DISCLAIMER: I made this list as more of a library for me to remember the stories that I loved reading here in Tumblr and give appreciation to the authors that created them. I'm not really familiar with editing and stuff so I know that this doesn't look the best. If you think that there are some that are mislabeled or something like that, please do inform me so that I can fix it asap. And please be nice 🥺
Summary: Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No – you want this entire story to die.
Or: If living on can't mend the pain of losing him, maybe forgetting him for good will.
➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader
➵ rating: 18+
➵ genre: exes au, college!au; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot
➵ warnings: heartache, past breakup, flashbacks, memories, memory erasure (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind vibe), tears, gaslighting, anxiety, abandonment issues, controlling partner, but also banter and flirting, angst angst angstttt, fighting but also such tender moments, college sweethearts 🥺, science talk, prob not fully accurate but i tried, jealousy, making up; explicit sexual content: oral (f. & m. rec.), teasing, edging, overstimulation, kissing, licking, protected sex, hard sex, soft sex, dom!jk, big dick!jk ofc, every position ever lol, first time sex, make up sex, biting, tiddie love, banter;… the ending… if i forgot anything pls lmk. try and analyse this one phew
➵ word count: 34.4k oops
➵ a/n: another angsty taegularities special :D the flashbacks are written in a way that oc is reliving them instead of just observing – that way, they're easier to read. hope you like this one. i poured a lot of my heart into it. and later, come and talk to me about it if you'd like! 💞
The location of the notorious office you sought out is inconspicuous.
From the outside, it’s an old fashioned, grey building with a large door and ugly, yellow patterns around it. An abominable idea by whichever architect affirmed the original draft.
The street is rather quiet, accordingly, surrounded by the two buildings you’re standing between; above the doctor’s office, there are apartments. Open windows let a scented breeze into the open, spreading in all directions — towards you, too.
It must be some garlicky recipe, you assume. You like garlic. He liked garlic even more, didn’t he?
You shake your head, well aware that you’re only procrastinating; that at some point, you’ll need to enter, so that the hour-long trip and all the mental preparation don’t end up redundant.
You look around. How legit is this really? Perhaps not at all. Then again, you’ve seen it work on somebody before — either that, or they put on an act you didn’t know they were capable of.
Your eyes wander to the bag you’re holding, then back to the door. And eventually, you move forwards, reaching for the handle, and enter an even quieter hallway. It’s shabbier than the outside, like some place that hasn’t been renovated since the 80s.
If this was a regular doctor’s office, you reckon their patients would bolt, seeking help elsewhere. But considering that this is the only erasure company to exist in this country, you have no other choice.
Yet, once you actually ring the bell to the medical practice and are permitted inside, you realise that one should truly never judge a book by its cover — at least the one that jumps into the eyes at first.
Because the waiting room really isn’t that bad. Still a bit outdated, sure, but nowhere you couldn’t stay for a while. And the girl behind the counter smiles at you as soon as she detects you, making up for the rest of the building that she’s forced to see every day.
Or maybe you’re just perceiving it all worse, judging it because you’re not in a good mood. No, you know you aren’t. And the people waiting around don’t help either.
You glimpse around. Some of them are staring into a near nothing, watching particles hover in the air; they’re holding onto plushies or toys, shirts or boxes filled with belongings. You dare not imagine who they might have lost to bring all that with them…
You have half a mind to turn around again, to count your blessings and recall that some people are surviving grief that you can barely fathom. That yours won’t compare to theirs.
But backing away won’t stop the hurt. If you coward your way out of this, you’ll only return to a dead silent apartment, broken by nothing but your sobs. Not laughter, not jests, not his voice.
And you can’t soak the pillow again.
No. You gulp, close in to the counter, watching the girl lay down her pen. She leans in and welcomes you with a gentle, empathetic, “Welcome to Better Tomorrow. How can I help?”
She knows exactly how. There is only one good intention for anybody to come in here, but you reckon she needs a proper reason or an analysis of your situation to actually register you in their system.
You tell her, “I uh— I want to use your selective memory erasure services. I heard about them from a… a friend.” It’s a lie; but you can’t really get into how you stumbled upon this place. You feel that you sound ridiculous as is. “I brought a few things.”
Her kind eyes dart to the bag around your shoulder, and you remove a strap from it, cramming through the contents that you can’t use yet anyway. You continue, “This should all do. I read that core memories are key.”
“Indeed! You did your research,” she responds, rolling back with her chair, a hand under her desk. She fishes a paper out of some compartment and adds, “If you could just fill out this form, please, so the doctors can get an overview of your situation.”
You thought so.
Her hands fold together after she has slided the paper towards you, and if possible at all, her eyes pour further pity onto you. You realise that it might be a job requirement: Kindness and care, aiding an upset person to feel encouraged rather than only more upset.
