d sleep like a baby, but tomorrow you’ll sleep forever.
Jin made sure to look into any bank accounts in your name. You had one at some point, but you couldn't maintain the minimum balance, and you had closed it. This was 4 years ago. He assumes you were really trying hard to make it work. Too bad the poor remain poor and the rich become richer.
The world was a monopoly game waiting to wend. It was not easy to survive, and life hadn't treated you well. V was skeptical. You had fear in your eyes, but no anger. You had survival, but no need for it. He felt himself turning to look well into your eyes. The image of the surveillance camera was burnt before his eyelids.
You wanted to survive, but your frail body didn't seem like it wanted to.
He almost felt bad for you, but he had come across hundreds like you. Unlucky, meaningless and insignificant to the world.
Hobi utters your name under his breath a million times, knowing he’ll not miss a shot at you. You were too pretty to miss. Too bad you’ll be dead.
It was 6 o’clock the next day.
“I got a hit!” Suga calls for everyone's attention.
There you were, on a nearby camera.
A pretty dress, flats and a bag of takeout. Suga makes sure to cut off all the camera’s in the area, and while RM, Jimin, Jin, and himself stay back at the house, the rest pick up their bags and leave, ready to hurt you a little back, before bringing you back to the house to torture.
Jungkook, V and Hobi make their way to the bridge, only to see you eat the last bite from your tiny box, remove your sling and set onto the bench. They wait for a second to see what you were trying to do.
Then you stand up and jump over the railing.
That's when Jungkook sprints.
Prev | Next
A/N: Hi guys, I hope you liked the first part of Tres Tres Desole!! My classes have started so it will be difficult for me to update but I think this series will have around 5 parts! I will let you know if I plan to add to it! Thanks for your patience! Please make sure to fill out the google form if you want to give me any review it will be linked on my navi <3
No Room For Secrets-Chapter 8: Rules, Coffee, & Chaos (m)
Series Masterlist here
→ Pairing: Jungkook x Reader(female)
→ Trope/AUs: roommates to friends/FWB/lovers, roommates to lovers, roommate!au, fwb!au, arranged marriage!au(jungkook x not you), New Girl AU?
→ Genre: comedy, smut, fluff, slow burn, angst
→ Rating: Explicit 18+ (minors dni)
→ Word Count: 11,332
→ Summary: You make rules with Jungkook, immediately break them, accidentally host an exes reunion, and try to cook dinner like everything’s normal—spoiler: it’s not.
→ Warnings(by chapter): explicit sexual content (oral f receiving, fingering, soft dom jk), swearing, casual nudity, roommates with benefits dynamic, emotional repression and denial, mutual pining (quiet and painful), Jimin being dramatic, Yoongi being emotionally devastating, chaotic group chats, unresolved romantic tension (Jimin/Yoongi), Jungkook being wet and dangerous, Jin almost finding out, Taehyung definitely finding out, jjajangmyeon as a love language, rule-breaking, dangerous levels of yearning
→ A/N: This chapter was an absolute riot to write—between the shared bathroom tension, secret rules, café confessions, and emotional whiplash, I felt like I was scripting an episode of New Girl with 300% more pining and thirst🤭. The chaos was real, the feelings were louder, and yes—I giggled while writing 90% of it🙂↕️. I’m so inspired by these characters and their messy, ridiculous, beautiful dynamic, and sharing it with you makes it even better🥹. If you enjoyed the drama, the angst, the spice, or the unhinged text thread energy… please consider leaving a comment.💚Your reactions fuel me like Jungkook’s tongue fuels bad decisions. Love you🫶mean it.
→ Playlist: Slow Dancing by V // Love Maze by BTS // Love Me Harder by WOODZ // Blue & Grey by BTS
You wake up in Jungkook’s bed.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
The air is still. The room dim and quiet, softened by overcast morning light bleeding through the curtains. Rain murmurs at the window—steady, constant. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you must’ve drifted sometime after the storm inside you settled.
He’s behind you. Close. Arm slung over your waist, hand resting warm just below your navel. His chest is pressed along your spine, slow and solid with each breath, like he’s anchoring you to the moment. You don’t move. You don’t want to.
Your eyes flick to the clock. 9am. It’s late enough that the apartment is probably awake, but you stay still anyway. Like if you lie still enough, time won’t move forward. Like the spell won’t break if you don’t reach for it.
Jungkook shifts slightly behind you, just enough to nuzzle into the curve of your neck. The sound he makes is quiet—half sigh, half hum—and it sinks straight into your chest. His nose brushes your skin. Then his lips. Just the faintest ghost of a kiss beneath your ear. Like muscle memory.
Your breath stutters.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs. His voice is rough from sleep. Low enough to get lost in.
“Mhm.” You nod.
He exhales through his nose. “Good.”
His fingers flex slightly on your stomach, like he’s making sure you’re real. Like some part of him expected you to be gone again.
You should say something. A joke. A tease. A reassurance.
But the words tangle in your throat, caught between want and wariness. So instead, you shift gently beneath his touch—just enough to roll onto your back.
He lifts his head to look at you.
His hair is a soft, messy halo. His eyes still heavy, half-lidded but focused. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at you like he’s studying something sacred.
Your heart stumbles.
“Morning,” you whisper.
He nods. “Morning.”
A beat passes.
Neither of you moves.
The rain is still falling outside, slow and steady. You stare up at the ceiling for a long second, then glance over at him. He’s already looking at you. Awake now. Awake and thinking.
You clear your throat. “So… if we keep doing this.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Yeah?” He looks almost surprised you’re okay with doing this regularly. Like he can’t believe you’re talking about it.
“There should be rules.”
He blinks. Then nods slowly, like he’s not surprised you’re the one bringing up and establishing rules. “Okay.”
You shift onto your side to face him fully. The blanket slides with you, pooling at your hips. “I mean, just to keep things from getting messy.”
His mouth twitches. “Messier than sneaking around and sleeping with your roommate?”
You shoot him a look.
He raises both hands, mock innocent. “I’m listening.”
You exhale. “Rule one: It’s just physical.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
“Rule two: No one can know. At least not yet.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “So we’re liars now.”
You shoot him a look.
“I mean,” he adds, voice a little softer, “Tae and Jimin already know, don’t they?”
You hesitate.
“Tae knows,” you admit. “Jimin… suspects. I think.”
Jungkook hums, low in his throat. “So basically Jin’s the only one still in the dark.”
You nod. “Which is exactly how I’d like to keep it.”
He grins. “Yeah, until you spill everything to Yoongi over coffee.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m not—”
“Don’t act like you’re not gonna tell him.”
You huff. “Yoongi doesn’t count.”
“That’s what everyone says right before they spill state secrets to Min Yoongi.”
You press your lips together, trying not to smile.
“Okay,” he says, teasing fading slightly, “seriously. No one else. Jin hyung can’t know.”
“Exactly.” You confirm.
“Swear on your life.”
“Swear on your hoodie.”
That gets a soft laugh out of him. “Now that’s serious.”
You pause. Then add, “Rule three—it doesn’t change anything between us.”
He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. But he just nods again.
“Okay.”
You hesitate.
Then: “Rule four…”
He tilts his head.
You wet your lips. “We don’t sleep with anyone else.”
That gets his full attention.
Your heart kicks a little harder in your chest, but you force yourself to keep your voice even. “I’m on birth control. And I’m clean. I just… I don’t want to think about complications. Or risks. Or…”
“Other people?” he offers gently.
You nod.
He studies you, like he’s checking if you mean it.
Then he says, without hesitation, “I haven’t been with anyone else since you moved in.”
Your breath catches.
“I don’t want to be,” he adds, quieter.
You look down, throat tight. And try not to overthink what he just said. Because it doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t.
He probably just meant it’s easier this way—because you’re already here. Because sneaking around with someone who shares your hallway is simpler than chasing something uncertain outside of it. Because you don’t require small talk or dates or pretending to be someone you’re not.
You’re convenient.
You’re safe.
You’re temporary.
And that’s all it is.
That’s all it has to be.
You repeat it in your head like a prayer.
Even though it stings.
Even though some part of you—quiet, buried, traitorous—wants it to mean more.
“Okay,” you whisper.
And that’s it.
No talk of feelings. No talk of labels. No what-are-we’s.
Just an agreement.
A quiet pact beneath his sheets.
A list of rules to pretend this isn’t what it already is.
You both roll onto your backs again, facing the ceiling like it holds all the answers. His fingers brush yours beneath the blanket. Not quite a touch. Just enough to know he’s there.
And you both lay there.
Later, the rain has calmed into a soft drizzle.
You’re sitting across from Yoongi at a quiet café tucked into the side of a narrow street—half fogged windows, low ceilings, jazz humming from a speaker behind the counter. The air smells like cinnamon and steamed milk. The table between you is too small, your knees almost touching, but neither of you says anything about it.
You’re chewing your straw like it owes you something.
“You’re fidgety,” Yoongi says, eyes flicking to your cup. “That usually means secrets.”
You sigh. “Or caffeine.”
Yoongi raises a brow. “Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess which roommate you’re sleeping with?”
Your stomach drops.
He smirks. “Relax. I was joking.”
You don’t answer.
He blinks. “Oh my god. It’s Jungkook, isn’t it?”
You glance out the window. To be fair, he’s the only roommate you admitted to being attracted to. And when you told Yoongi he wasn’t the least surprised.
Yoongi sits back in his chair like he’s just been handed a live grenade. “You’re joking.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, thank god,” he mutters. “For a second I thought it was healthy emotional intimacy.”
You glare at him.
He shrugs. “Sorry. Go on.”
You swirl the ice in your drink, watching it melt. “It’s not a thing. We’re not… anything.”
Yoongi squints. “Sure.”
“We just have an arrangement.”
“Do you now.”
You take a deep breath. “We have these rules.”
He leans forward like he’s about to be handed state secrets. “Okay. Hit me.”
You hold up a finger. “One: It’s just physical.”
Yoongi snorts and rolls his eyes. “Sure it is.”
You ignore him. “Two: No one can know.”
He lifts his drink. “Oops.”
“And three…” You hesitate. “It doesn’t change anything between us.”
He blinks. “Damn. And you say I’m emotionally unavailable.”
You roll your eyes, but your voice is quieter now. “Because you are! And Jungkook and I live together, Yoongi. It’s just tension. Proximity. Convenience.”
“Mmm.”
“We’re both adults. We’re being careful. It’s just…” You pause, grasping for the word. “Contained."
Except it’s not.
Not really.
Taehyung knows—and if there’s one person less interested in containment, it’s the walking unhinged, chaos master himself. You’ve already caught him smirking too knowingly in your direction once this morning, like he’s just waiting for you to slip. Or waiting to blackmail you.
And Jimin?
Jimin suspects.
Maybe more than suspects, honestly.
Which is a problem. Because if Jimin knows, then it’s only a matter of time before Jin knows, and if Jin knows—
You cut the thought off before it spirals.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
It’s still contained. Mostly.
Probably. Fuck.
Yoongi watches you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide how hard to poke the bubble you’re building around yourself. Or trying to determine if it’s more of a wall than a bubble.
Then, casually: “So… he said something, didn’t he?”
You frown. “What?”
Yoongi shrugs. “I don’t know. Just… you’re looking at me like someone said something that you’re trying really hard to make small. Or not bring up.”
Your stomach twists. Is it the coffee making you nauseous? Or the way you constantly circle around the feelings in your chest?
He’s not wrong. But he’s not quite right either. Not fully.
You look down at your drink. “I mean, yeah—I wanted the rules. I brought them up.”
“And he agreed?”
You nod. “Too easily.”
Yoongi leans back in his chair. “That’s suspiciously mature of him.”
You stir your iced latte, voice soft. “He also said he didn’t want to sleep with anyone else.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches you. Too quiet.
So you rush to fill the space. “But it’s probably just because it’s easier, you know? We live together. We’re already there. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Mmhmm,” he says.
You glare. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know how this ends.”
He smirks over the rim of his coffee. “I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re saying everything.”
“I’m just listening,” he says, sipping his drink. “You’re the one spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“I’m not,” you repeat, quieter now. “I just… I want it to be clear. Boundaries help.”
“Sure,” Yoongi says. “Especially in situations that are totally not emotional.”
You do your best to ignore that.
“There’s a fourth rule, too,” you mutter after a beat.
“Oh?” He perks up like someone just told him there’s a bonus track. “Do tell.”
“No sleeping with anyone else.”
He lets out a sharp laugh, slapping the table in the process. “Jesus Christ.”
“It’s just easier this way. Right?”
“Right.”
“We’re being… safe. We’re being…”
“You’re being in love.” He finishes your hesitant sentence.
You kick him under the table.
He takes it without flinching, sips his coffee again like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all month. “Does he know you’re this deep in denial, or is it just me who gets to witness the slow collapse and inevitable feelings that come with?”
You rest your chin in your hand. “You’re really enjoying this, huh.”
“I mean, yeah. This is classic roommate trope. But also…” His voice softens. “How you holding up? You okay?”
You hesitate.
Then nod, just once. “Getting there.”
Yoongi doesn’t press.
He just taps his cup against yours, gentle. “Well. Let me know when you want help writing rule number five: Don’t fucking fall.”
You scoff and roll your eyes.
But you feel your stomach twist.
Because you know he’s right.
You don’t say anything for a moment. Just sit there, straw limp between your fingers, mind buzzing with everything you’re not ready to unpack.
Then, as if sensing the weight in your chest starting to tip, Yoongi leans back and changes the subject.
“Anyway,” he says, voice casual, “I’ve been in the studio with someone new. Pretty nonstop, actually.”
You glance up, grateful for the shift. “Oh yeah? Who is it?”
He takes a sip of his coffee, like he’s trying not to look smug. “Kim Namjoon.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. The Kim Namjoon? Like… RM?”
Yoongi nods once, like it’s no big deal. “Mhm.”
You blink. “Yoongi. He’s, like—famous.”
He shrugs. “So am I.”
You snort. “Okay, chill.”
But your smile is real now, the warmth bubbling past your chest. Something prideful. “That’s huge! You’ve been wanting to work with him for years!”
“Yeah,” he says, quietly proud. “His album’s almost done. We’ve been holed up in the studio every other night. He’s smart. Weird. Overthinks everything. You guys would get along great. But overall, it’s kind of refreshing.”
“Because you’re annoying and you’d fuck it up somehow,” he says, deadpan. “You’d ask him to freestyle your name into a lyric or something stupid.”
“I would not—”
“You’d try to touch his dimples or feel his hair.”
You gape. “Okay maybe, but I would be so chill about it.”
Yoongi just sips his drink. “Yeah, no. Nope. Not ever gonna happen.”
You open your mouth to argue again, but your phone buzzes on the table. You glance down.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:24pm]: You still emotionally spiraling🙃 or can I steal u for lunch?
✨Chaos in Dior [1:24pm]: Wear something cute. I wanna look at something pretty while I eat.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:25pm]: PS: I know everything👀
You stare at the screen, lips pursing.
Of course he does.
Hot Mess🥵 [1:26pm]: Come to the café I’m at!
Hot Mess🥵 [1:26pm]: Be warned, Yoongi’s already here👀
Hot Mess🥵 [1:26pm]: You can look at something pretty while u eat😏
The dots appear immediately.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:26pm]: Damn. Yoongi?😮💨
✨Chaos in Dior [1:26pm]: Didn’t realize you were offering me luxury.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: He’s my favorite visual meal anyway🫣
Your eyebrows shoot up.
You glance at Yoongi, who’s looking out the window, unbothered and unsuspecting.
You grin.
Hot Mess🥵 [1:27pm]: dare me to show him what you just said?
Three dots. Then panic.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: NO
✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: FUCKING DO NOTTTT
✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: OH GOD PLS NO I’M NOT READY FOR THAT LEVEL OF humiliation
✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: I HAVE TO DYE MY HAIR FIRST OR SOMETHING IDFK
You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh.
Yoongi glances over, unimpressed. “What’s so funny?”
You shake your head, too innocent. “Nothing.”
He raises a brow. “You look like you just watched someone trip on a red carpet.”
You sip your drink. “Metaphorically speaking, maybe I did.”
He narrows his eyes. “Is this about one of your unhinged group chats again?”
You shrug, smiling into your cup. “Define unhinged.”
Your phone buzzes again. You glance down.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:28pm]: Wait what café is it?
✨Chaos in Dior [1:28pm]: Also is Yoongi wearing earrings today or no??
✨Chaos in Dior [1:28pm]: Don’t make it weird I’m just mentally preparing
You snort. Loudly.
Yoongi doesn’t look up from his coffee. “You’re getting weirder by the second.”
You grin. “Takes one to know one.”
You type back with a roll of your eyes.
Hot Mess🥵 [1:29pm]: Yes he’s wearing earrings. No I will not describe them. Get here and look yourself.
Jimin starts typing back immediately.
You glance toward the entrance—just a peek. The bell hasn’t rung yet, but your stomach’s already flipping.
You don’t even know why you suddenly feel nervous. He’s just Jimin. Loud, ridiculous, dramatic Jimin.
But something about this feels different.
Like a storm’s about to walk in. Maybe because you have a lot to talk about? Maybe because you know how Yoongi still has feelings for him? Maybe both?
Yoongi takes another sip, calm as ever, but you notice the way his fingers tap the side of his cup once. Just once.
You look at him. He’s watching the window now.
Waiting.
Even if he doesn’t realize it.
15 minutes pass.
No Jimin.
No entrance. No bell. Just the occasional text blowing up your phone like he’s live-commenting a fashion emergency.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:34pm]: Had to change. The jeans were giving church camp💀
✨Chaos in Dior [1:35pm]: Didn’t realize Yoongi would be there I need to look effortless but unbothered but also expensive😛
Hot Mess🥵 [1:35pm]: It’s a coffee shop, not the Met Gala💀💀
✨Chaos in Dior [1:35pm]: You don’t understand! I can’t show up to my ex looking like I’ve peaked!!
Hot Mess🥵 [1:36pm]: You wore heels to your grandmother’s birthday.
Hot Mess🥵 [1:36pm]: Your peak is a lawless concept, Park.
Yoongi glances over your cup. “Why do you keep smiling like you’re about to commit a felony?”
You set your phone down. “Just texting a friend.”
He gives you a look. “The chaotic one?”
You take a slow sip. “Define chaotic.”
✨Chaos in Dior [1:39pm]: Do you think Yoongi remembers what I smell like
✨Chaos in Dior [1:39pm]: Be honest
Hot Mess🥵[1:39pm]: What the FUCK is this text💀
✨Chaos in Dior [1:39pm]: Delete it I panicked
Hot Mess🥵 [1:40pm]: Absolutely not. Screenshotting it and printing it on a mug.😏
✨Chaos in Dior [1:40pm]: YOU WOULDN’T
✨Chaos in Dior [1:40pm]: WAIT DO YOU THINK HE’LL RECOGNIZE MY COLOGNE
✨Chaos in Dior [1:40pm]: SHOULD I CHANGE IT
You cover your mouth to hide a snort.
Yoongi narrows his eyes. “You’re being suspicious.”
You shake your head. “You’re paranoid.”
He tilts his head. “And you’re stalling.”
✨Chaos in Dior [1:43pm]: On my way! Had to fix my bangs.
✨Chaos in Dior [1:43pm]: If I walk in and you tell him I asked about my scent I’ll never forgive you🫶
You grin at your screen.
Hot Mess🥵 [1:43pm]: Too late. He already knows you smell like desperation and ego🫶
The bell above the café door finally chimes.
You look up just in time to see a blur of black leather and attitude sweep through the entrance like he owns the place.
Park fucking Jimin.
He’s drenched in just the right amount of rain to look cinematic about it. Black pants. Loose shirt. Jacket hanging open like a statement. Hair slightly tousled—definitely intentional. Sunglasses pushed up onto his head like he forgot they’re useless indoors.
And despite the chaos it took him to get here, he’s glowing. Smirking already. Like he knows the scene he’s about to cause.
Your eyes flick instinctively to Yoongi, who’s still mid-sip of his drink.
His fingers freeze.
You lean in slightly, voice low. “Yoongi.”
Like he can’t peel his eyes away from Jimin ordering a coffee, he doesn’t look at you—just sets his cup down with surgical precision. “That’s who you’ve been texting?”
You wince. “I was gonna tell you.”
His eyes narrow, finally looking at you. “You invited him here?”
“I panicked! He was already asking where I was.”
Yoongi exhales slowly, glances toward the ordering counter again. The look on his face is mixture of awe and… physical pain? Honestly, it’s hard to tell.
“You good?” you ask, quieter now.
He nods once, too fast. “Yeah. Great. Love a surprise attack from unresolved history.” He gulps.
But Jimin doesn’t notice.
He spots you immediately after ordering, beams like he’s just found his favorite stage, and crosses the café with all the drama of a runway model and none of the subtlety of a normal person.
“You,” he says, pointing at you like you’ve personally wronged him. “Screenshots are a betrayal of trust.”
You shrug. “Don’t ask me to lie about your scent next time.”
Yoongi blinks slowly. “What.”
“Nothing,” you say too quickly.
Jimin drops into the seat beside you, adjusting his jacket like it’s a cape. “You didn’t tell me it was this Yoongi.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there were others.”
Jimin hums. “Guess I’ll just have to recalibrate my charm.”
You elbow him under the table. A subtle warning to be nice. But he doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he turns to Yoongi with that smile he always uses when he’s about to stir something dangerous. “Hi,” he says, softer now. “You look… the same.”
Yoongi doesn’t answer right away.
You pretend to be very interested in your coffee. Was this a mistake? Cause it’s starting to feel that way.
And for a split second—just a flicker—you swear you feel the air shift.
Not with drama.
But with something quieter. Older. Waiting.
Yeah, this was a mistake.
You glance between them—Jimin’s lingering smile, Yoongi’s expression unreadable—and feel like you’ve stepped into the middle of a conversation that started long before you arrived.
The silence stretches.
So you cut it with a sip of your drink and a shrug. “Anyway. Jimin was late because he thinks Yoongi needs to be visually stunned while he eats.”
“I was being respectful,” Jimin says, eyes still on Yoongi. “Didn’t want to show up underdressed.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “This is you dressed?”
You snort. Mentally high-fiving Yoongi.
Jimin grins. “Admit it. You missed me.”
Yoongi doesn’t reply, but he does look down at his drink like it suddenly got more interesting.
You bump Jimin’s shoulder with your own. “Can you be normal for five minutes?”
“I could,” he says, then leans in conspiratorially. “But do you really want that?”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.
Yoongi clears his throat. “So… is this a casual meet-up or am I third-wheeling a roommate friendship counseling session?”
You open your mouth to respond, but Jimin answers first.
“Oh, we’re here because she’s emotionally imploding. That’s why you’re here too, right?”
You give him a flat look. “Wow. Thank you for your discretion.”
He shrugs. “You told me to come.”
“I told you to meet us for coffee, not offer me up like a sacrificial lamb.”
“Same difference.”
Yoongi shakes his head, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now.
Jimin sips his drink and sighs dramatically. “Anyway, now that I’ve graced you both with my presence, what did I miss? Have we assigned code names to the rules yet? Rule One can be Operation: Denial.”
You kick him gently under the table.
He grins wider. “And Rule Four should be called Delusion. Bold of you both to think exclusivity isn’t romantic.”
You narrow your eyes. “Wait—how do you know about Rule Four?”
Jimin raises his brows like you just asked him if water is wet. “Please. I cornered Jungkook in the hallway like five minutes after you left this morning.”
Your stomach drops. “You what?”
“I was gentle,” he says. “Emotionally, I mean. Physically I blocked the doorway and know Jungkook’s weak spots.”
Yoongi lets out a low whistle. “And people say I’m the intimidating one.”
You glare at Jimin. “So you interrogated him?”
“Technically, I interrogated you first. He just cracked faster.” Jimin lifts his cup with a smug smile. “Didn’t even need to bribe him.”
You groan. “You are exhausting.”
“And you’re in love,” he sings.
“I am not.”
“You’re something,” Yoongi mutters.
You blink at him. You know he’s right. You know you feel something.
He blinks back, all-knowingly.
You say nothing.
Jimin does a slow double-take between the two of you. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait—do I need to go? Is this a Thing?”
You both answer at the same time.
“No.”
“God, no.”
Jimin blinks. “Okay, then explain it to me—how did you two even become friends?”
You glance at Yoongi, but he answers before you can.
“Music production class,” he says simply. “Right after I… well.” He clears his throat. “Right before last semester of high school.”
Jimin’s smirk falters—just barely.
And it’s then you realize, you met Yoongi right after he broke up with Jimin. The look on his face is a micro-expression of realization. Like he knows but doesn’t want to talk about it.
Yoongi goes on. “She was sitting alone in the hallway, hunched over this beat-up acoustic guitar with one string dangling off like it got into a fight.”
You roll your eyes. “Oh my God.”
“She was crying.”
“I was not crying.”
“You were sniffling,” he says. “Very dramatically.”
“I was annoyed.”
“You were full-on mourning.”
Jimin’s eyes widen. “Wait, you cried over a guitar string?”
“I wasn’t crying over the string,” you mutter.
“She absolutely was,” Yoongi says, deadpan. “Said, and I quote, ‘What kind of goddamn metaphor is this?’”
You close your eyes. “I hate both of you.”
Yoongi smiles, soft and a little fond. “Anyway, I didn’t even realize we were in the same class until that day. But after that… it just happened. Lunch, random collabs, sharing playlists. Kind of hard to remember when we weren’t friends.”
Jimin leans back in his seat, blinking between you. “So you were sad and poetic, and he was there with a wrench and emotional stability.”
Yoongi snorts. “Pretty sure all I had was a spare D string and a half-eaten granola bar.”
You try not to smile. “He offered me both.”
“He took the granola bar back,” you add.
Yoongi shrugs. “I was hungry.”
Jimin watches the two of you—quiet now, but thoughtful. Probably wondering why he never saw you.
You sip your coffee to fill the silence, pretending you don’t feel the weight of his gaze.
And maybe—just maybe—you feel Yoongi glance at you again, too.
Like he remembers that hallway just as clearly as you do.
You toy with your straw, glancing between them. “We ended up choosing the same college, too. Mostly by accident. Kind of.”
Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “Kind of?”
You shrug. “Well… I was originally thinking of a different school. But we kept hanging out after class, and one day Yoongi just casually mentioned where he’d committed. And I realized I didn’t want to start over somewhere else. Not when I had just moved to a new high school with less than a year left before graduation.” You sigh, “Making friends was never easy for me. Until I found Yoongi. Or—Yoongi found me.”
Yoongi sips his coffee, looking up at you softly. “I didn’t know that.”
You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but your voice is quieter. “Well. You do now.”
Jimin hums like he’s watching a drama unfold in real-time.
“Anyway,” you go on, straightening a bit in your seat. “Yoongi majored in Music Technology. I did Statistics.”
“Jesus,” Jimin mutters. “That’s hot.”
You scoff with a laugh. “Stats?”
“Are you kidding? You say things like ‘data models’ and ‘predictive analytics.’ I can’t even spell that.”
You snort. “Good to know where the bar is.”
Yoongi lifts his cup. “It’s on the floor.”
Jimin turns to him, grinning. “And what did you do with your Music Tech degree, huh?”
Yoongi shrugs. “Turned it into a career. And, you know… crippling perfectionism.”
You and Jimin both laugh at that one.
The conversation flows easier now—like the sharp edges have softened. The jokes land. The drinks get lower. You feel lighter somehow, even though the weight of earlier still presses in the back of your mind.
But this—this makes room to breathe.
And you find yourself thinking:
You missed this.
All of it.
You missed friendship. Missed being able to sit at a too-small table with someone who’s seen you cry over guitar strings and screw up presentation slides and nearly pass out during a group project because you forgot to eat.
You missed your best friend.
Yoongi’s been there for so many versions of you—quiet ones, loud ones, messy ones, guarded ones. He’s always understood you without needing to be let in, like he knows where the walls are but doesn’t mind sitting outside them.
And lately, between everything with Jungkook and the secrets you’re barely holding together, you’ve realized just how far you’ve drifted from that kind of ease.
From safety. From softness.
You missed Yoongi.
And maybe you’re only just starting to understand how much.
Jimin stretches, arms up behind his head like he’s posing for a magazine cover. “So. Are we just gonna pretend we’re normal people, or are we gonna talk about the fact that you’re sleeping with the hot one?”
You glare. “We’re not talking about that right now.”
Yoongi hums into his cup. “Which one is considered the hot one?”
Jimin turns to him, grinning. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
You snort, but your gaze cuts back to Jimin. “Actually, you have some explaining to do.”
He blinks, faux-innocent. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” you say, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re fucking rich?”
Jimin groans dramatically. “Ugh, God! Who told you? Was it Jungkook?”
“I mean, technically Jin opened his mouth first and I just didn’t put it together, but—yeah. Jungkook confirmed.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re an heir, Jimin. To Park Motors. You’re on fucking Google.”
He winces. “God. Don’t say that. And keep your voice down!”
“You’re a nepo baby!”
“I am not.”
“You have a trust fund!”
“I don’t touch the trust fund,” he huffs. “It’s emotional leverage. Like seriously—I actually don’t touch it.”
You cross your arms. “You made me Venmo you for pizza.”
He points at you. “It was a matter of principle.”
Yoongi leans back, watching all this unfold with a barely concealed smirk. “So when exactly were you planning to drop the legacy corporation detail on her? Seems important enough to tell your roommate.”
Ahh yes, another secret—of course—Yoongi already knew about. Park Jimin, being heir to Park Motors. You should’ve known Yoongi doesn’t tell you anything anymore.
Jimin shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something sheepish in his expression. “Didn’t seem important. Thought it was obvious that she liked me for my winning personality.”
Yoongi raises a brow. “Debatable.”
Jimin turns toward him, a little too slowly. “You’re meaner than I remember.”
Yoongi meets his gaze, calm and steady. “You remember me?”
Jimin’s smile is sharp, but his voice is soft. “Some things are hard to forget.”
Your drink pauses halfway to your mouth.
The air dips. Not cold—but charged.
Yoongi looks away first.
You clear your throat. “Okay, well. This is no longer about me and my emotionally questionable decisions. This is about Jimin, who wears vintage Dior and pretended not to know how tax brackets work.”
Jimin perks up. “They’re just confusing!”
“Are they?” you deadpan. “For someone with two Porsche’s?”
Yoongi laughs—really laughs. Not the polite kind. Not the quiet kind. The kind you haven’t heard in weeks.
And just for a second, it feels like your world might not be slowly falling apart after all.
Jimin sighs, softer this time. “Okay. For real—sorry I didn’t tell you.”
You glance at him.
He’s not pouting for once. Just watching you with an expression that’s… earnest. Honest.
“I don’t like being treated differently,” he says. “And it’s not something I really lead with. Most of the people who’ve stuck around in my life don’t know, or they don’t care.”
You study him for a second longer, then nod. “Okay. That’s fair.”
His mouth quirks. “Still not paying you back for that pizza though.”
You flick a straw wrapper at him.
Yoongi watches the exchange with a faint smile. “Guess you’re still charming, huh?”
Jimin tilts his head, smile sharpening. “Only for people who used to love me.”
You nearly choke on your drink.
Yoongi sets his cup down gently. “Used to?”
Oh shit.
Jimin holds his gaze. “I don’t know. Did you?”
Yoongi’s mouth lifts at the corner, but his voice drops—lower, quieter. “If I didn’t, it wouldn’t have hurt so much to let you go.”
Something shifts. Why is your heartbeat faster with this tension?
You go still. Watching. Waiting.
Jimin’s smile flickers—just for a second. “Then why did you?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer at first. Just studies him. Thoughtful. A little tired. Like he’s still carrying the decision in his chest and thinks about it often.
“I thought it was better for you,” he says eventually. “And I hated that it felt like I wasn’t good enough for you.”
Jimin exhales, soft and slow, almost sad.
“You were.”
And suddenly, you feel like a guest in a memory.
There’s silence.
Not awkward—but full. Heavy with everything they never said when it might’ve made a difference. Like whatever this is between them isn’t old news. It’s familiar. Like it never really ended, just paused.
You love Yoongi. You trust him more than anyone. But sitting here, watching the way he looks at Jimin—like he’s reading the spaces between the words—you realize you’ve never seen him like this.
Not with you. Not with anyone.
There’s a softness in his stare that makes your chest ache on his behalf. A caution. A want.
You glance between them again and feel something in your stomach squeeze. It’s not jealousy. Not quite. It’s just… the ache of seeing someone you love and care for reaching for something you can’t give them.
And maybe—maybe Yoongi’s been reaching for Jimin this whole time.
You tear your eyes away, focus instead on your nearly empty cup.
The table feels smaller now. Closer. A little too full of everything no one is saying.
The silence stretches a little too long.
So naturally, Jimin breaks it.
Not with a comment.
But with a vibration.
Your phone buzzes in your lap.
You glance down.
✨Chaos in Dior[2:03pm]: You fucked Jungkook.
You hold in an incredulous laugh. Your jaw drops. You whip your head toward him.
He’s still staring straight ahead. Sipping his coffee. Blank expression. Completely unbothered.
You glare.
He slowly turns his head. Smiles like a cat who’s just knocked something off a shelf.
You start typing furiously.
Hot Mess🥵[2:03pm]: Way to deflect the attention on MY problems
Hot Mess🥵[2:03pm]: Grow up
✨Chaos in Dior[2:04pm]: I wouldn’t say it’s ur problem…
✨Chaos in Dior[2:04pm]: More of a blessing🤭
✨Chaos in Dior[2:04pm]: We all know u needed to get laid.
You glare at your screen, then side-eye Jimin like you’re ready to throttle him.
He doesn’t look at you—just still sips his drink like it’s a fine wine and not the emotional hand grenade he just lobbed across the table.
You huff under your breath. “You’re insufferable.”
Yoongi glances up from his phone. “What’d he do now?”
“Nothing,” you mutter. “Jimin’s just being—Jimin.”
Jimin gives you a faux-angelic smile, then turns to Yoongi. “She totally slept with Jungkook.”
Yoongi pauses mid-sip. Then nods, “I’m aware.”
You throw your head back, tired of coming back to this. “Seriously?”
“I was helping you normalize it,” Jimin says. “It’s healthy to share.”
“I’m not sharing. I’m surviving.”
Yoongi blinks slowly. “So. That’s happening.”
You throw your arms up. “It’s not a thing. It was just— We made rules. It’s casual.”
Jimin lifts a brow. “You’ve got a sparkle in your eye for ‘casual.’”
“I’m not here for commentary,” you snap. “I’m here for silence. Secrecy. That’s all I’m asking.”
Yoongi leans back, stretches. “So, what, you’re asking us to lie for you?”
You blink. “No. I’m asking you not to tell the last roommate who’s still in the dark, for the sake of my dignity! Or anyone else! It’s different.”
Jimin shrugs. “I mean, we’ve lied before.”
Yoongi nods thoughtfully. “We’re good at it, actually.”
You pause. “Is that… experience talking?”
Jimin grins. “Let’s just say you’re not the first friends with benefits in this friend group.”
Your jaw drops. “Ew. Wait. You two—”
Yoongi sips his coffee like it’s water under the bridge. “It was high school.”
Jimin hums. “And late nights.”
Yoongi adds, “And questionable decision-making.”
Jimin smirks. “And locked doors.”
You stare at them. “I have so many questions.”
“You really don’t,” they say in unison.
You bury your face in your hands. “Boo. I’m surrounded by criminals.”
Jimin pats your shoulder. “We prefer ‘delinquents with emotional depth.’”
Yoongi raises his cup. “To secrets.”
Jimin clinks his mug to Yoongi’s, then glances at you. “We’ll keep yours. For now.”
Back at the apartment, the hallway is quiet when you return.
Your shoes are damp. Your coffee is gone. Your thoughts are louder than they were when you left.
But your body knows exactly where it wants to go.
Your steps slow as you pass Jungkook’s door. You don’t knock. You don’t stop.
But your eyes linger.
You’re not ready to see him again. Not yet.
Not when you’re still buzzing with everything Yoongi said and everything Jimin didn’t say.
Not when you’re still untangling your feelings like a string of lights with too many knots.
Because seeing Jungkook again would mean distraction.
Endless, sweaty, heart-wrenching, distraction.
And you have things to do. You have laundry. Dishes. Mental rewrites of conversations that don’t go as planned.
Besides—you’re not even sure if he’s home.
So you keep walking.
You tell yourself that you’re making the smart choice.
That restraint is maturity.
You tell yourself all this and more as you slip into the communal bathroom—
—and freeze.
Broad shoulders. Sculpted back. A masterpiece of ink sprawled across golden skin.
Jungkook.
He’s standing at the sink that’s in the far corner of the bathroom. He watches the mirror, towel slung low around his hips, drying his damp hair with another. Water slides down the back of his neck, gliding over muscle, catching in the grooves of his spine.
He’s so shiny.
Your mouth goes dry. Yet you feel like you’re already drooling.
He hasn’t noticed you yet, despite being only a few steps away from him.
And you should leave. Right now. Quietly.
But your feet are frozen to the tile and your gaze won’t obey.
You’re staring. Openly. Shamelessly.
You hate yourself a little for it.
But not enough to stop.
Not enough to even feel guilty about it in the slightest.
He shifts his body to step away from the sink, and the towel at his waist dips just enough to expose the sharp line of his hipbone.
Holy shit. You’ve seen him fully naked, what the fuck is the big deal?
Get it together.
Is it because he’s… wet?
Dripping with scandalous droplets of H2O and moving in slow motion as he dries his hair with his muscular arms—
You make a tiny sound in the back of your throat.
Regret it immediately.
Jungkook turns.
And freezes when he sees you in the doorway.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Water drips from his hair, hits the tile with a soft tap. The towel at his waist is still secure—barely—but it’s the look in his eyes that knocks the breath from your lungs.
He doesn’t look surprised. He looks amused.
Like he knows what he’s doing to you.
He takes a step closer to you.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough from the heat of the shower.
Your heart stutters. “Hey.”
You forget why you needed to come in here in the first place.
You should leave. You should say something casual and back out like you didn’t just mentally photograph the way a water droplet trailed down his spine.
But you don’t.
Because he’s not looking away. And neither are you.
He doesn’t move closer.
But you do.
Just a step. Like gravity pulled you forward.
And he notices.
His eyes flick down—quick, unreadable—before returning to yours. There’s something quiet in his expression. Something soft around the edges.
He reaches for his hair product, slow and casual, but the movement pulls the towel lower and your brain shorts out entirely.
You gulp.
He catches it.
“Didn’t think you’d be back yet,” he says, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes.
“Didn’t think you’d be half-naked in a shared bathroom,” you shoot back.
He shrugs. “Guess we’re both bad at timing.”
He’s teasing. Light. Careless.
You hate how much you like it.
“I wasn’t staring,” you say suddenly. Even though you were.
He raises a brow. “Didn’t say you were.”
“Well. I wasn’t.”
“Okay.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re acting smug.”
“I’m wet,” he says, voice dipping lower. “And dripping all over the floor.”
You blink. Open your mouth. Close it again.
“I meant—” you start.
He takes a step forward.
Not rushed. Not accidental.