You heard of a couple complaints about Better Tomorrow that caused quite a ruckus and nearly had the company close a few years back. When you were still actively and happily wading through life and experiences, you learned about it for the first time, but…
It wasn’t relevant at all back then. You didn’t think it’d ever become important to you in any way, either.
She — her name tag reads Inna — then says, “So basically — you will hear about this in further detail from the doctor — but, basically, the erasure happens at your home or any private place that you can rely on to not cause absolute confusion. You need to be unsuspicious once you’re done.”
You nod along, a knot in your throat; you’re hearing her clear as day, but you don’t think you‘ll believe it until you see it. This sounds like wishful thinking for now. But you have seen it affect others before.
Maybe you’re also here to convince yourself that they are indeed lying, that even in advanced times like these, there cannot be a device that can alter your brain at such a level. Like… come on—
Clinically, artificially triggered amnesia? No, not even that. Memories still exist underneath a fog when it comes to amnesia; these people here delete them as if they never existed.
This company will mean the ruin for every, “I will never forget about you,” line ever used in movies and books and poetry.
“And how do I—” you start, just at the moment she taps the paper on your side of the counter again; still staring at you in case you utter a question she didn’t expect. But when you skim the explanation and the terms on the paper, you only voice, “Ah.”
“Yes. This form explains most of it,” Inna says, repeating, “and Dr. Choi will run you through it, too. But in case you‘re worried, the procedure is fully safe and reversible within twenty-four hours.”
You wonder how something can be reversible if you can’t remember what you need reversed.
Then, you see it on the paper, again. She says it, too, “Because some people experience some lags or because they find something that triggers a core memory. It takes the brain a day or so to adjust, like it is with waiting for medicine to kick in. After that, it’s all done.”
“Thank you,” is all you manage. The bag seems heavy all of a sudden, the straps digging into your shoulder. “May I…”
You reach for a pen attached to a chain, shackled to the table. The Inna girl nods, gesturing towards a different writing instrument. “Of course. Take this one if you want — it’s not attached to the table. Take a seat and take your time. If you have any questions, let me know.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
You turn around, look for an empty seat. There are plenty; of course, the place isn’t filled. You don’t think a lot of people decide on having part of their memory changed on a random Tuesday morning.
You sit down in a corner with a sigh, brushing back your hair, and start reading through the paper. It doesn’t include too many conditions or strict rules. Most of it is straightforward. Describes the procedure in general; and while you’re certain you’ll hear about it a couple more times, you memorise the words carefully.
Apparently, Better Tomorrow relies on working with synapses and the amygdala. Memories, being patterns of neural connections, are dissolved as one works through them one by one; ultimately, this leads to disruption of the links around specific memory traces.
The activity in the amygdala is suppressed in the process in order to assure smooth success and only selective memory erasure. Which, according to this complicated little form, is particularly important to not bring remaining, unrelated memories into disorder.
Some of them are only altered, some entirely removed. The procedure is safe throughout and does not affect any other memory gathered throughout life.
Etcetera, etcetera. A lot of mind-boggling stuff that requires several rereads. Not that the scientific part is too important to you; you just need to trust that all this works.
At the end, you glance at another disclaimer; one that, admittedly, scares you the most.
“Please understand, however, that certain memories are rooted deep in the brain and might not be erased as efficiently without disturbing the overall life experiences. In such cases, your doctor may reject your case for your benefit and suggest methods and solutions unrelated to Better Tomorrow.”
Ah. What a great way to hint at therapy. You assume that some traumas aren’t easy to remove without damaging one’s entire life.
This is mostly the complex part, the theoretical part. The rest only mentions how to behave the day before, to eat and drink enough but not heavily, to get sufficient sleep and to settle on a proper and relaxed location of your choosing for the operation.
Finally, it asks you to fill out some data. Your name, your reason, the objects you’ll bring and need, the subject slash object of erasure — which you leave blank for a second because you know that once it’s written, you might feel panic emerge.
And, last but not least, a tiny box demanding to be ticked. Terms and conditions; to be aware that in the case of issues — since it’s still a fairly new and at times experimental thing — you’ll be liable for it because you very much knew of the risks that come with memory removal.
It can’t get any worse, though. So you draw a cross into the box. Sign and bring the paper back to Inna.
She reads through the stuff you filled out, making sure you didn’t miss anything — but of course you did. “Subject or object of erasure is still blank.”
She points at it, and you sigh.
Gripping the pen again, you numb yourself, putting down two words in the box before you turn the paper again. She nods, thanking you, and says, “Memory erasure and home visits take time, so I will submit the form and the doctor will give you a call as soon as possible.”
You nod, too, thoughts and heart racing. There’s a monumental question mark in your mind; unsure whether you should let your chest hurt like this until the doctor calls — or maybe you should screw this all, go far away and learn to deal with the pain.
But that’s it, you guess. When Inna claims the form and mutters something about how she won’t need the objects in your bag just yet — since you put them down on the paper —, you catch a last glimpse of your writing.