Just enough to close the space. Just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of soap and something unmistakably him.
“Sure you did.”
Your breath catches.
Your brain screams: This is not contained.
But your body leans in anyway.
Just a tilt. A shift. Barely more than a breath between you.
And then—his towel slips just a little further.
Your gaze drops. Instinct takes over.
You stumble back a step, nearly knocking into the towel rack behind you.
He doesn’t laugh. But he smiles.
Like he knew you’d fold first.
Like he could chase you, if he wanted to.
Like he might.
“You should go,” he says quietly.
But he doesn’t move away.
Neither do you.
Your back hits the cold metal hooks of the rack mounted on the wall, anchoring you. His body is still heat and steam and bare skin—and the look in his eyes is anything but neutral now.
You nod. “Yeah. I should.”
You don’t.
His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second.
And that’s the problem.
The way he looks at you like your lips are a question he’s dying to answer. Like he’s kissed you before and wants to remember how it felt—and make it worse this time.
Because he has.
And you do too.
You swallow. “You said we’re being smart about this.”
“I did.”
You breathe in. Shaky. Shallow. “This doesn’t feel smart.”
“It’s not.”
Still, he stays where he is.
You can feel the warmth of his breath, the pulse beneath his skin. And the way he’s looking at you—like he’s teetering on the edge of a decision—it sets something loose in your chest.
“Jungkook…”
It’s supposed to be a warning.
It comes out like a plea.
He exhales like he’s just lost a battle with himself. One hand rises, slow and deliberate, until his knuckles skim your jaw. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, but his fingers linger at your cheek, like he needs one more excuse to touch you.
“I told myself I wasn’t going to do this,” he murmurs.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
But you lean in anyway.
So does he.
When he kisses you, it’s not soft.
It’s not safe.
It’s a collision. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a dam breaking. All teeth and heat and breathless need. His hands curl around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to this one stupid, reckless decision. Like if he lets go, he’ll lose the thread of sanity holding him together.
You fist your hands in the towel at his hips. He groans against your mouth.
And then—a bedroom door creaks somewhere down the hall.
Both of you freeze.
You pull back, lips parted, pulse thrumming in your throat, chest heaving.
Jungkook breathes out, low and rough. “Fuck.”
You clear your throat. Try to remember what restraint feels like. “We’re so bad at this.”
He smirks, catching your wrist as you start to step away.
“Meet me in ten?”
Your stomach flips.
You hesitate. Then nod.
“Okay.”
And just like that, you’re out the door—face burning, heart sprinting, and already counting down every second.
You’re tidying your room when the knock comes.
Two soft taps.
You freeze. Heart skipping. Fingers twisting the hem of your shirt.
The door creaks open a beat later—because of course he doesn’t wait for permission to come in.
Jungkook steps inside, damp curls pushed back from his forehead, water still clinging to his skin in places. He’s wearing black slacks and a crisp white button-up, open just enough at the collar to hint at his collarbones.
You blink.
He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, then leans against it, arms loose at his sides like he’s perfectly comfortable being the most devastating thing in the room.
You swallow hard.
“I didn’t know you had nice clothes,” you blurt.
He scoffs, offended. “All my clothes are nice clothes.”
You roll your eyes. “You know what I meant. I didn’t know you had a nice suit. But I guess since you’re ‘Mr. Jeon Industrial,’ it makes sense.”
He lifts a brow. “Hey. Not yet, I’m not.”
You glance at him again, brow furrowed. “Then why are you wearing that?”
He pushes off the door slowly, walking toward you with the kind of lazy confidence that makes your breath catch.
“I’ve got a shoot. For that big company I told you about.” His voice lowers. “Figured I should make a good first impression.”
He stops in front of you—close enough that your knees almost buckle.
His hand slides up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. His other hand settles on your waist, fingers curling just enough to draw you closer. Not flush. Not quite. But enough that you can feel the promise in the air between you.
“Oh,” you breathe.
And you mean to say more. Something clever. Something that doesn’t sound like your brain has completely short-circuited.
But all you manage is:
“Wait—then when are you leaving?”
He leans in, lips ghosting toward yours, his voice barely above a whisper.
“In fifteen minutes.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You know that’s not enough time to—”
“To what?” he interrupts, a teasing edge in his tone. “To fuck?”
Your breath stutters. He watches it happen.
“I didn’t come in here just to fuck you.”
You blink, pulse jumping.
“Then… why’d you come in here?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he closes the distance entirely, lips just brushing yours—barely there. Just enough to taste the anticipation.
“To kiss a ‘lil.”
His lips press to yours—once, twice—before he finally presses in for real.
It’s soft at first. Gentle. Like he’s savoring the contact he’s been thinking about since the second you left the bathroom.
But then you melt.
And he groans.
And that’s when it intensifies.
Because when Jungkook kisses you like this—slow, then deeper, then all-consuming—it’s not just physical. It’s not just heat. It’s like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you sigh into him, the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you need something to hold onto or you’ll float away.
His hand slides from your waist to your lower back, tugging you closer, until there’s no space left at all.
And still, it’s not enough.
You part your lips for him. He takes the invitation like he’s starving.
You kiss him back like you’ve lost your mind.
Because maybe you have.
Because this isn’t smart. This is the opposite of smart. His camera bag is probably still packed. His client is probably expecting him to arrive early. He said fifteen minutes and already you’re wasting them.
And yet.
Your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, palms brushing the warm skin of his stomach. He hisses softly between kisses, and you feel the tremble in his breath as he exhales against your mouth.
“You taste like mint,” you whisper between kisses.
His lips find your jaw. “Mouthwash.”
“You really weren’t planning to stay.”
“No,” he murmurs, kissing lower—your throat now, the base of your neck. “I was just gonna kiss you once.”
You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “One kiss, huh?”
“Maybe two,” he mutters against your skin.
His mouth is hot. His hands are hotter.
Your knees buckle when he backs you toward the bed. He doesn’t push, just guides. Like he’s asking even as he’s taking. Like he’d stop if you blinked.
But you won’t. Not when he’s touching you like this. Like you matter. Like you’re his.
Which you’re not.
You remind yourself of that—desperately—because it’s too easy to forget when he’s kissing you like a promise. When his hands are gripping your thighs and his tongue is in your mouth and his heart is racing just as fast as yours.
You’re sitting on the mattress, trying to scoot back as he’s standing—towering over you. Hands on your thighs. His kisses becoming relentless.
You should stop.
But instead, you whisper:
“You’re going to be late.”
He pulls back slightly, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, glazed with heat, and they flick between your lips and your eyes like he’s trying to decide what’s more dangerous.
He’s bent over slightly as he presses his forehead to yours.
“I’d rather be late,” he whispers.
And you believe him.
God help you, you believe him.
So you don’t stop him.
Not when his hands find your hips.
Not when he lowers you down onto the mattress like you’re something delicate, something his.
Not even when he settles above you, pressing his weight into you with just enough restraint to make your stomach flip.
His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, hungrier—like he’s making up for the minutes slipping through his fingers. And maybe he is.
Because he should leave.
But he’s still here.
On top of you.
Kissing you like the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
You arch into him without meaning to, and that’s when you feel it—hard, heavy, unmistakable.
Your breath stutters.
He groans softly into your mouth, like he knows you feel it. Like he wants you to.
You shift your hips, just slightly.
His jaw clenches.
You press your mouth to his ear, voice low and barely steady. “I can help with that.”
You feel him exhale—rough, wrecked.
But he pulls back, eyes blown wide and dark. He looks at you like he’s trying to remember how to speak.
“You don’t have time,” you whisper, teasing. “You’ve got—what, five minutes left?”
His gaze drops to your lips. Then lower.
He shakes his head once. “I didn’t come in here for that.”
“But you’re—”
“I know,” he mutters, cutting you off.
Then his hands are on the button of your jeans.
Your breath catches. “Jungkook—”
“I just want you,” he murmurs, kissing a line down your throat. “Let me.”
You don’t stop him.
You lift your hips when he tugs your jeans down, slow and deliberate, like he’s unwrapping something he’s been thinking about since the second you walked into that bathroom.
And when he sees what’s underneath—your purple lace panties, delicate and sheer, low on your hips—he swears softly under his breath.
His favorite color.
You see it in his eyes—the flicker of something warm, something reverent. His fingers ghost along the edge of the fabric.
“You wore these for me?” he asks quietly, like it matters.
You should lie. You should shrug it off.
Instead, you admit, “Maybe.”
That’s all it takes. He sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging you gently toward him, lips brushing along the inside of your thigh. The slow, reverent kind of kiss that makes your breath catch in your throat.
Then he looks up.
“Can I take these off?”
His fingers rest just beneath the lace. Waiting.
Your heart stutters. You nod.
He doesn’t rush.
He peels them down carefully, watching the way your thighs tremble, the way your breath hitches as the cool air brushes between your legs.
And then he sees you.
His gaze darkens—eyes fixed, jaw clenched.
“Fuuuck…” he breathes. “I wish I had more time with you.”
You laugh—quiet and breathless, nerves curling in your stomach. “Yeah… me too.”
But there’s no time for shyness. Not when he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. Not when his lips press softly—slowly—where you’re aching for him.
Your head tips back against the mattress. Your fingers find the sheets.
He starts gently. Like he’s tasting, not devouring. Like he’s learning you. Mouth soft, tongue teasing, pulling sounds from your throat before you even realize you’re making them.
Then you feel it—his hand slipping between your thighs again. The slow circle of his finger and then a soft press as it glides inside you, coaxing more heat, more need.
He moves with purpose. With control. First pumping. Then curling his finger just slightly. Testing. Adjusting. Searching—
And then—
“Ahh! Jungkook—”
You slap a hand over your mouth. Too loud. Too much.
But he just hums against your clit, not stopping, smiling up at you. Like he’s proud.
Because he found it.
Right there.
That spot that makes your whole body jolt and your thighs clamp around his shoulders.
He keeps going. Working you open with expert rhythm—his mouth and fingers in perfect sync. Each curl, each flick, dragging you closer to the edge.
And all you can think is God, no one has ever—
Not like this.
Not like him.
None of your exes. None of your flings. They touched you like it was a race. Like they couldn’t wait for their turn.
But Jungkook?
He touches you like you’re art.
Like he wants to ruin you.
Slowly. Completely.
And your body?
It wants to let him.
Your hips buck, instinctive and helpless, but Jungkook holds you steady—one hand firm at your waist, the other still working you open, curling deep and sure, his tongue never faltering.
It’s overwhelming.
Too much and somehow you want more.
You moan again, muffled into your palm, and he glances up—eyes hooded, lips slick, expression dark with want.
“You always get this wet for me?” he murmurs against you.
You whimper—half laugh, half sob. “Don’t say things like that.”
But he smiles. And he keeps going.
Slower now. Crueler. Like he knows how close you are and wants to savor it. His tongue draws lazy circles, featherlight, right where you need it. His fingers curl again—just right—and your legs shake.
Your whole body pulls tight.
You’re barely breathing.
And right as you start to spiral—right as your stomach knots and your chest caves and that trembling heat rises all the way up—
He looks up at you again. Soft. Intent.
“Let go for me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
The words break something loose inside you and you come. Hard.
Your body arches. Your hand slips from your mouth and you cry out for him, barely coherent, his name dissolving on your tongue as the release crashes over you—intense and overwhelming and blissfully slow.
And even through it, you feel him still kissing you. Still moving with you. Like he’s anchoring you through it. Like he wants to be the one holding you together while you fall apart.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You blink them back.
Because it’s not just the way he touches you.
It’s the way he sees you.
All of you.
And still chooses to stay.
Your pulse is still fluttering when he finally pulls back, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to jolt you out of it.
You feel him kiss your inner thigh. Then again, a little higher.
And again.
Each one slower than the last. Reverent. Worshipping.
He trails his mouth up the curve of your hip, over the softness of your stomach, up your ribs—pausing briefly to rest his forehead there, just breathing.
Then he keeps going.
He kisses the underside of your breast over your clothes, the center of your chest, the base of your throat.
And when he finally hovers over you again, eyes half-lidded, hair tousled, cheeks flushed—he looks like he worships you.
He leans in, lips ghosting your jaw, and murmurs:
“You taste so fucking good.”
A breath stutters from your lungs.
You grab the collar of his shirt and tug—gentle but urgent—pulling him into a kiss.
You can taste yourself on his lips.
It should make you shy.
Instead, it makes you dizzy.
The kiss is messier this time. Slower. Softer. But still full of want—full of all the things you haven’t said. His tongue brushes yours and you can’t help the quiet noise that escapes your throat.
You feel him smile against your mouth.
But then his hand slips to your waist and stills.
“Shit,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to glance at the clock on your nightstand. “I really have to go.”
You nod, though you hate it. Your fingers stay tangled in his shirt for a second longer before you let go.
He doesn’t move immediately. He just looks at you.
Like he doesn’t want to leave.
Like maybe he’s not sure how.
You sit up slowly, heart still racing, legs weak and wobbly like they’ve forgotten how to belong to you.
Your lower half is still bare, flushed, kissed within an inch of its life—so you tug the comforter over your lap, suddenly shy now that the spell’s beginning to lift.
Jungkook stands at the edge of the bed, adjusting his shirt with hands that still tremble faintly.
He’s glowing.
Hair messy. Lips a little swollen. Eyes warm in that way that makes your stomach flutter all over again.
He glances at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Will I see you later tonight?”
You blink.
There’s no hesitation in your answer. “Yeah. I don’t have plans.”
Just laundry. Dishes. Probably a mental replay of everything that just happened. But none of it matters now.
You’re free.
And he lights up at that—quietly, beautifully. Like the thought of seeing you again is enough to carry him through the rest of the day.
“Good,” he says, voice soft.
Then, one last time, he leans in. Presses a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there like a promise.
“I’ll come find you.”
And then he’s gone.
Your door clicks shut behind him.
And you’re left alone in your bed, blanket tucked over your lap, heart pounding like it’s still trying to catch up to what just happened.
But for once, it doesn’t feel like too much.
It feels like it was exactly what you wanted.
After Jungkook leaves, you check the time.
4:21 PM.
Jesus. It’s not even dinner yet.
You’re still in your room for a few minutes—staring at the ceiling, blanket tugged to your chest now like it might help your heart slow down. You try to gather yourself, try to breathe like a normal person, but your mind’s still spinning. Buzzing. Replaying every second.
The kiss in the bathroom. His voice in your ear. The way he looked at you afterward—like he didn’t want to leave.
Fucking hell.
Today has been a full-on emotional rollercoaster. Like five different movies playing back-to-back, and you’re the disaster protagonist in all of them. You’ve made rules, broken rules, made out with someone half-naked in a bathroom, got eaten out like a last meal, and possibly reignited a decades-old gay situationship between two emotionally repressed men.
So yeah.
You’re fucking tired.
Not physically—you’re too wired for that. But emotionally? You feel like your brain has been through a spin cycle.
Which is how you end up here.
On the couch.
Blanket all cozy over your lap, hoodie zipped all the way up, legs tucked beneath you like a hermit. The TV’s on—some kind of drama rerun you’re not even watching. Just background noise to drown out the chaos in your head.
You’re trying not to spiral. Trying not to think about what Jungkook’s doing right now. Trying not to imagine him sitting in some corporate studio with his shirt still rumpled from your hands, still tasting you on his tongue.
You fail. Miserably. It makes you feel like you’re floating. Dream-like. Until you’re half-asleep with your legs curled up under you when you hear the front door creak open.
“Wow,” comes Jin’s voice, sharp and amused. “You look like you just got hit by a truck full of feelings.”
You jolt upright, adjusting your blanket like a criminal caught mid-act. “Hi?”
Jin shuts the door behind him, holding a grocery bag in one arm and a suspiciously large iced coffee in the other. He gives you a once-over as he toes off his shoes.
“Rough day?” he asks, heading into the kitchen.
You blink. “Something like that.”
He hums. “You look flushed. And dazed. And kind of glowy?” He pops his head around the open cabinet door and narrows his eyes. “Wait. Are you drunk?”
“No!”
He raises a brow. “Hungover?”
You frown. “It’s 4:45pm on a Wednesday.”
“Exactly. It’s almost 5 o’clock. Prime emotional hangover window.” He returns to unpacking his grocery bag like he didn’t just low-key accuse you of being unwell.
You sink lower into the couch. “I’m fine.”
“You say that,” Jin calls back, “but I know that face. That’s your I’m-overstimulated-and-suppressing-my-thoughts face.”
You glare at the TV. “I don’t have that face.”
He reappears with a granola bar and an accusatory stare. “You absolutely do. And I’m not judging, by the way. We’ve all been there. The real question is—who triggered it?”
You freeze. Shit.
He leans against the arm of the couch, unwrapping the bar slowly like he’s winding up for a grand theory. “I saw Jungkook in the kitchen earlier. Looked like he just walked out of a James Bond movie with a minor identity crisis. You two have another weird fight or something?”
You blink. “No?”
He shrugs. “Okay. Because I’ve noticed something lately…”
Your spine straightens.
He takes a bite of his granola bar, chews dramatically. “You and Jungkook have been kind of… intense.”
You nearly choke. “Intense?”
You thought you were being discreet. You thought it was contained. You were wrong.
“Yeah. Not in a bad way,” he adds, waving his hand. “Just… you’re always in the same room. Talking in quiet voices. Avoiding eye contact like you’re hiding secrets.”
You are.
Jin sighs and flops into the armchair across from you. “Honestly, I just assumed you two were in the middle of a long, unresolved enemies-to-besties arc or something.”
You snort before you can stop it.
He narrows his eyes. “Unless…”
Your heart skips. Unless what?
He pauses. Squints like he’s solving a puzzle. Then shakes his head. “Nah. You’d tell me if something was up, right?”
You smile too fast. “Of course.”
He nods, satisfied. “Cool. Just checking. Because if any of you start secretly dating each other, I swear to God, I will host an intervention.”
You throw a pillow at him.
He dodges, laughing. “I’m just saying! I’m not emotionally equipped to watch this apartment turn into a reality show.”
You roll your eyes. “You’d thrive on a reality show.”
“Obviously,” he says. “But not when it’s my roommates catching feelings and pretending not to.”
You hold your breath.
He doesn’t notice.
Just grabs the remote and changes the channel. “Anyway. You wanna help me decide what to cook tonight, or are you too busy silently unraveling inside that blanket cocoon of yours?”
You mutter, “I’m not unraveling.”
He grins. “Denial looks good on you.”
You throw another pillow.
He catches it this time, laughs, and stands up to walk over and settle in beside you. And you sit there—quiet, fidgeting with the edge of your blanket, trying to will your pulse back to normal.
Because he doesn’t know. Not really. But he’s close. So fucking close.
“You know what,” he says, clapping his hands once. “We’re making dinner. Real dinner. Not instant ramen and regret.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“I got ingredients for jjajangmyeon. You’re helping.”
You sit up slowly, dragging your blanket with you. “Why me?”
“Because you look like you need to stir something before your brain explodes,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen. “And I like bossing you around. Come on.”
You follow him in, barefoot and wary.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of garlic and soy sauce as Jin pulls ingredients out of the bag—noodles, black bean paste, pork belly, chopped vegetables already prepped from the market.
“Grab a cutting board,” he says. “And don’t touch the knives unless you want to lose a finger.”
You roll your eyes but obey.
For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Peaceful.
You wash green onions and mushrooms while Jin slices pork belly with practiced ease. His movements are confident—graceful, even. It’s always been like that with him in the kitchen. Controlled chaos.
You sneak a glance at him.
“Do you ever miss it?” you ask softly. “Working at Jeon Industrial?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just tosses the pork into the pan and listens to the sizzle before replying.
“Sometimes,” he says eventually. “But not the job. Just… the illusion of stability, I guess.”
You nod slowly. “And the paycheck?”
He snorts. “That too.”
You smile. “You’re not worried?”
“Constantly,” he says. “But at least now I’m worrying on my own terms. Plus, I have great friends.”
There’s something steady in the way he says it. Like he’s still figuring it all out, but he’s okay with that. Like maybe growing up doesn’t mean having the answers—it just means learning how to live with the questions.
You hand him the chopped vegetables. “You’re good at this.”
“Cooking?”
“Yeah. And talking people down from emotional spirals. Even when you don’t know they’re spiraling.”
He glances at you, amused. “Is that a compliment?”
“Take it before I change my mind.”
He grins. “Duly noted.”
He passes you a wooden spoon. “Stir. Slowly.”
You take the pan with a nod and begin mixing the black bean paste into the sizzling pork and vegetables, watching it turn rich and dark and glossy.
Jin leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed. “You know, you’ve changed since you moved in.”
Your hands pause over the pan. “Yeah?”
“Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “You’re just… softer. Less closed off.”
You stare into the pan. “Maybe.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “You still look like you’d bite someone if they asked you about your feelings. But now you do it with more eye contact.”
You snort.
He nudges your elbow. “Seriously. You’ve been good for us. For Jungkook, especially.”
You freeze for half a second. Then resume stirring.
“Yeah?” you say lightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “He doesn’t talk much, you know. Keeps everything locked up. But he’s different with you. Lighter. Less guarded.”
Your stomach twists.
You school your face into something neutral. “Well. We’re roommates. We all rub off on each other eventually.”
Jin hums like he doesn’t entirely believe you. But he lets it go.
You’re just finishing the final stir when the front door opens with a quiet creak.
“It smells amazing in here. Who’s cooking and why wasn’t I invited?”
You look up just as Taehyung strolls into the kitchen, damp from the rain and radiating curiosity.
He freezes when he sees you standing beside Jin, apron on, spoon in hand.
And you see it immediately.
The smirk. The glint in his eyes. Like he knows exactly where you were earlier.
You tense.
Jin beams, oblivious. “We made jjajangmyeon. There’s enough for you if you behave.”
Taehyung nods slowly, gaze flicking between you and the stove. “Looks good.”
Then—without missing a beat—he leans close and says under his breath, "Was it Jungkook or the food that put that glow on your face?”
You kick him in the ankle.
He doesn’t flinch. Just winks.
And Jin? Still has no idea.
You force a smile.
Jin hums happily, ladling noodles into a bowl like the world isn’t tilting.
And Taehyung moves across the kitchen, grinning. Too wide. Too knowing.
You’re not sure what’s cooking on the stove anymore. But you’re officially back on edge.
→ AUs: roommate!au, fwb!au, arranged marriage!au(jungkook x not you), New Girl AU?
→ Genre: comedy, smut, fluff, slow burn, angst
→ Trope(s): strangers to roommates to friends to FWB to lovers, roommates to lovers
→ Rating: Mature/explicit/R-18 (minors DNI)
→ Word Count: 2,405
→ Summary: Jungkook sits with the weight of your silence, wondering if wanting you was always a mistake. He’d give anything just to keep you a little longer—even if it means never being yours.
→ Warnings(by chapter): angst, Jungkook POV, explicit content (18+), emotional repression, jealousy, guilt, self-worth issues, familial pressure, slow burn, he just wants her to stay, Jungkook spiraling in silence™
→ A/N: This one is for the quiet chaos—the aching silence, the what-ifs, the wanting. Jungkook’s POV has been sitting heavy in my heart😮💨, and I hope it hits yours in all the right ways. Thank you for reading, always.💞
→ Playlist: ‘Always’ by Daniel Ceaser // ‘It’s you’ by MAX ft. Keshi // ‘Save Me’ (JPN Ver.) by BTS // ‘Let Me In (20 Cube)’ by Enhypen
Jungkook’s POV
He hears your door shut harshly while he’s still standing in the kitchen.
It’s not loud enough to be alarming. But it’s sharp. Final.
A message.
Jungkook closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.
Fuck.
He doesn’t need to ask what that was about. He already knows.
He knew once it happened—when Jin opened his mouth and said something stupid, and Jungkook, like a goddamn coward, said nothing at all.
“I thought Lisa was gone. She wasn’t here last night?”
And you were right there. Sitting two feet away. Mug in your hands, his hoodie still draped over your frame.
Jin had laughed, clapped him on the back, and moved on.
But you hadn’t.
You’d gone quiet. Then gone cold. And now—you’re gone, locked away behind that bedroom door with a finality that makes Jungkook feel like the floor’s been ripped out from under him.
Fuck.
He stares at his untouched coffee for a long time before moving.
Back in his room, he tries to work. He tells himself he needs to. That deadlines don’t care about personal disasters. That he’s still a professional with a portfolio to deliver.
So he opens his laptop, loads the batch of shots he took last week—editorial portraits for a magazine feature—and sets his fingers on the trackpad.
But the colors blur.
The lighting’s wrong.
The focus is off, even when it isn’t.
He drags the exposure slider just a little to the right and has to undo it immediately because it’s too much. Too stark. Too harsh. Like his hands forgot how to make something beautiful.
And maybe they did.
Because the only thing he can think about is the look on your face this morning.
Or rather—the lack of it.
How you wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t say his name. Wouldn’t say anything at all.
The silence is worse than any fight. It’s worse than the week you spent dodging each other after the rain-soaked almost-kiss. Back then, at least there was tension. Sparks. Static that meant there was still something alive between you.
But now?
Now you’ve both crossed a line.
Now he’s touched you.
Tasted you. Craved you.
And you let him.
You came to him. You let him undress you, take you apart with his hands and his mouth and his body—and then you let him hold you like it meant something.
And it did. To him, it did.
So now, this silence?
God, this silence feels like punishment.
Like maybe you regret it.
Like maybe you regret him.
He shuts the laptop before he can throw it.
His jaw is tight. His chest is tighter. And underneath it all is the slow, festering guilt that’s been growing since the kitchen.
He should’ve said something. Should’ve told Jin to shut up, should’ve made it clear it was you.
That it was only ever you.
But he didn’t. Because for a split second, he panicked. What would Jin say? What would Jimin say? What if you didn’t want them to know?
Because saying something would’ve drawn attention. Started questions. Invited Jimin’s teasing smirk and Jin’s overprotective big brother energy. And maybe a part of him thought he was protecting you by keeping it quiet.
But now he’s wondering if he was just protecting himself.
Because deep down, Jungkook has always wondered if he’s enough.
And now… now maybe you’re wondering too.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there.
Long enough for the sun to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across his desk. Long enough for the apartment to get quieter. For the ache in his chest to start feeling like a bruise.
Every time he’s in the hallway, he glances at your door. Just a flick of his eyes. Just to see.
But there’s nothing.
No footsteps. No music. No sound at all.
He almost knocks. Twice.
Fist halfway to the door, mouth opening—but he doesn’t do it. Because what if you don’t answer? What if you do and look at him like you don’t recognize what the two of you became?
So he keeps the words to himself and sits with the guilt. Listening to what seems like the never ending sound of rain.
He hears the front door open.
Then close.
Soft, but unmistakable.
And he knows.
He knows you’ve left.
He moves without thinking, drifting to the living room window, parting the curtain just enough to catch the sidewalk down below.
He waits for you to appear, walking in the rain. Hoodie pulled over your head, headphones in, hands shoved into the sleeves.
It’s his hoodie.
The same one you wore this morning when you left. When you wouldn’t look at him.
His chest twists.
He doesn’t know where you’re going, but he wants to follow. Wants to grab your wrist, spin you around, and make you look at him. Make you tell him what he did, what you need, what the hell he’s supposed to do with all of this aching weight in his chest.
But he doesn’t.
He just watches you walk away, and wonders when he started being scared of you slipping through his fingers.
It’s over an hour before you come back.
He hears the door click open, soft, and then footsteps. Two sets.
He frowns.
Then he hears Taehyung’s voice.
Jungkook’s stomach drops.
They’re walking together. Quiet. Calm.
He presses himself against the hallway wall, out of sight. Listens to the soft exchange of words he can’t quite make out. The rustle of the umbrella being shaken out. The low creak of the door closing behind you.
Then silence.
You’re back in your room.
But you were out with Taehyung?
And Jungkook hates that it bothers him. Hates the way his mind races, wondering what you talked about. What you told him that you haven’t told Jungkook. Why he gets to see you when Jungkook doesn’t.
Of course it was Taehyung. Easy. Magnetic. Always knowing the right thing to say. Jungkook clenches his jaw and forces the thought away.
But more than anything—he hates that he pushed you far enough away that you needed someone else in the first place.
Eventually, Taehyung leaves the living room and heads for Jimin’s room.
Jungkook hears Tae open Jimin’s door. Heavier footsteps this time. The sound of maybe a phone being dropped? A sigh.
And then stillness.
He presses a hand to his mouth and exhales into it, trying to calm the storm beneath his ribs.
He doesn’t know what you said out there. Doesn’t know how much of you Taehyung got to see.
But something in the air feels different now. Softer. Heavier.
And all Jungkook can think about is whether there’s still time to fix this.
Whether he still gets to try.
Whether he still gets to be the one you come back to.
He presses a hand to his face. Drags it down slowly. Exhales like it might clear the fog in his head.
Maybe this is what always happens when he gets too close.
Moving in with Jin and Jimin was an act of rebellion—his first real one. A middle finger to his parents and everything they’d planned for him.
He didn’t even tell them. Just walked out of their penthouse one day, left behind furniture and clothes and every expensive piece of his curated, polished life. No note. No forwarding address.
They found the silence louder than a goodbye.
He’s been running ever since—from boardrooms and obligations and what his parents like to call responsibility.
And maybe now… he’s still running. Just chasing something softer this time.
Something that smells like your shampoo and wears his clothes and looks at him like he might be worth staying for.
But what if you don’t?
He’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling when he hears a door open again.
Lighter footsteps.
Yours.
His heart stumbles.
Then—a voice. One that makes his entire body tense.
Jimin.
Jungkook can’t make out all of it, but he hears his name. Hears the teasing. The edge underneath it. The way Jimin’s tone dips into something whiny—sarcastic, hurt, laced with forgiveness.
His hands curl into fists against the sheets, in anticipation.
He wants to get up. Wants to interrupt whatever’s happening in the hallway. But he doesn’t move.
Because maybe he’s afraid of what you’ll say.
Maybe he’s afraid Jimin sees what’s written all over his face every time you’re in the room. Because honestly, the way his childhood friend eyes him during what feels like every interaction with you is… unsettling, to say the least.
He knows Jimin sees right through him.
Jimin probably already knows how Jungkook feels about you, just because they’re practically brothers.
Maybe he’s afraid that everyone knows.
Even though no one’s supposed to.
Then—there’s a knock.
Soft. Barely there.
His heart kicks.
He moves before his brain can catch up, crossing the room in three long strides and opening the door.
And there you are. Bare legs. His hoodie. No makeup. Hair damp from the rain.
You look—
God.
You look like a dream he wasn’t allowed to have.
His hoodie is swallowing you whole, sleeves tugged over your hands, the hem brushing your thighs like a secret only he gets to see. His throat works around a breath he doesn’t take.
You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.
But the air between you feels...
Heavy. Real.
Like whatever line you crossed last night on his bed didn’t just blur—it disappeared entirely.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low.
You shake your head.
He steps aside without thinking. Opens the door wider.
You walk in.
He closes it behind you. Locking the world out.
He watches you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll be gone again. You stand in the middle of his room like you don’t know what to do with yourself, arms crossed, breathing uneven.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me all day?”
No answer.
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t want to talk,” you say finally.
The words hit like a punch. But he nods anyway. Because if silence is all you can give him, he’ll take that too. Just… don’t leave again.
He crosses the space slowly. Brushing his fingers against the hem of his hoodie where it rests on your thigh.
Tilts your chin up so your eyes meet his.
“You can always come here when you don’t want to talk.”
And then he kisses you.
Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart. Because your silence has been killing him all day, and now that you’re finally here—warm, and real, and close—he needs to touch you just to remember what it feels like to breathe.
Everything spirals from there. Clothes hit the floor.
You're breathing uneven. His name falls from your lips like something you’re trying not to let escape.
And when he’s inside you—raw, deep, desperate—it doesn’t feel like just sex to him.
It never has. It feels like he’s trying to prove something to you. Prove something to himself.
Like he’s trying to convince you to stay. Convince himself he’s ruined for all future hook ups. Because this isn’t just another hook up to him. And it doesn’t seem like it is to you either.
You come undone beneath him—tight around him, trembling, nails in his back—and he follows fast, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a vow.
But afterward, in the silence, guilt starts to settle behind his ribs.
Because you still haven’t said anything.
Because you still haven’t said what this is.
And he still doesn’t know if this made things better or worse. And why does it keep happening?
He’s gentle as he cleans you up. Hands careful. Quiet. Respectful.
When you’re back in his hoodie, curled under his covers, he climbs in behind you and pulls you close, like holding you might stop the clock.
You let him. You feel soft in his arms. Dreamy. His.
And he wants so badly to believe he won’t lose this.
You fall asleep eventually—deep this time, peaceful.
Jungkook stays awake.
His arm is draped over your waist. His fingers brush slow, absent patterns into the fabric of his own hoodie that still covers you.
The rain has faded to a whisper. His room smells like shampoo and skin and the lingering aftermath of everything you shared.
And his thoughts are a mess.
He can still feel you breathing. Soft and steady beneath his arm. Like this is normal. Like this is safe.
But nothing about this feels safe to him. Because what if you wake up tomorrow and change your mind? What if this version of you—warm, quiet, curled into his chest—is just another dream he doesn’t get to keep?
He wants to ask what this means. Wants to hear it from your mouth, clear and certain and true. But more than that—more than anything—he just wants you to stay.
Because the truth is, he could go another lifetime without a label.
He could live in this in-between, keep pretending not to want more, as long as this keeps happening. As long as you come back to him. As long as you stop running—even for a little while—just to be close to him.
He’ll take the silence if it means he gets to taste your skin again. He’ll take the uncertainty if it means he can hold you like this at night. He’ll take every half-truth, every quiet breath, every secret glance—as long as you keep choosing him, in whatever way you can.
Because being around you—touching you, hearing you laugh, watching you sleep like this—makes everything else feel manageable. Bearable. Tangible.
And he’s already addicted to it. To this. To you.
He swallows hard, brushes his thumb along your arm, then presses his lips to the crown of your head. He wants to tell you everything.
But the words catch in his throat.
So instead—he whispers the only thing he can say without breaking the fragile, perfect quiet.
“I’ll see you in my dreams.”
And for once, he lets himself believe that maybe you’ll be there. And maybe there, you’ll stay.
No Room For Secrets-Chapter 7: The Things We Don’t Say
→ Pairing: Jungkook x Reader(female)
→ AUs: roommate!au, fwb!au, arranged marriage!au(jungkook x not you), New Girl AU?
→ Genre: comedy, smut, fluff, slow burn, angst
→ Trope(s): strangers to roommates to friends to FWB to lovers, roommates to lovers
→ Rating: Mature/explicit/R-18 (minors HIDE YOUR EYES)
→ Word Count: 7,116
→ Summary: You spend the day avoiding Jungkook, but a rain-soaked night—and one impulsive choice—pulls you back into his arms, where everything you’re trying to deny only gets harder to ignore.
→ Warnings(by chapter): explicit sexual content (18+), unprotected sex (p in v), fingering, dirty talk, desperate!jungkook, emotional tension, soft angst, discussion of insecurity/being hidden in relationships (non-graphic), chaotic!jimin, therapist!taehyung, rain setting, mutual pining, hopeful ending
→ A/N: There’s so much rain in this fic that it’s basically a supporting character at this point.🥲 I’d love to pretend it’s a deep metaphor for emotional repression or longing or whatever, but really it’s just raining nonstop where I live and now the weather is legally a co-author.🫣
Chapter 7 is soft, messy, and fueled entirely by bad decisions, good hoodies, sexual tension, and the fragile illusion that we are totally fine and not, in fact, one minor inconvenience away from emotionally combusting. Love that for us. Love that for them. Love that for my emotional stability.💕
💜Thanks for reading. Please scream at me (nicely).
→ Playlist: Forever Rain by RM // Sweet & Lethal JJK by ScorpioChiq // Tattooed In My Mind by ScorpioChiq // Universe by Daesung
You spend the rest of the day pretending Jungkook doesn’t exist.
No eye contact. No glances. No responding when he walks past you in the hall and murmurs your name like a question. You don’t look up when he lingers outside your door. Don’t acknowledge the way his voice dips when he says “Hey,” just low enough for only you to hear.
You ignore it all.
By the time the sun sets, you’re exhausted from pretending. But the ache in your chest hasn’t gone anywhere.
The rain starts somewhere around 8 p.m., a quiet tapping at first that turns into a steady downpour. You watch the droplets race each other down your window, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. The city outside moves like nothing’s changed—cars splashing through puddles, umbrellas bobbing through crosswalks, vendors still shouting under plastic awnings lit by flickering neon.
You need to get out.
You don’t take an umbrella. Just a hoodie and your headphones.
The air outside is crisp, the kind that sticks to your skin. You walk with no real destination, your shoes splashing through shallow gutters, the smell of rain-soaked concrete and fried street food curling into your nose.
Vendors line the street like always—ahjummas in ponchos selling skewers, spicy tteokbokki bubbling in metal trays, soju bottles stacked like glass towers. The warm scent of ramen broth cuts through the night, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you stop.
The counter is slick with rain but sheltered under a narrow overhang. You slip onto the bench and order something hot, head bowed, rain dripping from your hood.
It’s not until you hear a familiar voice beside you that you look up.
“Didn’t take you for the type to wander alone in the rain.”
You blink.
Taehyung is sitting at the other end of the counter, a half-empty soju bottle in front of him and a skewer in one hand. His black coat is damp at the shoulders, hair pushed back but curling slightly at the edges from the humidity.
You stare for a beat too long.
He raises a brow, amused. “What, no hello?”
“…Hi.”
He grins, lazy and catlike. “Much better.”
You turn your gaze forward again, focusing on the steam rising from your bowl.
He doesn’t ask why you’re out here. Doesn’t comment on the fact that your apartment is nowhere near this part of town. He just drinks, eats, and lets the silence hang.
And somehow, that’s worse than being questioned.
Taehyung doesn’t say anything for a while. Just sips his soju and watches the rain fall beyond the plastic sheet hanging from the awning. The air smells like broth and smoke, and your bowl fogs up your vision when you lean forward.
You focus on eating. One bite at a time. Slowly. Deliberately. But Taehyung’s gaze stays on you, and eventually, you cave.
“What?” you snap, not looking at him.
“Nothing,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just wondering how long you’re gonna pretend I’m not here.”
You sigh through your nose. “I said hi.”
“Barely.”
You glance over. “Why are you even out here?”
He shrugs. “Same reason as you, probably. Couldn’t sleep. Needed air. Plus…” His eyes flick toward you. “You weren’t exactly quiet when you left.”
You roll your eyes and go back to your food.
Another pause.
Then, quieter: “I’m on your side, you know.”
Your chopsticks freeze halfway to your mouth.
He says it gently, but there’s something firm underneath. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s a little hurt you forgot.
You swallow. “I never said you weren’t.”
“You don’t have to. You’ve been acting weird all day.”
You scoff. “How would you know? I haven’t even seen you.”
“I’ve been at your apartment all day,” he says, tilting his head. “You’ve been ignoring me too.”
You glance sideways, caught. “Maybe I just didn’t feel like talking.”
“Mmhmm.”
There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the quiet clatter of dishes from behind the stall.
Then he adds, “You forget I can read you like a book.”
Your stomach twists. You hate that he’s right.
He leans in slightly, voice low, but not unkind. “So what is it? Why did hooking up with Jungkook suddenly bother you so much?”
Your jaw clenches.
“It’s not the hooking up,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the rain. “That’s not the problem.”
He studies you for a long beat.
When he speaks again, his voice is gentler. “Then what is?”
You don’t answer at first. Because saying it feels dangerous. Saying it means admitting it’s real. That you do care. That you’re scared.
But something cracks anyway.
“I just…” You hesitate. “I don’t want to be someone’s… backup plan.”
Taehyung is still.
You feel him watching you, but you keep your gaze forward.
He’s quiet for a moment, and then:
“You won’t be,” he says firmly.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
Taehyung watches you for a beat longer, the rain reflecting in his eyes.
“You’re not,” he says again, voice steady, like he’s trying to stitch something back together before it tears too wide open.
You turn back to your bowl, not trusting yourself to say anything.
He lets the silence linger, then adds, softer:
“You’re not an afterthought. Not to Jungkook. Not to anyone who actually matters.”
You swallow hard, staring into the broth like it might swallow you whole.
“You say that like it’s easy,” you murmur, almost too quiet to hear.
“It’s not,” he says simply. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”
You exhale slowly, shoulders sagging.
The rain hums steadily against the awning above you.
The silence settles again, softer this time. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just… calm. And you find yourself thinking you could get used to this—used to the sound of the rain pouring in the busy city at night, the way it softens everything around you, muffling the chaos and turning the world into something almost gentle.
You toy with your chopsticks, thinking. Wondering if you should say the rest. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it—
“I don’t want to keep doing this with him… if he has someone else… he could be doing this with.”
Taehyung looks over.
You exhale, shoulders sagging. “I don’t care what we are. Friends, not-friends, whatever. But if there’s someone else in the picture—Lisa or whoever—I don’t want to be the extra. I can’t do that again.”
Your voice cracks just a little on the last word. You don’t think he notices, but he does.
Taehyung doesn’t say anything right away. He leans back, stretches his legs out, and sighs.
Then he glances at you, one brow lifted. “You really don’t remember what I said that night, huh?”
You blink. “What?”
“Back when you first moved in.” His tone is casual, but pointed. “Chapter two of our strange little sitcom.”
You frown. “What are you talking about?”
He turns to face you, resting his elbow on the counter. “I told you—you’re the only one he’s been around since you moved in. Lisa hasn’t been over once. Not even a whisper.”
You freeze.
He continues, calmly, like he’s reminding you the sky is blue. “Jungkook has never left that apartment. He hasn’t left for any overnight trips, no secret visits, no weird sneaking around. And I’m not subtle—I would’ve noticed.”
You stare at him.
“But Jin said—”
“Jin assumed.” Taehyung gives you a look. “He heard something. He made a joke. Jungkook didn’t correct him—yeah, that was shitty—but you think if Lisa was still in the picture, I wouldn’t have said something?”
You press your lips together.
“Look,” he says more gently, “I don’t know what’s going on between you two. But I do know this—he doesn’t look at Lisa like that. He never did. Not even when they were supposed to be a thing. He looks at you like that.”
You glance away, eyes stinging.
“Like what?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
Taehyung’s smile is soft, uncomplicated. Honest.
“Like he’s already in trouble, and he knows it.”
The rain is still falling by the time you and Taehyung leave the vendor. You’re both full—enough so that the walk back doesn’t feel quite as heavy.
Taehyung holds his umbrella, tilted slightly to your side so the drops barely graze your shoulder. You should feel cold, but somehow you don’t.
The city glows in wet neon. Car lights blur through puddles. The smell of rain clings to the air. Neither of you speak for a while. But as the apartment building comes into view, you break the quiet.
“Can I ask you something?”
Taehyung glances at you, eyebrow raised. “I mean, I guess. But only because you’re cute.”
You snort, nudging him with your elbow.
“Why are you always at our apartment? Where do you actually live?”
He gasps—loud and theatrical, stopping in his tracks. “Wow. After everything we’ve been through.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“I’m serious.”
“Admit it—you only acknowledge me when I’ve got tteokbokki in my hands.”
You roll your eyes. “Taehyung.”
He grins, then shrugs. “I live in the building next door. I just like your couch better. And your kitchen. And sometimes the company.”
You raise a brow. “So you’re basically a stray cat.”
“Exactly.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But a very charming one.”
You shake your head, a quiet smile tugging at your lips despite the ache still tucked away in your chest—a soft, stubborn kind of pain that hasn’t left, even as the moment dares you to feel something lighter.
The rain is softer now. Just a drizzle, barely more than a whisper against the concrete. It beads on your hoodie, clings to your lashes, dampens the air without soaking it. The kind of rain that feels more like a memory than a storm.
The building door is only 20 feet away, glowing faintly under the flickering streetlamp. You pause, just for a second, listening to the hush of the city as it settles into night.
Taehyung glances over at you. His look is easy—light, but knowing. The kind of look that says he doesn’t need you to explain. “You good?”
You hesitate before you nod, slow and quiet. “Getting there.”
And maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe it’s just not the whole truth.
Taehyung hums like he’s not convinced, but he lets it go.
The two of you fall into step again, shoes splashing quietly through shallow puddles. For a few heartbeats, it’s just the rhythm of your footsteps and the soft hush of the rain.
He bumps his shoulder against yours lightly, like he’s trying to pull you out of your head.
“You know,” he says casually, “you don’t have to figure everything out tonight. The world’s still gonna be here tomorrow. Probably. Unless an asteroid hits. Which, honestly, at this point, might be kind of romantic.”
You snort, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. And somehow, that tiny laugh makes the whole night feel a little less heavy.
Taehyung grins, all teeth and mischief, and tilts the umbrella further over your side like he’s trying to shield you from the rest of the world too.
Neither of you says anything else as he steps ahead and holds the door open for you, letting the warmth of the stairwell spill out onto the wet sidewalk. You step past him, and for the first time all day, you let yourself exhale.
You shut your bedroom door behind you and let the silence of your space envelop you.
Your clothes are damp—clinging to your skin uncomfortably, heavy with city rain and a long night of thinking too much. You peel everything off slowly, shedding the chill along with it, and toss the pile near the hamper without caring where it lands.
Then you spot it—crumpled at the foot of your bed, right where you left it this morning.
Jungkook’s hoodie.
You hesitate.
For half a second, you tell yourself not to. That it’s crossing some invisible line. That if you put it on, you’ll never stop wondering what it means.
But your body moves before your doubt can catch up.
You pull it over your head, the fabric soft and oversized, swallowing you whole. It smells like him—clean and warm, the faintest trace of cologne and something else that’s just him. It settles over you like a memory, and your breath catches somewhere in your throat.
You crawl into bed, tugging your knees to your chest, fingers curled in the hem of his sleeves.
Taehyung’s voice won’t leave your head.
“He looks at you like he’s already in trouble, and he knows it.”
You chew on the words, letting them echo, letting them simmer.
Because if that’s true…
If he does look at you like that…
Then you want to see it. For yourself.
You sit up slowly, heart thudding.
The rain has quieted to a soft hush against the windows. The apartment is still.
You swing your legs out of bed. Stand. Cross the room with bare feet and steady hands.
You pause at the door, one palm resting on the wood.
Then, quietly, you turn the knob—and step into the hallway.
Only to be greeted with Jimin’s unrelenting gaze.
You freeze.
He’s leaning against the wall just a few feet away, half-shadowed by the soft hallway light, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting for something. Or someone.
Your breath stutters in your throat.
“Interesting choice of pajamas,” he says after a beat, eyes dropping pointedly to the oversized hoodie hanging down over your bare thighs.
Your fingers curl in the sleeves.
“Didn’t know cardio was part of your bedtime routine.”
You try to look unbothered, but it’s hard when you feel like you’ve just walked into a trap set with glitter and judgment.
“What are you even doing out here?” you mutter.
Jimin shrugs, far too comfortable. “Bathroom. Then I heard movement and thought, ‘No way she’s finally answering my texts and doing the walk of shame in his hoodie.’ But here we are.”
You blink. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Oh no?” His brow arches. “I sent you three memes, a borderline thirst trap, and a photo of my dinner with the caption ‘thinking of you, you emotional raccoon.’ And you left me on delivered for seven hours? But you did have time to take your heartbreak on a dramatic walk in the rain like it’s episode 14 of a K-drama? Babe. Be serious.”
You cross your arms, hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands. “Jimin, I just… needed time to figure some things out.”
That earns a flicker of something softer in his expression.
“Okay. Fair.” He pauses, then smirks. “But for the record, I’m taking the lack of a ‘stop texting me, you’re insane’ response as a sign you still love me.”
You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitches.
He steps aside, leaving the path to Jungkook’s room clear.
“And hey,” he adds, voice quieter now, a grin still tugging at his lips, “if you’re gonna fall for him, I think you should know… he’s already face-first on the floor.”
Your heart stumbles.
You don’t even know what to say. Jimin’s words echo in your head louder than they should—face-first on the floor. As if. As if someone like Jungkook, with his unreadable eyes and stupidly perfect everything, would fall for you. You’re not the girl guys fall for. You’re the distraction. The experiment. The comfort on a lonely night.
It’s not that he doesn’t care. You know he does—in his way. The hoodie. The coffee. The way he looks at you like he sees something no one else does.
But liking you? Falling for you?
No. That’s not what this is.
That’s not what this can be.
You can still feel the weight of his stare from earlier, the way he almost said your name like it meant something. You shut that thought down fast.
People like him don’t fall for people like you.
And if he does… if he has… then what the hell are you supposed to do with that?
Jimin flashes a wink. “I’d help him up, but I think he wants it to be you.”
Then he turns and walks off—barefoot, casual, like this entire moment was just another midnight detour.
You’re left standing alone in the hallway, fingers clenched in fabric that still smells like him, trying to catch your breath from a conversation that somehow managed to punch you in the chest and make you laugh in the same breath.
And still… you start walking.
Toward the door you were headed to in the first place.
You don’t hesitate this time.
Fingers tucked into the sleeves of Jungkook’s hoodie, you pad barefoot to his door. The cotton is warm against your knuckles—like it still holds his body heat, like it recognizes you now.
You raise your hand and knock once—soft, barely audible.
A pause. Then, footsteps on the wood.
The door opens.
And there he is.
Damp hair curling slightly at the ends, black tank top clinging to his chest, sweatpants slung low enough to make your stomach flip. He looks like something you shouldn’t touch—broad shoulders, bare arms, tattoos peeking out beneath the fabric—but his gaze rakes over you in a way that says you already did.
His eyes flick down—bare legs, his hoodie swallowing your frame—and then back up, something unreadable tightening in his expression.
Not surprise.
Something quieter. Familiar. Like he’s been waiting for you to show up like this.
Your heart kicks hard.
He looks wrecked in the soft light, like sin wrapped in skin—messy and damp and unfairly gorgeous—and the sight of him robs you of whatever excuse you’d rehearsed in your head. You shift your weight, sleeves bunched in your fists, suddenly aware of how naked you are beneath the hoodie. How obvious it is why you came.
You can feel the tension pool between you, thick and slow like honey. The way he watches you—still, silent, eyes sharp and hot—makes it worse. Makes you ache.
His eyes flick back to your face. A flicker of something dangerous curls at his mouth—a smile that’s more invitation than expression.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
The moment stretches thin, the quiet rain at the window the only sound between you.
Then he leans into the doorframe, gaze still locked on you. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You shake your head.
He nods. Steps aside.
You slip past him without another word.
The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you in with him.
The room smells like warmth and skin—like clean sheets and faint vanilla, with something heavier underneath that makes your chest ache.
You stop at the center of the room, arms folded tightly, pulse stuttering.
He watches you for a breath before he speaks again—low, slow. “What happened?”
Another shake of your head. “Nothing.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me all day?”
You don’t answer. You’re not ready to.
So instead, you offer what little you can.
“I don’t want to talk.”
His jaw flexes. His gaze darkens a shade, but only for a moment.
Then he nods once, without argument.
And walks toward you—slow, steady, like he’s giving you time to leave and daring you not to.
When he reaches you, his fingers ghost along the edge of the hoodie where it meets your thigh, a featherlight brush that makes your breath hitch.
Then, he lifts your chin gently.
“You can always come here when you don’t want to talk,” he says, voice quiet enough to catch your bones off guard.
And then he kisses you.
His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding back for weeks—like he’s starving for you and finally done pretending.
You don’t pull away.
You couldn’t if you tried.
Your body’s already decided for you, leaning into him instinctively, mouth opening under his like it’s been waiting—aching—for this. For him. Your fingers fist the fabric of his tank top and drag him closer, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest with the pressure of his body against yours.
He groans low in his throat when you clutch at him, the sound muffled between your lips, and suddenly there’s nothing soft about him—his hands are firm on your waist, hips, the curve of your lower back, pulling you in like he knows every place you need him.
The kiss deepens in waves—sliding, messy, tongue against tongue—until you forget where your body ends and his begins. He walks you backward without breaking the kiss, slow and determined, each step like a claim. His mouth tugs at yours in lazy, devouring pulls, and you can’t help the soft whimper that slips out when his tongue brushes just right.
Your legs hit the cold edge of his desk.
You gasp.
He seizes the moment.
His tongue pushes deeper into your mouth as his hands slide down—gripping under your thighs—and then he lifts you clean off the ground.
You gasp again, breath tangled in your chest, thighs tightening around his hips as your fingers claw into his shoulders. You feel small like this. Caught. Cradled in his arms and set down like something precious right on the hard wood of the desk.
His hands never leave you.
They squeeze at your thighs, bare and parted around his waist, fingers curling into your skin like they belong there—like they’re not planning to let go.
Something about the way he touches you—confident, unhurried, like he already knows you’ll let him—makes you bold. Makes you forget how quiet you usually are. How carefully you move through the world. With him, there’s no shrinking back.
Only the weight of his hands on your skin. The heat of his mouth. The way he exhales your name like he’s trying not to fall apart.
You’ve never wanted anything like this. Never wanted anyone like him.
He presses closer, one hand cradling your face, his thumb stroking your cheek like he needs proof you’re real. His other hand stays curled tight around your thigh.
Then, he leans in—his breath warm against your lips. “We have to be really quiet this time, Y/N.”
The way he says it turns your spine to liquid.
You swallow, hard, but this time—your voice doesn’t fail you. “I’ll try,” you whisper, trembling and brave, and it feels like handing him a match with your name written on it.
His expression shifts instantly—eyes darkening, mouth parting—and he doesn’t wait. He surges back in, kissing you like the words broke something open inside him. Like he needs more. Like he’s already burning.
You tangle your fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck, dragging your nails just enough to make his body shudder against yours. He groans low and loose against your jaw, voice barely hanging on.
“Think you can be quiet for me?”
You let out a breathless laugh, head tilting back to bare your throat. “If you stop teasing me about it.”
That earns you a grin—crooked and gorgeous, wrecked around the edges. His fingers slide under the hem of the hoodie, pausing just above your thighs. He lingers there, knuckles brushing skin like he’s letting the anticipation stretch.
Then he peels it up—slow, deliberate.
The cotton drags along your skin, brushing your stomach, arms, ribs. You raise your arms, and the hoodie’s gone, discarded without ceremony.
You shiver—not from the chill, but from the way he looks at you now.
Like he’s starving.
Like you’re his.
His mouth claims yours again—deeper this time, hotter, hungrier. His grip on your waist tightens, possessive and grounding, like he’s worried you’ll slip away.
Everything else fades—your overthinking, the ache in your chest, the storm outside. Nothing matters but the press of his body and the rough edge of want between you.
The heat of his skin.
The way his hands grab like he owns your hips.
The way he kisses you like he’s been waiting for permission to ruin you.
He groans into your mouth like the sound’s being pulled straight from his gut. It rips through you, hot and aching, as his hands slide beneath your thighs and drag you toward the edge of the desk. The wood groans under the shift in weight, but you barely notice.
Your hands find the hem of his tank top, slipping beneath to touch bare skin—muscle, heat, a heartbeat thudding just under your palms. You push it up and over his head. It lands somewhere beside the hoodie, forgotten.
He’s still kissing you when his fingers hook in your underwear and pull.
One sharp tug—gone.
Your breath catches as the fabric slips past your thighs. Then—he touches you.
Fingers drag through your folds, slow and steady, and your hips twitch at the contact. You’re already soaked, and the glide is effortless, obscene.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and cracked. “You’re so wet for me.”
You gasp as two fingers slip inside—slick, deep, stretching you open. Your walls flutter around the intrusion, legs tightening around his waist on instinct.
He works them slowly at first, curling just enough to make your vision blur. Pressure builds behind your ribs. Your hands scramble for purchase—his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto.
Your head tips back and you moan, mouth falling open. The sound makes him swear again—rough and reverent.
His eyes stay locked on you now, watching every reaction like he needs to remember them. His fingers fuck into you steady and hard, thumb brushing just close enough to tease without relief. His other hand slides up your torso, anchoring you.
He leans in, breath ghosting over your ear.
“I need you so bad it’s fucking me up.”
The way he says it—wrecked, breathless—makes you clench around his fingers, makes your whole body spark like a live wire.
And just when your body’s starting to unravel—when you think you might actually beg—his fingers slip out of you, leaving you throbbing, clenching around nothing.
He doesn’t wait.
He lines himself up and pushes into you in one deep, desperate thrust.
You gasp—but it’s swallowed instantly by his mouth.
It’s not slow. Not careful.
It’s instinct.
Your hands scramble up his back, nails catching on bare skin as he drives into you again, fast and thick and raw. You’re so wet he slides in deep with almost no resistance, the stretch a sharp, dizzying sting that melts too quickly into pleasure.
His grip on your hips is bruising, holding you right there, right where he wants you. You lock your legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper, tighter, until his pelvis grinds against you with every thrust.
He groans—low and hoarse, like it hurts. “Fuck… you feel—fuck, you feel so good. So wet.”
Your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath stuttering, mouth dragging across his neck as he fucks you harder. The desk rocks beneath you, creaking in protest, but you barely register it.
You just cling to him, both hands fisting into his hair, his shoulders, his spine—whatever you can reach—because the pace is brutal now. Relentless. He slams into you again and again, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing louder than your breath.
Your moan slips out—high and shaky—and he’s right there at your ear in the next second.
“Be quiet for me,” he pants, voice unraveling. “Just like that. Shhh, that’s it.”
You nod, biting your lip hard, trying not to cry out as he pounds into you—deep and fast and wrecked. Each thrust sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine, winding tighter and tighter.
The edge hits fast.
Too fast. It coils in your belly, a violent pulse of heat that climbs until you’re shaking.
And then—it snaps.
You lock up around him, thighs trembling, nails digging deep. A choked cry catches in your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, blinding and sharp, cracking your body open from the inside out.
Jungkook feels it—feels the way you clench around his cock—and he breaks. His forehead presses to yours, and he fucks you through it, rough and uneven, chasing his own end.
One more thrust. Then another—
And then he spills into you with a sound you’ve never heard from him before—wrecked, guttural, punched from somewhere deep.
He shudders, his arms locking tight around you, chest shaking against yours like he can’t hold himself up.
Neither of you moves.
Not right away.
Your legs are still wrapped around him. He’s still buried inside. And the only thing filling the room is your breathing—hot, broken, tangled together in the space between your mouths.
The silence after is thick and aching.
You’re still on the edge of the desk, legs slack around his hips, his cock softening inside you. Both of you frozen in the kind of stillness that only follows chaos—breathing hard, skin flushed, foreheads pressed together like neither of you knows what comes next.
Jungkook’s hands are still on your waist. He’s not pulling back.
You don’t move either.
Not because it’s comfortable—your body’s shaking, sticky, oversensitive—but because some part of you is afraid that moving will end whatever this is. That it’ll break apart if you shift the wrong way.
But he doesn’t let go.
Instead, one of his thumbs starts tracing circles against your skin. Slow. Grounding. It steadies you more than it should.
When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. Quiet. “…Sorry.”
Your lashes flutter. “For what?”
He lifts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. His cheeks are flushed. His lips kiss-swollen. But his gaze is soft.
“For losing control like that.” He swallows. “I saw you in my hoodie and… I don’t know. Something in me just snapped.”
You don’t answer at first. He’s not trying to be charming. He’s not trying to spin it. He’s just telling you. And that makes it worse somehow—makes it land deeper.
So you ask, softly, “Was it just the hoodie?”
His expression tightens like you’ve just wounded him. His hands slide up your ribs—slow, deliberate.
“No,” he says. “It was you.”
The words hit too hard. You look away before he can see how badly they do. But he doesn’t let you go far—his fingers gently find your chin, tilting your face back to his.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
You do.
And the way he looks back—like you’re breakable and holy and something that might disappear if he blinks—it unravels you all over again. He brushes your hair behind your ear. Careful. Unsure.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just… stay, okay?”
Stay.
It’s a simple word. But your chest tightens like it costs more than you can afford. Still—you nod. Just once.
And he exhales like that was all he needed.
Eventually, the tension settles. The air shifts—still thick with what just happened, but quieter now. Gentle.
Jungkook presses a kiss to your shoulder before slowly pulling out, fingers trailing down your arm in a way that feels too soft for goodbye.
“I’ll get something to clean up,” he says.
You just nod—still perched on the desk, muscles shaky, brain miles away.
He moves around the room barefoot, quiet, careful. Grabbing tissues, a towel. Your underwear from the floor. It’s not rushed, not awkward. Just him taking care of you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You pull his hoodie back on when he hands it to you. It sticks to your skin. Smells like him.
Then—he reaches for your hand. Tugs you gently toward the bed.
You follow. The sheets are cool against your skin as you slide beneath them. Jungkook moves behind you without hesitation, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s done this before.
Like holding you after is part of the deal.
You let him. Your body fits to his like it’s muscle memory. Warmth spreading slow from his chest to your back. He buries his face against your neck and breathes.
And you lie there. Still. Wordless. Listening to the rain.
His heartbeat at your spine.
Then, softly—
“You really weren’t gonna talk to me today, huh?”
You close your eyes. “No.”
“Thought I did something wrong.”
You almost laugh. “You did.”
A beat of silence.
Then he says, “Because I didn’t correct Jin?”
You don’t answer right away. But you don’t have to.
Your stomach twists, the old anger spiking hot and sharp—because of course he knew. Of course he knew exactly what had gutted you, and he let you stew in it anyway.
For a second, it burns—sharp enough to make your throat ache, your jaw clench.
But then—
then he exhales, voice breaking soft around the edges—
and the fire dims just as fast as it came.
Jungkook exhales. “I should’ve said something. I just… I didn’t want to start anything with him. And I didn’t think—”
“That it mattered?” you finish for him, voice flat.
“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to leave the kitchen like I’d just—”
He stops. You can feel the frustration in his grip, tightening just a little around your waist.
“I wasn’t trying to pretend it wasn’t you,” he says. “I just… didn’t know what to do.”
You chew on your bottom lip, staring at the window.
“It’s not just about that,” you murmur.
“I know.”
Another quiet beat.
Then, you whisper it before you can stop yourself. “I’ve been the girl someone hides before.”
Jungkook’s arms go still.
Then they tighten.
He pulls you closer, like your body alone isn’t enough. Like he wants to hold everything you’re carrying.
“You’re not her,” he says, quietly. “Not with me.”
You blink hard against the sting in your eyes.
For a second, you almost ask him to promise.
Almost ask for something solid you can hold onto.
But the words die in your throat.
Instead, Jungkook presses his forehead to the curve of your neck, voice low and rough:
“I wasn’t trying to hide you.”
He pauses.
“I just… didn’t know if you wanted everyone to know.”
His breath evens out behind you, warm against your skin. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles against your stomach, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—like he’s trying to soothe you, to ground you, without needing words for it.
You let the silence stretch again, listening to the rain soften into a drizzle.
But the question won’t leave you.
It’s been lodged in your throat for hours. Days. Maybe longer.
And now—curled into his chest, your body still tingling from the aftermath, his reassurance still ringing in your ears—you feel brave enough to ask it.
“…Can I ask you something?”
He hums, low and sleepy. “Anything.”
You pause.
Then, quiet: “What’s the deal with Lisa?”
You feel him tense behind you, just slightly.
Then a sigh against the back of your shoulder.
“We hooked up for a while,” he says quietly. “That’s it.”
You shift, turning slowly in his arms to face him. “For how long?”
“Less than 6 months,” he answers, without hesitation. “But we were never anything serious. Never dated. Barely even talked outside of that.”
Your brow furrows. “So… not friends?”
He shakes his head. “Not even close.”
You search his face for any sign of a lie, but he’s not avoiding your eyes. If anything, he looks like he’s waiting for you to call him out.
“Then why her?” you ask. “Why let Jin think—”
“I didn’t let him,” Jungkook says quickly. “He just assumed. And I didn’t correct him because…”
He breaks off, jaw flexing.
“Because you didn’t know what I wanted?” you offer.
He nods, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
Your stomach turns.
“I didn’t want to make a scene,” he says. “And honestly, I thought if I did say something, it’d make things worse. More obvious.”
You nod, looking down at the blanket between you.
He watches you carefully. “But I haven’t seen Lisa since before you moved in. We don’t talk. We’re done. I swear.”
Your throat is tight. “It just caught me off guard.”
“I know,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush his fingers down your arm. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”
You nod again, slower this time.
And even though your chest still aches a little, the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only person in the world that matters—it helps.
It helps a lot.
You’re still facing him, tucked under the covers, warm and bare beneath his hoodie, the air finally calm again between you.
For a while, you just lie there—breathing in the silence, the weight of his body curled into yours, your legs tangled under the sheets like they’ve always fit that way.
Then you murmur, “There’s more.”
Jungkook’s fingers are idly tracing your arm when he pauses. “More?”
You nod. “About why I acted the way I did.”
He shifts, just slightly, giving you space. Not pulling away—just listening.
You stare past his shoulder, voice quiet. “It’s just… I don’t know what I want right now.” You swallow. “And I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk about what exactly we’re doing.”
Jungkook’s hand stills on your skin for a second. Then, slowly, he nods—like he understands even if it’s killing him a little.
“Okay,” he says softly. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
You close your eyes for a second, letting the relief wash over you, even though the ache in your chest never really goes away.
A beat passes.
Then you say, “But… maybe let’s not tell Jin just yet.”
You give a half-smile. “No. I think he’d smirk about it for the rest of my life.”
Jungkook lets out a soft chuckle. “Fair.”
A pause.
Then you add, casual but too casual, “Also… Tae knows.”
Jungkook blinks. “Taehyung knows?”
“Mhm.”
“How?”
You pretend to think. “Hmm. Probably because he caught me sneaking out of your room wearing your clothes this morning.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course he did.”
You laugh under your breath, then add, “And… Jimin kind of suspects? Or knows? I’m not sure.”
“What?” His head jerks toward you.
You try to look innocent. “He’s nosy. And he caught me again in your hoodie tonight.”
“Jesus.” Jungkook buries his face into the pillow. “I thought we were being subtle.”
“We were. We just live with bloodhounds.”
Jungkook groans again, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips now.
“You’re not mad?” you ask.
He shakes his head into the pillow. “No. Just mildly horrified.”
You grin and press a kiss to his temple.
He turns to face you again, his expression soft now—honest and a little tired. “So it’s just Jin who doesn’t know?”
“For now,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “Let’s keep it that way a little longer.”
He closes his eyes and exhales. “Deal.”
Eventually, the weight of the day catches up with you.
Your breathing evens out. Your fingers go still where they’d been tangled in the hem of his tank top. Your eyes drift shut, your lips part slightly, and for a moment you just lie there—hovering right at the edge of sleep, too tired to speak but too restless to fully let go.
You feel Jungkook shift behind you, his chest rising and falling softly against your back, and for a second you think he might say something. You sense the hesitation in the way he pauses, hear the soft intake of breath that suggests words are forming—words you’re not sure you’re ready to hear, not yet.
But then his breath evens out again, the moment passes, and the quiet deepens between you. You let your muscles soften intentionally, breathing steady and slow, pretending sleep just a little longer—because whatever he nearly said, whatever you nearly felt, you’re not quite ready for it yet.
You’re asleep.
And Jungkook’s still wide awake.
He doesn’t move.
Just watches you—your face, soft and peaceful for once. The tiny crease between your brows finally gone. The faintest smile lingering on your mouth, like some part of you still feels safe here.
His chest rises, falls. Slow.
He lifts a hand, brushes his fingers over the curve of your cheekbone like a secret. Like a prayer.
“I’ll see you in my dreams,” he whispers into the quiet, just low enough that you’ll never hear it.
Then he presses a kiss to your hair, pulls you closer, and lets his eyes fall closed too.
→ AUs: roommate!au, fwb!au, arranged marriage!au(jungkook x not you), New Girl AU?
→ Genre: comedy, smut, fluff, slow burn, angst
→ Trope(s): strangers to roommates to friends to FWB, roommates to lovers
→ Rating: Mature/explicit/R-18 (minors DNI)
→ Word Count: 9,895
→ Summary: The tension finally breaks—twice. You and Jungkook give in to everything you’ve been avoiding, tangled in sheets and soft confessions. But morning brings more than afterglow: missing underwear, suspicious roommates, and the first crack of jealousy you can’t ignore.
→ Warnings(by chapter): SMUT (like… a lot), explicit language, kissing, nipple worship, oral (f. receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms (yes, plural), penetrative sex, unprotected sex mention (pill talk + Jungkook panicking mid-thrust), praise kink, soft dom!JK, morning wood shenanigans, cuddles that are way too emotionally loaded, walk of shame ft. missing underwear, Taehyung being the nosiest bitch alive, Jin hearing things he can’t unhear, Jimin catching vibes and not liking them
→ A/N: HELLO I AM UNWELL.
This chapter was supposed to be a little spicy detour and then Jungkook looked the OC dead in the eyes and said “you were made for me” like that’s a NORMAL THING TO SAY with your whole chest???👀 Anyway. I felt spicy sometime around morning sex round two and dropped dead with Taehyung becoming the Patron Saint of Accidental Walks of Shame.😮💨Also, if anyone finds the OC’s underwear, please return it to the Bermuda Thong-triangle. On an unrelated note, if Jungkook looks at her like that ONE more time😩I’m gonna start chewing drywall
Okay love you bye💞 May your hydration levels be high and your bad decisions delicious. See you in Chapter 7 where everything is definitely going to be worse!🥲
→ Playlist: ‘double take’ by Dhruv // ‘wish that I could’ by UMI
The air inside is thick—charged with the heat between you—but his room is cool. Sleek. Unmistakably him.
You don’t know what you expected, but this somehow fits: clean lines, black sheets, dark furniture. Organized. Composed.
Just like he pretends to be.
The scent of him hits you immediately—rosemary and something sweet, cut with detergent and warmth and safety. You blink, barely registering the soft hues from the galaxy projector spinning overhead.
But none of it matters.
Because your back hits the door, and he’s on you again.
Your legs tighten around him, your fingers threading back into his hair cause you’re desperate for something to hold onto. Your brain is static. All you can do is feel.
Jungkook groans against your mouth, stumbling away from the door as you yank at his hoodie, hands gripping your thighs like he’s afraid to let go.
“Holy fuck.” He yanks the hoodie off in one quick motion, revealing smooth skin and taut muscle. No shirt underneath. Just like you.
“Fuck—” he breathes into your mouth between kisses, voice husky. “You’re fucking—unbelievable.”
You don’t know how to answer. You don’t know if you’re supposed to.
So you kiss him deeper. Messier. Finger tips scratching his scalp, left hand dragging down the muscles of his chest.
Your mouth discovers his jaw, his throat—your lips leaving trails of fire wherever they go. It’s so much easier now that he’s shirtless.
You feel like you’ve stepped out of your own body. Like this can’t be real.
He adjusts his grip from your thighs to your ass and slams you into the door again. Your lips never leave his skin. The soft thud barely registers before he growls into your ear—
“God, you’re—“ he gasps, “fucking starving for me, aren’t you?”
Your pulse stutters. And then, somehow, you manage to speak.
“Like you’re not.”
Your voice is thin. Almost weak. But it still makes him shudder.
He crashes his mouth to yours again—messy, frantic. Every second of teasing, of avoiding, of pretending this wasn’t happening—it all explodes now. And you don’t have the words to contain it.
When he presses into your hips, the arousal between your legs soaks through your shorts, accidentally moaning hotly into his mouth before you can stop it.
He freezes for half a second—like the sound caught him off guard—and then his grip tightens.
“That sound,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, “you don’t know what it does to me.”
You blink slowly. You can’t speak. You’re already drowning.
His fingers find the hem of your hoodie, slipping underneath—and when his skin brushes yours, you flinch. Not from fear. Just from the sheer intensity of it.
You let out a quiet breath. “This is… so much.”
Jungkook pauses.
Then he leans back, eyes scanning your face. “Do you want to stop?”
You shake your head immediately.
“No,” you whisper. Then, steadier: “No. I just… I’ve never done this. Like this.”
“Like what?”
You look up at him.
“Where you’re not just… someone.”
It slips out quieter than you meant it to—like you’re scared of your own honesty.
Jungkook’s expression softens. His features loosen. His breath catches. He looks at you like you’ve just handed him something fragile. Something that matters.
He exhales, voice low and rough. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Your throat constricts.
You don’t say anything else. You just reach for him again—because it’s the only thing that feels right. Because being quiet doesn’t mean you don’t want this. It just means your heart’s never been this loud before.
But even silence with him feels intimate.
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please.”
And he listens.
He kisses you slowly now. More careful. More focused.
Like he’s trying to show you what he can’t say yet.
You let yourself get lost in it. Get lost in him. The fireworks in your stomach—the war drum in your chest—doing nothing to help you navigate through what this feeling is.
And when he grinds against you again—arms tight around you, bare chest warm against yours—you don’t tense. You don’t panic.
You just hold on.
Because whatever this is… whatever it’s becoming—you want to feel all of it.
He carries you to the bed, laying you down with a reverence that makes your chest ache. Like you’re something sacred.
And when he looks at you from above, his eyes wide and shiny, it’s not hunger you see.
It’s awe.
You don’t have time to overthink it. You don’t want to—because suddenly he’s laying you down with infinite care, crawling over you slowly like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
His hair falls into his eyes, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like he’s been running for miles.
And the way he looks at you?
Like he’s just found the thing he didn’t know he was searching for.
“You,” he breathes. His voice is raw, shaky—as if the word costs him something just to say.
His hand slips under your hoodie again, palm warm against your skin.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out—not when he shifts his hips and the pressure between your legs sends a full-body jolt through you.
“Jungkook—”
You whisper it like a secret, too fragile to speak aloud.
He presses his mouth to your jaw, then your throat, his lips moving slowly as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
And you do.
His name falls from your lips like it belongs there.
Again. And again.
And when he hears it, he groans—quiet and pleading—like he’s trying to keep himself from shattering.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, mouth peppering your collarbone. “I’ve thought about this. So many fucking times.”
It sounds like he didn’t mean to say it. Like the words tumbled out on accident.
But you feel them hit you deep anyway. It hits you low and quiet, like something you’ve been trying not to want.
And when you look up at him—when he looks back at you like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real—you realize something.
You’re both already too far gone.
He presses his forehead to your collarbone, trembling. You recognize that hesitation. The edge of surrender.
So you push him over it.
You rake your fingers through his hair and kiss him like you’re trying to make up for every second you spent pretending you didn’t want this.
And he breaks. Again.
He pulls your hoodie over your head, then gently gathers your wrists and pins them above you—careful, but certain—before kissing his way down your body like he’s starving.
Like your skin is the only thing keeping him alive.
His mouth is hot and relentless, tasting every inch he can reach, like he’s afraid to miss a single part of you.
Your bra gets dragged down—a mess of straps and lace—and then his breath catches.
He stares at you like he’s seeing a miracle.
“You’re so…” He exhales, like the words are burning in his throat. “It’s fucking me up.”
You blink. That’s not what you expected.
But somehow, it hits harder than beautiful ever could.
His mouth closes around your nipple before you can respond, and the crackle of sensation steals your breath. Your back arches off the mattress, instinctive. His tongue flicks, circles, teases—until you’re making sounds you didn’t know you could make.
His hand finds your other breast, rolling and squeezing until you’re panting, thighs pressing together in a futile attempt for friction.
Your whole body has ignited. You tug at his hair—light, but firm—and he groans against your skin.
His own form of worship.
And then he looks up. Eyes wide and pupils blown, mouth slick, expression genuine.
He looks wrecked.
You feel ruined.
And still, he doesn’t stop.
He licks a slow path across your chest, then sucks your other nipple into his mouth. The vibration of his moan nearly undoes you.
Your hips lift—uncontrolled, desperate—grinding up in search of relief, in search of him. You swear you could come just like this—his mouth on your chest, your name in his throat.
You gasp. “Jungkook—”
He pulls back just barely, lips red and slick and shining.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you like this,” he whispers. “How many nights I—”
He cuts himself off, eyes fluttering shut like he’s said too much. But it’s too late.
You heard it.
Your heart stumbles. Your body doesn’t.
“Then don’t stop,” you say, voice hoarse.
He blinks down at you, jaw tight.
“I don’t think I could if I tried.”
His hands move lower, to the waistband of your shorts. He pauses—just long enough for you to feel the tension spike—eyes flicking to yours.
“Can I?”
You nod, breath shallow. “Yeah.”
He peels them down slowly, dragging your panties with them. And when he sees you—how soaked you are, how ready—his breath catches. His hands grip your thighs like he’s trying to control himself.
Then he drops his forehead to your stomach with a quiet groan.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re unreal.”
You push your fingers through his hair, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re really not helping me stay calm.”
He lets out a shaky laugh against your skin. “I’m not calm either.”
His breath fans hot across your stomach—ragged, uneven. He’s quiet, like he’s trying to collect himself, but the way his hands slide up your thighs gives him away. His fingers tremble as they skim the curve of your hips, pausing only to squeeze—grounding himself, or maybe asking for permission without words.
And then he lowers his mouth to you.
The first lick is slow. Testing. Like he’s trying to survive it.
But the second? It’s hungry.
You gasp, your whole body jolting. His tongue drags through your folds with practiced ease—languid at first, then firmer, more focused, like he needs this. Like he’s starved. Like he’s dreamed of this and now that he’s here, he refuses to waste a single second.
“Jesus—” you choke out, hands fisting the sheets, your thighs already starting to tremble.
Jungkook groans in response, the sound reverberating straight through you—like he wants you to feel how horny he is.
He eats like he’s starved. Like the taste of you is better than anything he’s ever known. His tongue flicks over your clit, slow and deliberate, before wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard.
Your whole body jerks. A broken moan rips from your throat—sharp, loud, unrestrained.
You slap a hand over your mouth, pulse thrumming. You hope no one heard you.
Below, Jungkook doesn’t stop. If anything, he groans deeper, the vibration sparking your climax build.
You glance down—and nearly come undone at the sight of him between your thighs.
Hair mussed. Mouth glistening. Eyes dark and feral.
“Jungkook,” you breathe—barely a whisper—but it hits him like lightning.
His hips grind into the mattress beneath him, desperate for friction.
“Say it again,” he pants, voice ragged.
“Jungkook.”
It escapes you again—softer, needier—like the word itself is the only tether you have left.
He groans into you like he’s losing his mind. Then drags two fingers slowly through your slickness, pausing at your entrance.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “I’ve wanted this for so long, you’ve no idea.”
The confession slips out before he can stop it. You hear it in the way his voice trembles—like he didn’t want to say it out loud, but the truth forced its way out.
Then his fingers slide into you. Slow. Deep. Like he’s savoring how your body yields him. He curls them just right—and your body arches, a cry spilling from your lips as your legs fall open, no hesitation.
He whines softly. Ruined. Breathless.
Then he lowers his mouth again, tongue meeting your clit in time with the slow, steady rhythm of his hand.
Your body spirals fast. Too fast.
Every flick of his tongue, every deliberate thrust of his fingers—it’s too much. You want more. You can’t breathe. You can’t think.
Your orgasm coils hot and sharp, building fast—tight enough to tear.
And he knows. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.
You feel it in the way his pace changes—faster now, more determined. Cause he can feel the bliss cresting inside you, and he’s chasing it down with everything he has.
Your fingers clutch the sheets.
Your voice cracks.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please—don’t stop.”
He would never stop.
Jungkook moans into you, pleased and savouring, and the sound sends a shudder through your spine.
And finally you shatter.
Your orgasm rips through you like a snapped wire—sudden, sharp, electric. It ripples in your spine and detonates behind your eyes, white-hot and all-consuming.
You jerk against his mouth, your thighs trembling, your voice catching on a strangled gasp you barely manage to muffle against your wrist.
Your hips grind helplessly, chasing every flick of his tongue like your body refuses to let go. Pleasure pulses through you in waves, hot and endless, until you’re gasping for breath, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it.
You feel it in every nerve ending. In the way your vision hazes. In the way your body clings to sensation, unwilling to come back down.
Jungkook doesn’t stop.
He keeps going. Keeps tasting you.
Like he wants to drag every last second of it out of you. Like he doesn’t care if he loses himself in the process.
Your fingers twist in the sheets—too dazed to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe.
His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, grounding you through the aftershocks. But his mouth is soft now—slower, almost reverent—as if he’s worshiping the wreckage he’s made of you.
You can barely form a coherent thought. All you can do is breathe—satisfied, shallow—and feel him. His tongue. His hands. His name still trembling in your chest.
And when he finally slows, pressing a soft kiss to your thigh—like an apology for pushing you so far—your whole body melts into the mattress.
He rests his cheek against your leg, catching his breath, and for a long moment, neither of you speak.
Then he lifts his head.
His lips are swollen. His lashes are damp. His eyes—lustful, dark, stunned—hold something that looks dangerously close to awe.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags it over his jaw, like he’s trying to snap himself out of whatever spell you just cast.
And when he sheds his last layers and crawls up your body slowly, he leaves kisses in his wake.
His mouth finds your stomach first.
Then the valley between your breasts.
Then your collarbone.
Then the soft line beneath your jaw.
He leans in, brushing your lips with his, whispering against them—
“Tell me you want this,” he breathes. Softer than the hum of the ceiling projector.
You open your eyes.
You look at him. And there’s nothing left to hide.
“I do,” you whisper. “I want you.”
The effect is instant.
Jungkook sighs softly, eyes fluttering shut like he’s in pain, like he needed to hear it more than he realized.
And then he reaches for the nightstand drawer, grabbing the condom with trembling fingers, tearing it open in silence.
You watch him and you see...
Not just want. Not just hunger. But something quieter beneath it all—fragile and bare.
Reverence.
Like he can’t believe he’s here.
With you. Like some part of him thought this would never actually happen.
He rolls it on—easy and focused—his brows drawn, his chest rising with shallow, uneven breaths.
Then he lines himself up, body tense, hovering just above yours.
But he doesn’t move.
Not until his eyes find yours again—searching, observing, asking without asking.
“You’re sure?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “We don’t have to—”
You reach for him before he can finish.
Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, thumb brushing the hair at his nape. Your eyes lock on his, sober and certain.
“I’m sure.”
Your voice is filled with certainty. And it’s everything he needs.
He exhales once—nervous, shaky—and shifts closer, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your hip like he’s trying to steady himself.
Then he begins to slide into you.
And the moment it happens, your breathing halts.
Because it’s not just attraction. It’s all of it. The weeks of tension. The slow unravel. The nights you spent aching for him and trying to pretend you weren’t.
The way he’s looking at you now. Like this is something sacred. Like you are.
You feel the stretch of him—his thickness, surprising as your body opens for him inch by inch. There’s a faint sting at first, but it fades almost immediately beneath warmth, the pressure, the quiet certainty of him.
He holds still when he’s partway in, chest trembling, giving you time. Giving himself time.
And you need it. You breathe through it. Let yourself feel his length. Every quiet breath. Every unspoken thing passing between you.
Until he’s fully inside you. And you’re full—completely, undeniably, beautifully full. Like he was always meant to be there.
“God,” he breathes—shaky, stunned, like the feeling is too much. “You feel—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just groans and buries his face in your neck, his whole body trembling as he presses in deep and holds.
You wrap your arms around him. Anchor him. Anchor yourself.
And neither of you move. For a moment, all there is is breath. Yours and his. Tangled. Ragged. The warm press of skin. The weight of him over you, inside you.
The sound of your pulse in your ears.
Then he pulls his hips back.
Slow at first. Careful.
Cause he’s still afraid he might break something between you if he moves too fast.
But then he pushes in again.
Deeper this time. And your body reacts instantly.
Your mouth parts on a quiet gasp as your legs squeeze around his waist, the shift angling him just right—making you feel every inch of him, sharp and perfect and impossibly deep.
Your fingers glide up his back, curling in at his shoulders. His skin is hot under your touch, muscles flexing beneath your palms as his hips roll into you again.
You let out a soft, helpless sound. Something caught between a moan and a breath.
Jungkook moans—breathy and desperate—his control already fraying.
Your name slips from his mouth like a prayer.
He thrusts again.
And again.
Not fast. Not hard.
But deeper. More deliberate.
Each thrust a quiet ache. Slow, consuming, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. How you sound. How you fall apart beneath him.
His mouth caresses your cheek, your jaw, your throat—lips dragging across your skin between shallow gasps.
You whisper his name again—shaky, breathless—like it’s the only word you still know.
And that’s what finally undoes him. He exhales like he’s breaking open. Like something inside him just split at the seams.
Then he moves faster. Rougher.
Until your bodies are slick with sweat, the space between you collapsing into nothing but heat and breath and want.
And he keeps watching you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.
His sweaty forehead presses to yours, eyes fluttering open—and what you see there floors you.
He looks changed. Not just physically. Emotionally. Like this is undoing something inside him that’s been locked up for a long time.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers, voice raw. “But I don’t think I know how to stop wanting you.”
The words hit like a spark in dry grass. Your chest ignites. Fire surges low in your belly. You blink up at him.
“I want you anyway,” you breathe.
You pull him down into a kiss—desperate, open, aching. All mouth, all need, all of it. You lose yourselves in it. In the slick grind of hips. The tangle of limbs. The sheets. The gasps. The sounds you didn’t know you could make—until him.
“Jungkook—”
His name slips from your lips like it belongs there. Like it always has. His thrusts never ceasing.
Your second orgasm crashes into you—fast, sharp, blinding. A tidal wave of sensation that leaves no room for thought. Only feeling. Only him.
Your body arches beneath him, your nails scraping down his back as you cry out, clenching around him. Everything inside you goes taut. Bright. Then crumbles.
You hear him gasp—“Oh my God”—so soft it’s barely a whisper. Like the sight of you falling apart is too much. Like he’s overwhelmed by the way you come around him.
He thrusts once more. Deep and final, then he breaks.
A low, broken groan tears from his throat as he spills into the condom, his whole body trembling against yours like he’s barely holding himself together.
“Shit, Y/N.”
Your name leaves his mouth again—hoarse, reverent—like a vow he didn’t know he was making.
And then there’s silence. Heavy. Breathless. Intimate.
His forehead rests against yours, his eyes shut, his breath stuttering as he tries to catch up to the beat of his own heart.
You can still feel him everywhere—his hands, his mouth, the way he held back until he couldn’t. And now he’s here. Not moving. Just breathing with you. Like this is the part he wants to stay in for as long as he can.
And then barely audible, like it slips past his walls—
“I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”
Your heart somersaults. The words land quiet, unsteady, but they don’t miss. Goosebumps rise across your skin, blooming in a wave that spreads down your spine.
You don’t know what to say. Because there’s too much. Because there’s not enough.
So you kiss him.
Not because it’s safe. Because if you keep his mouth on yours, maybe you won’t have to feel the way those words just carved their name beneath your ribs.
I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
It echoes through your chest. Through every place you’ve kept sealed and silent. You know better, you always have.
His mouth is soft against yours now. Passionate. Careful. Like he’s afraid of saying more. Like he’s hoping the kiss says it for him. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because it feels like something real. Like it means something. Like he means it.
And you… You can’t afford to.
So you keep kissing him.
Over and over again. Like you’re trying to silence it. Like maybe if you stay here—right here—none of it will catch up to you.
But eventually, he pulls back with a quiet exhale and carefully slips out of you. His nose brushes yours, soft and slow, before he presses one last kiss to your jaw.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, voice low and worn.
You blink up at him, dazed. “Where are you going?”
“Just getting something,” he says, already disposing of the condom and reaching for his boxers. “Don’t move.”
He pulls them on—low on his hips, muscles still taut with aftershocks—then disappears out his door. He doesn’t even look back. But he’s glowing. With what, you’re not sure.
The second he’s gone, you shakily exhale. And suddenly, it’s just you.
Alone.
In Jungkook’s bed.
With the galaxy swirling above you and the taste of his mouth still on your lips.
The sheets are warm where he was. The room smells like him. Like sweat and sex and rosemary.
You shift slightly, pulling the blanket up to your chest, your fingers curling into the fabric like it can hold you steady.
You adjust your bra out of habit, even though it’s barely covering anything at all. Something about the motion feels comforting.
But the silence creeps in slowly.
Your heartbeat’s still loud in your ears, but the rest of the world feels muted. Distant. Like the room is holding its breath.
And in that quiet, the weight of what just happened begins to settle around you like fog.
You just had sex with Jungkook.
And not casual sex. Not meaningless. Not something you can laugh about later, like it didn’t crack you open from the inside out.
Because it did.
It shattered something.
He kissed you like he meant it. Touched you like you were something fragile. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d wanted this—wanted you—for longer than he was willing to admit.
And worst of all?
You wanted it just as badly. Maybe even more.
You stare at the ceiling, watching the stars shift in slow circles above your head. Everything in this room is still. Carefully arranged.
Like he keeps it that way on purpose.
And now you’re in the middle of it. Undone. Out of place. You wonder what you’ve already messed up just by being here.
The sound of the door opening snaps you out of it.
Jungkook walks back in, shirtless, holding a warm washcloth.
He smiles your way.
Then moves with that same quiet focus—kneeling at the edge of the bed like he’s done this a hundred times. Like it’s natural. Like you’re natural.
And when he looks up at you, something’s different. Not cocky. Not smug.
Gentle.
He cleans you up without a word, the warm cloth dragging over your skin in slow, careful strokes.
His touch is soft. Almost… caring.
You can’t look at him. Because the longer this softness lasts, the harder it’s going to be when it falls apart.
When he’s done, he sets the cloth aside, pulls the blanket up over your body like it’s second nature, and climbs into bed beside you.
Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.
“I, uh…” he starts, raking a hand through his hair. “When I walked back from the bathroom, I noticed the recliner was empty.”
You blink. “What?”
“Jimin,” he says. “He’s not in the living room anymore.”
Your heart drops through your ass, through the floor, and straight into hell.
Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
You forgot about the roommates!
Jimin. Jin. Taehyung? Jungkook.
You just had loud, wild, no-holding-back sex with your roommate while all three of them were home. And one of them was apparently asleep thirty feet away.
Or… wasn’t.
You sit up slowly, yanking the blanket tighter around your body like it might shield you from the shame spiral curling in your gut.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. Eyes wide, voice broken.
Jungkook looks at you, calm. Too calm.
“Don’t panic.”
You bury your face in your hands. “We were not quiet.”
He shrugs, shifting onto his side like this is completely normal.
“I mean…”
You groan. “Jungkook.”
He laughs—soft and smug, like he enjoys watching you suffer. “You’re really worried about this?”
“Yes!” you hiss. “Because we were literally in the living room like—thirty minutes ago! And now—now we’ve fucked up the roommate dynamic. The dynamic is ruined! The easygoing thing we had? The friendly banter?” You sigh, “The voting system, Jungkook.”
His lips twitch. “The voting system?”
“Yes!” you hiss. “The democracy! The sacred balance! You’re going to side with me now when we vote on takeout, or movies, or chores, and they’re going to know.”
Really you couldn’t care less if he sides with you during a vote. But if the rest of them know why he’s siding with you—yes, you fucking care. It’d be like you always count for two votes. And that would have its benefits, but is it worth the resentment from the rest of them?
Jungkook is trying not to laugh. You can see it—the twitch of his jaw, the way he presses his lips together.
“This isn’t funny,” you mutter.
“It kind of is.”
You bury your face in your hands. “This is a disaster.”
Jungkook moves closer, his voice lower now. “It’s not a disaster.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “You say that because you’re not the one who just ruined the roommate harmony with sex moans and bed creaking and—God, I think I screamed.”
He grins. “You did.”
You groan, flopping back onto the mattress.
“I’m never showing my face in that living room again.”
Jungkook just hums, laying back beside you, his head turned toward yours.
“You know,” he says after a beat, “if it makes you feel better… I’d vote with you even if we didn’t sleep together.”
You glance at him, lips parting.
And he smirks. “You’re terrifying when you’re passionate about movie night.”
You can’t help it—you let out a laugh, small and startled, as your panic starts to soften just enough to breathe through.
But still… beneath the humor, your heart thuds against your ribs, heavy and unsure. Because you don’t know what this means. You don’t know how to protect yourself from it.
And you sure as hell don’t know what happens next.
You didn’t mean to fall asleep.
You told yourself you’d get up after he went back to bed. That you’d sneak back into your own room, crawl under your own sheets, pretend none of this ever happened.
But now the soft light of morning is creeping through the edges of the blinds.
And you’re not in your bed.
You’re in his. And his arms are around you.
You blink slowly, awareness trickling in like molasses—warm blankets, steady breathing, the heavy weight of his arm slung across your waist, his chest pressed firmly against your back.
His hand rests low on your stomach, fingers curled loosely, thumb just under the swell of your ribs.
His legs are tangled with yours. Skin against skin.
And your face is tucked into his pillow, which—of course—smells like him. Rosemary. Something warm.
And something else.
Something hard.
Your eyes snap open.
Because yep—that’s his morning wood. Pressed right up against your bare ass, solid and unmistakable through the thin fabric of his boxers.
You freeze.
And of course, that’s when he shifts in his sleep, his hips instinctively rolling against you in that subconscious way sleeping men do.
You close your eyes and bite your lip to keep from gasping.
Because—Jesus Christ.
His breath is soft against your shoulder, lips brushing your skin every now and then, and he’s not even fully awake yet. He’s still asleep. Still wrapped around you like you’re something he doesn’t want to let go of.
And you… you don’t know what to do with that.
You should move.
You should carefully, quietly untangle yourself and escape to your room with what little pride you still have intact.
But you don’t. Because your body is buzzing in the worst (best) way.
Your heart is pounding. Your brain is caught between should not and holy shit I want to.
You breathe slow, trying to ignore the heat blooming under your skin. The dull ache between your legs that hasn’t quite faded from last night.
“Mm,” Jungkook mumbles behind you, voice gravel-rough and thick with sleep. “You’re still here.”
You open your eyes. “Unfortunately.”
He chuckles—low, lazy—and that tiny vibration makes everything worse.
His hips shift again, just enough for you to feel him. Still hard. Still there. Pressing against you like a question neither of you has asked yet.
You inhale sharply.
“You’re poking me,” you mutter.
“Mmm,” he says again, absolutely unbothered. “You’re warm.”
You elbow him gently. “I’m fucking serious.”
“So am I.”
You twist a little to glance over your shoulder—and immediately regret it.
His face is inches from yours.
Eyes still heavy-lidded. Hair a mess. Skin flushed with sleep and perfect lighting and Jungkook. He’s too pretty in the morning. Too relaxed. Too surreal.
You look away before you say something stupid.
But he dips his head, nose brushing the curve of your neck, and murmurs,
“This is dangerous, huh?”
Your stomach flips.
You manage a laugh. “A little late to realize that, don’t you think?”
He hums again, but softer this time. Thoughtful.
“Yeah.”
His hand shifts on your stomach, fingers spreading wider. His thumb brushes just beneath your ribcage—light, slow, like he’s looking for a reaction.
And you can still feel him.
Thick, hard, pressed up against you. Not moving. Just… there.
The tension returns—quiet, sharp, curling around you like it never really left. And it’s all you can think about.
You swallow hard.
“You planning on doing something about that,” you mutter, “or just letting it poke me until I lose my mind?”
That gets a low groan from him.
He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder—soft and warm and just restrained enough to drive you insane.
“Don’t tempt me,” he murmurs. “I already want you again.”
Your breathing stops.
And you feel the shift. The air between you turning electric again. Your body responding without permission. Your thighs press together instinctively, but it’s no use.
He’s already there, already aware, already pulling you back against him with one slow drag of his palm over your stomach.
“Jungkook…”
It’s not a warning. It’s not a protest.
It’s a breath. A plea. A memory of last night, spoken aloud.
He kisses your shoulder again, slower this time. Open-mouthed.
Then lower—across your back, your spine.
“You’re still so warm,” he whispers.
His hand slides lower. Under the blanket, between your naked thighs.
And he finds you easily. Wet, wanting, already aching.
You gasp, barely catching it behind your teeth.
“You were serious,” he murmurs, voice dark with sleep and disbelief. “You’re already…”
He doesn’t finish.
Just slips his fingers through your slick folds, teasing you with soft, lazy strokes. Like he has all the time in the world.
Your head tips back into the pillow, and you close your eyes.
He’s behind you. Wrapped around you. Stroking you like it’s second nature. And when he presses two fingers inside—slow, deep, careful—you moan.
“Shiiit, Kook.”
“Still so tight,” he breathes, forehead resting against your shoulder. “Still perfect.”
You can feel him—his cock, twitching against you through his boxers—his need bleeding into every movement.
You turn your head slightly. Just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.
“Are you just going to tease me,” you whisper, “or are you going to do something about it?”
He groans softly.
Then pulls his hand back.
Just long enough to shove his boxers down and toss them somewhere behind him.
Then he reaches between your thighs again—guiding himself this time.
“Don’t move,” he whispers.
And slowly he pushes inside.
Thick.
Long.
Raw.
All of him.
And you exhale, shaking, eyes fluttering closed as he fills you. You feel every ridge. Every vein. And you want to scream because it feels amazing.
Different from last night.
No rush. No desperation.
Just tenderness.
The slow slide of him against sore, oversensitive skin.
You whimper, wishing you could find something to hold on to.
He groans.
And you both know, you were never going to survive this twice.
And it’s going to be so hard to keep quiet.
He bottoms out slowly, hips flush to yours, breath catching in his throat.
You both go still. Just for a second. Just to feel it. You sigh—long, quiet—like the relief of being full again is too much and not enough all at once.
Behind you, Jungkook sighs softly. “Fuck… you really were made for me, weren’t you?”
Your lips part, a sharp breath escaping before you can stop it.
“Say that again,” you whisper.
He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.
“I said…”
He pulls back, just slightly—then thrusts in again, slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you.
“You were made for me.”
Your fingers twist in the sheets. “God, you’re so cocky in the morning.”
“You’re warm in the morning,” he murmurs, lazy and low, “and wet. And so fucking perfect around me.”
Your cheeks burn. You squeeze around him on purpose and he gasps.
“Shit—don’t do that.”
You smile, smug. “You love it.”
He thrusts again—still slow, but harder now. Enough to make your body jolt.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “I do. You make the prettiest sounds when I fuck you like this.”
Your body tenses. Flares.
“Then fuck me like this,” you whisper, trying so fucking hard to keep quiet. “Go slow. Make me feel all of it.”
He groans into your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.
“You’re a bad influence.”
“Good.”
His hips roll again, deeper now. The rhythm steady. Torturous.
You can feel every inch—veiny, throbbing. Every little flex of his thighs as he fucks into you with that slow, focused control.
“Could stay like this all day,” he murmurs. “Just keep you here. Keep you full.”
Your eyelids flutter.
“Don’t say shit like that,” you breathe. “It’s too early to be feral.”
He laughs, breathless, and presses a kiss to your jaw.
“You like it.”
You nod. “Unfortunately.”
“Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me you love how I fuck you.”
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. And then you smile.
“I love how you fuck me.”
And with those words—he breaks.
The rhythm falters. His hand slips beneath your thigh, lifting it, holding you open.
And the pace starts to build. Still slow, still controlled. But deeper now, hungrier.
His hips rock into you with quiet force, and every thrust feels like it’s reaching further—like he’s chasing something.
You gasp into the pillow, toes curling as he hits that spot again and again, the friction dragging sparks up your spine.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, pressing his chest to your back. “You’re so fucking tight like this. I can feel everything.”
You moan—high and breathy—as his arm tightens around your waist, pinning you to him.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “Letting me fuck you slow. Deep. Like you want it.”
“I do want it,” you breathe.
And you do. God, you do.
Every piece of him. Every word. Every filthy, whispered sentence like he’s trying to ruin you quietly.
“I knew you’d be like this,” he says, voice dark and strained. “All quiet at first. Acting like you could resist me. But now look at you.”
You whimper, your head spinning.
“Look at you,” he repeats, thrusting deep enough to make your breath catch. “You’re dripping. So fucking needy for me.”
You clench around him again, and his entire body stutters.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “You do that on purpose?”
You nod, biting your lip. “You make it too easy.”
His laugh is breathless, wild. He thrusts harder—once, twice—before slowing again, hips dragging deliberately, like he doesn’t want to miss a second.
“I should flip you over,” he mutters, lips at your jaw. “Wanna see your face when I fuck you like this.”
You shiver. “Then do it.”
He groans.
And with one smooth, steady movement, he shifts your body beneath him—rolling you onto your back without slipping out.
The blanket falls to your waist, and now it’s just him above you—sweaty, flushed, determined.
He braces himself on one forearm, the other hand curling around the back of your thigh, pressing it open. His gaze drops to where you’re joined—his cock sliding in and out of you, wet and glistening—and his jaw clenches.
“Look at that,” he breathes. “You’re taking me so fucking good—mmm.”
You can barely breathe.
Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently. “You’re so deep—”
“I know,” he groans. “You feel so fucking good. I don’t wanna stop.”
And he doesn’t. He fucks you hard and steady, every thrust winding tighter.
Your back arches. Your hands slip over his shoulders, nails digging in.
“You’re gonna make me come,” you whisper. “Jungkook—please—”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look on his face floors you.
It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s something you’re scared to name.
“Come for me,” he whispers. “I wanna feel it.”
His thumb slides down, finds your clit. Oh, fuck.
You gasp, the contact making your body jolt.
He circles it gently, slow and steady, in time with the rhythm of his hips.
Your head falls back, a broken sound escaping your lips.
“Jungkook—”
“I’m right here,” he breathes. “Let go for me.”
It’s too much. The angle, the depth, the pressure of his thumb on your clit. The way he’s watching you like you’re something holy.
You feel your climax building—fast, addictive, all-consuming.
It’s impossible, it’s unreal. You can’t believe you’re doing this.
Again.
Within twelve hours. With him. Your roommate.
Your body’s on fire, strung tight with need, but your mind is stuck on the impossible fact that you want this. You want him.
You’ve never come three times in 12 hours before. Let alone, raw. Not like this. Not with someone pulling orgasms out of you like moans.
Not with someone who knows what you need. Not with someone who wants it as badly as you do.
Your legs tremble. Your fingers curl into his hair like a lifeline.
You’re right on the edge—so close you can barely think—when he falters.
Just slightly.
“Fuck,” he pants into your neck before looking up, voice shaking. “Are you on the pill?”
The question slams into you like lightning.
It’s so intimate. So bare. It strips the moment of everything except trust—raw, breathless and real.
You can’t even find your voice at first. You’re too close to exploding. Too ruined.
But you force your eyes open, and find his. They’re blown wide with desperation.
Not just for permission.
For something else.
You nod.
“Yes,” you whisper—hoarse, panting, sure.
His eyes flutter shut. His jaw clenches.
“Fuuuuuck…” He exhales the word like it’s been ripped from his lungs.
Blissfully, you both come. Together.
Your orgasm hits like a flood, it’s hot and dizzying and euphoric.
You cry out, your body seizing around him, every nerve ending lit like fire.
He grunts—deep and broken—his hips stuttering as he pushes as deep as he can go, spilling inside you with a shudder that feels like surrender.
His hand fists in the sheets. The other grips your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
You can feel him throbbing, shaking, pouring into you with everything he has.
Your name leaves his mouth again—hardly more than a whisper.
Wrecked. Reverent.
And for a second, it feels like the apartment disappears. Like you’re the only two people left inside it.
One breath. One body. One moment you’ll never be able to take back. It’s all sensation. All sound. White-hot pleasure and tangled limbs and the sound of his name caught in your throat.
You shake beneath him. He shudders above you. You ride it out together.
Every pulse. Every aftershock. Every whispered breath.
Until finally—finally—he stills. His body slumps against yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder.
And all you can do is lie there, legs still trembling, chest rising and falling as you try to remember how to breathe.
You don’t know how long you stay like that.
Breathless. Boneless. Golden.
His body heavy over yours, him still inside you, skin slick with sweat, your hearts still thudding in sync like they haven’t caught up to what just happened.
You stare at the ceiling. The galaxy projector is still spinning, casting constellations across the walls. They blur at the edges of your vision.
Your chest rises and falls beneath his. Your hand playing with his hair and he lays on your shoulder.
And neither of you speaks. Because it feels like if you say anything too soon, it might break whatever this is—this fragile, glowing thing that lives in the silence between heartbeats.
Eventually, he has to move. Just a little. Just enough to peel himself off of you, arms still around your waist, his breath ghosting against your collarbone.
You turn your head toward him.
He’s already looking at you. Hair messy, lashes long, lips parted like he’s still catching up. And his eyes…
His eyes look like they’ve never seen anything brighter. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t smirk. He just looks. Like you’re something he’s afraid to wake up from.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod. Your voice isn’t ready yet.
He leans in, brushing his lips over your cheek. Your temple. Then the soft spot beneath your jaw. Every kiss feels like an apology. Like a thank you. Like a promise.
You breathe in deep, exhale slow. There’s a thrum in your chest that won’t settle. Something you still don’t know how to name.
But it’s warm and comfy. And terrifying. Because he leaves you glowing like the sun. Like gold, like something you didn’t think you’d ever get to be again.
And he doesn’t even know it.
“Yeah,” you mutter. “No…? I don’t know.”
You sit up slowly, dragging the blanket with you—because you’re naked and feel vulnerable in his bed.
And somehow, that hits harder in the daylight.
Your legs are shaky, your throat is dry, and the room smells like sex and Jungkook and mistakes.
You spot your hoodie—on the floor beside the bed—and lean over to grab it like it’s a lifeline. “I need to get out of here.”
Jungkook yawns beside you. “You say that like you’re being held hostage.”
“I am.” You scoff, “By my own terrible, repeatedly made decisions.”
You pull your hoodie on, trying to ignore how warm it still is from last night—and this morning—and scan the room like a crime scene investigator.
“You’re not even gonna let me clean you up?” Jungkook sounds surprised and playful.
Not looking at him, you sigh, “Don’t worry about it, Kook. I’m gonna shower anyway.”
You stand and you instantly feel his cum begin to drip down the inside of your thigh—warm and wet—mixed with your own juices. You feel heat dust your cheeks.
Your pajama shorts are halfway under his desk. You walk and lunge for them like you’re recovering stolen evidence. Slipping them on again after last night feels shameful.
But there’s still one very important thing missing.
“Where are my underwear?” you mutter, crouching to check under the bed, by the footboard, around the trash can—anywhere your dignity might be hiding.
Jungkook’s still sprawled in bed, shirtless, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just ruined your ability to walk straight. Twice.
“I’m pretty sure they flew off during that one move I pulled,” he says. “You know. The legendary one.”
You glare. “I am not leaving them in here like some kind of underwear-dropping cautionary tale.”
He lifts both hands, grin widening. “Hey, your dignity. I think it adds to the ambiance.”
You groan. “They’re gone. Like, supernaturally gone.”
You even check the closet corner. The chair by the window. The nightstand. Nothing.
It’s like the universe saw your post-sex confidence and said absolutely not.
You finally give up, stuffing your hands into your hoodie pocket with a miserable sigh. “This is going to haunt me forever.”
Jungkook just shrugs. “At least it’s a fun mystery. Like the Bermuda Thong-triangle.”
You stare at him. “You’re so lucky I’m too mortified to murder you right now.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. One hand still tucked in the pocket of your hoodie, the other hovering awkwardly like you’re not sure what to do with it.
You know you should just go.
Make a clean exit. Forget everything he said while he was inside you. Forget everything you said.
But instead—
“…Thanks,” you say quietly, not even sure what you’re thanking him for.
His smile fades into something softer. “You don’t have to—”
“No, I know. I just…” You gesture vaguely toward the bed. “I don’t usually—”
He watches you. Doesn’t press. Just nods.
You nod back. Like that settles it. Like you’re not both silently choking on everything you’re not saying.
You start to turn, but something stops you. The words are still there. Floating in your chest. Pressed into your skin.
You have no idea what you do to me.
I don’t think I know how to stop wanting you.
You were made for me.
You don’t know if he meant them. But you know you did. Every breathless whisper. Every want. Every yes. And now you’re not sure what to do with that.
You crack the door open and peek into the hallway. Empty. Your room is only a few feet away.
You can do this. You have to do this.
With a deep breath, you make a break for it—barefoot, hoodie on, heart pounding like you’re in the third act of a heist movie.
You’re two steps from safety. Your fingers are brushing your doorknob—
When Jimin’s door opens.
You freeze mid-motion.
Game over.
Taehyung walks out.
Ruffled hair, sleep-mussed shirt, one sock on. He pauses to stretch, yawns—and then spots you.
His eyes land on the hoodie. Jungkook’s hoodie. The pajama shorts. The door you’re standing in front of.
Then he glances back at the door you just came out of.
And everything clicks.
His whole face changes—slow motion horror movie realization. Like he just walked onto stage mid-scene and suddenly found out he’s in a very different play.
You both just stare.
Then, without thinking, you lunge forward, grab his wrist, and yank him into your room.
“Wha—hey! I just woke up!” he protests, stumbling through the door before you slam it shut and lean against it like you’re hiding from the FBI.
You whirl on him, whisper-hissing, “You didn’t see anything.”
He squints at you. “Did I just witness a scandal?”
“No.”
“You came out of Jungkook’s room.”
“I was sleepwalking.”
“In his clothes?”
You look down, realizing you are wearing Jungkook’s hoodie. Fuck. You throw your hands in the air. “What were you doing in Jimin’s room?”
He blinks. “I crashed on the floor! My phone died and I didn’t want to wake anyone up by calling a ride!”
You narrow your eyes. “Convenient.”
He crosses his arms. “Okay, you’re deflecting. I walked out of Jimin’s room and accidentally became part of your secret hookup timeline. What happens now, am I sworn to silence?”
You point at him. “Exactly that.”
He grins. “Can I get a cool nickname? Like… the keeper of secrets? Gatekeeper of… the hallway?”
You groan and flop face-first onto your bed. “I cannot believe this is happening.”
Taehyung flops down next to you, dramatically staring at the ceiling. “I can.”
You shove his shoulder. He just laughs.
“Don’t tell Jimin,” you mumble into your pillow.
Taehyung holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. I take my blackmailing privileges very seriously.”
You throw another shove at his shoulder.
You walk into the kitchen like nothing happened. Taehyung didn’t conveniently appear during your walk of shame, nope, not at all.
Showered. Fresh clothes. Hair damp. Not a trace of last night or this mornings activities on you.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Cause you’re pretty sure there’s billions of Jungkook’s sperm still in your uterus.
Taehyung’s already at the counter, pouring cereal like he hasn’t been holding onto your secret for the last hour. Jimin sits at the table, scrolling on his phone, suspiciously quiet. Like he’s expecting you to say something first.
You keep your head down, grab a mug, and reach for the coffee pot.
Taehyung doesn’t say a word. But you feel his eyes on you. Like he’s waiting to see how you’re going to play this.
You stir your coffee slowly, ignoring the weight in the air.
“Morning,” you say.
Jimin glances up. “You look… refreshed.” He’s totally trying to coax the events of last night out of you.
You freeze for a split second. Then you nod. “I showered.”
“Mhm,” Jimin hums, clearly unconvinced.
You sit at the end of the table, trying to act normal, trying not to think about the way Jungkook touched you last night and early this morning. The things he said. The way your heart hasn’t shut up since.
You’re halfway through your coffee when Jungkook finally walks in.
Freshly showered. Hair still damp. Hoodie half-zipped with nothing underneath. Wearing that annoyingly cute, just fucked and slept great look on his face. Bro is glowing.
You try not to look at him.
But your body betrays you—spine stiffening, eyes darting without meaning to. Just enough to catch the subtle arch of his brow when he sees you’ve changed. When he realizes you didn’t stay in his hoodie.
“Yo,” he says, grabbing a mug from the shelf like he didn’t blow up your entire life 8 hours ago. And again 1 hour ago.
“Morning,” Taehyung chirps, far too pleased.
“Hey,” you mutter, eyes locked on your coffee.
Jimin glances up from his phone.
He looks at you. Then at Jungkook. And then back at you.
He says nothing.
But the shift in his expression is small and sharp—like he just connected two dots he wasn’t supposed to. Like he knows something isn’t right between you.
And you feel it like a prickle at the base of your neck. Like you’ve been seen.
And then Jin walks in, holding a protein shake. Looking every bit the responsible roommate on a mission to destroy your peace before work.
“Okay,” Jin says, stepping into the kitchen from his room, “who was having wall-slamming sex last night?”
You swallow coffee too hard.
Jungkook freezes with the coffee pot mid-pour.
Jimin doesn’t look up this time. Just exhales slowly, like he already knows exactly where this is going.
Taehyung blinks, pauses mid-spoonful, and sets his cereal down like he’s trying not to laugh too early.
“What?” Jungkook says, too quickly.
“I’m serious,” Jin says. “It was, like, two in the morning. Rhythmic thumping. Moaning. Maybe a chant. I don’t know, it got spiritual at one point.”
You cough into your hand, willing the floor to swallow you whole.
“I thought Lisa was gone,” Jin continues. “She wasn’t here last night?”
Silence. All heads turn to Jungkook.
Even yours.
You hate that you look. Hate that it matters. Hate that your heart skips.
Jungkook blinks. “No. She wasn’t.”
“You sure?” Jin asks.
“Positive.”
Jimin finally speaks. “Yeah, didn’t look like her car was out front.”
His voice is casual. But when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Expression unreadable.
The knot in your stomach pulls tighter.
Lisa.
His go-to. The one you’ve heard about in offhand mentions and half-jokes. The one Taehyung once said was Jungkook’s “convenient fallback.”
Your chest clenches. You shouldn’t care. It was just one night. Followed by morning sex. But something twists in your gut anyway, bitter. Sharp. Ugly.
And before you can stop it, you glance at Jungkook—just to see if he reacts. If he flinches. If he’s lying.
He doesn’t. He just shrugs. “Haven’t seen her in weeks.”
Jin hums, unconvinced. “Well. Whoever it was, they sounded like they were dying. In a good way.”
Taehyung chokes on his orange juice.
Jimin shifts slightly, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Still watching, still silent. Cause he knows you slept with Jungkook, but can’t figure out why you’re pretending you didn’t.
You laugh. But it’s the tight kind. The I might go into cardiac arrest kind.
And Taehyung notices. He eyes you. Then Jungkook. And back again.
Your eyes flick away from Jungkook before they linger too long, but it’s too late.
Taehyung’s watching you now.
Really watching.
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s putting it together. You can feel it.
His cereal’s gone soggy. His spoon’s forgotten. And his eyes flick between you and Jungkook like he just found the final piece of a very messy, very juicy puzzle.
You look down again, pulse skipping.
Taehyung leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the kitchen island, chin on his fist.
And smirks.
“Sounds like someone had a good time,” he says casually, not looking at anyone in particular.
But you feel the target on your back. You swallow hard.
Jungkook says nothing. Takes a long sip of coffee like that’ll save him.
And suddenly, you don’t want to be in the kitchen anymore.
You stand abruptly, your mug in hand. “I’ve got work to do.”
No one stops you. But you can feel the tension as you leave.
Jimin’s eyes following you.
Taehyung’s smirk slowly fades.
And all the unsaid things settling into the space you left behind.
You shut your door a little harder than necessary. Not loud enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel like you’re sealing something off.
Your coffee sits forgotten on your desk. You’re too wired to drink it anyway.
You shouldn’t care. You don’t care.
Jin was just talking. That’s what he does. Loudly. With no filter. But it’s not like Jungkook corrected him.
You press your palms to your eyes, willing the frustration behind them to disappear. This is stupid. You knew what this was. You knew it wasn’t real. But still… you didn’t think he’d let someone else’s name be mistaken for yours. Not like that. Not when he—
You shake your head, cut the thought off before it can finish. It’s fine. You’ll keep your distance. You’ll keep it casual. That’s all it ever was.
Your phone dings on your nightstand and Jimin’s contact lights up the screen.
✨Chaos in Dior: I heard enough last night to know something happened. Spill.
You sigh, choosing to ignore his texts when another one comes through.
✨Chaos in Dior: What was that in the kitchen just now?
What would you even tell him? You could gaslight him:
But then a whole conversation would have to take place.
A conversation you’re not ready for.
A conversation you haven’t had with yourself.
A conversation you haven’t had with, Jungkook.
So you ignore him.
You reach for your laptop, open it, and stare blankly at the screen. Your inbox is full. Your to-do list is overflowing. But all you can hear is Jin’s voice again, looping in your head.
“Sounds like someone was dying. In a good way.”
You clench your jaw and force your fingers to start typing. Anything. A sentence, a fake task. Just to feel in control.
There’s a knock on your door twenty minutes later. Three soft raps.
You don’t move.
Another knock.
“Y/N.”
You exhale through your nose and call out, “What?”
It’s Jungkook’s voice. Quiet. “You okay?”
You hesitate.
Then, sharper than you mean to: “Why wouldn’t I be?”
A pause. Then footsteps retreating. And you hear the front door open then close.
You press your forehead to your desk and close your eyes.
You’re fine.
You’re always fine.
So why does it feel like your heart’s the only one that didn’t get the memo?
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