It disappears in the compartment again, just like the name you wrote on it; and before it does, you see it one last time.
Subject/object of erasure: Jeon Jungkook.
You have learned that there are limited ways of dealing with pain.
Everybody says that aches like these fade with time and that the world and the passing of years heal you, yada yada yada. But you haven’t experienced any of the relief yet. This still feels like death; even after months of isolation and methods of coping.
Looking at the stuff you took out from your bag feels like being stabbed by a poisonous syringe over and over again. You have transferred most of it to a box, mixing it with things you don’t need. As the doctor and her assistant — Kim Byul, she introduced — wait wait outside, you sort through your belongings.
All that you’ll need on the right side, all that is irrelevant to the left. Your hands work faster than your brain; pictures, clothes, a bracelet to the right. Recent bills on the left. Small things like a butterfly necklace or bluetooth headphones to the side, so you don’t lose them.
And finally, you’re all done. This should do. You’ll tidy up once it’s all done. To your future self, it’ll just be your random mess, and you’ll deal with it without too many questions, you’re sure — you clean up regularly anyway.
When you return to the living room, Dr. Choi is munching on a cookie that you served with a floral printed cup of tea, and when she hears and sees you return, she brushes the crumbles off her hands. Smiles.
“Ready?” she wonders, standing; Byul follows her to the machine when you hum.
“As ready as I can be,” you say, “it just sounds a bit scary.”
“It might feel like it, too, at times. It’s not always easy; most of the time it hurts.” She clicks through some tabs that you don’t understand. So you stop peeking over her shoulder and sit down on the dark blue polyester sofa instead. “But once you manage your way through, you’ll feel lighter.”
You don’t answer. You let her work. She mumbles things to Byul, fumbling with some wires and takes out a funny-looking hat, similar to the one you once saw when you had an EEG done at the neurologist’s.
Then, she turns to you, stares at the box in your hands. She takes a seat next to you calmly, lifting her trousers to her ankles before she crosses her legs. Then, she starts explaining — your body reacts. It’s time soon.
“So, as you know, what we do here isn’t just forgetting,” she says, “it’s unbinding. We use targeted neuro-disruption to remove the synaptic links around a specific memory, especially its emotional anchors.”
“I read about that in the form, too. So, if I understood correctly, it’s like deleting a file?”
Dr. Choi snickers a bit.
“Hmm, pretty much. Like removing it from your mind’s search engine. The memory sometimes exists in fragments, somewhere so extremely deep you can’t reach. This is very rare, though. But even if it does happen, it won’t hurt, won’t surface and won’t feel real.”
She tilts her head, recalls, “Some clients who served as test objects in the early days and who still had some fragments left, they… reported a sense of distance after the first memory was erased. Like remembering a story they were told, not something they lived.”
It’s almost doubtful.
Could he ever just become a story you were told? Will you ever feel like you didn’t live and breathe every moment, indulged in every touch, savoured the tingling skin when his fingertips moved along your arm?
If you were alone, you might whimper in agony.
Rare, though. She said that was rare. You hold onto that hope, that promise; trust in the fact that everything will most likely be gone in a few hours’ time.
Still, you say, “This sounds… bittersweet.”
“Sometimes it is. But it doesn’t torment you anymore. In such cases, it’s like remembering an embarrassing or regretful moment for a bit that’s barely yours, like something you’ve seen in a movie, and then moving on soon after. But don’t worry about that. Worst case scenario.”
You get glassy eyed, zoning out, only realising now that you haven’t been looking at her. That you’re, just like the people in the waiting room, watching the dust float by. But it’s not numbness, rather…
“I’m terrified,” you tell her.
You feel a hand press down on yours. There must be special training in how to deliver empathy, because these professionals do it so well. Not even people close to you are capable of such gentle gazes.
“We will be here throughout,” Dr. Choi promises, “please tell us if you feel any physical discomfort or need a break. Once a memory is erased, it’s truly gone, and that thought is not easy to digest.”
You gulp again before she adds, “Some people need multiple sessions, some are done after an hour. It really depends on what your brain decides on. We will do our best, but you’ll need to cooperate. Need to want this.”
They won’t force you, of course. She told you even when she came in that it’s important to think it through, to be absolutely certain. Better Tomorrow exists to make your life easier, not to wish evil on you.
But you’ve done all the thinking. Weeks and weeks of it. You might regret it if you send her home again.
So you nod, grabbing the first oddly shaped object from the box for comfort; you saw Byul scanning them as you talked.
And then, you tell her, “I will cooperate. I promise.”
Reaching for the first memory doesn’t feel like floating through a dystopian system or rushing through a tunnel of neurons.
You thought it’d resemble a costly science fiction scene that captures every electric activity, every picture of every nerve. Rather, it resembles waking up from a dream — or into a dream. Like opening your eyes to a room you already know.
You perceive a sense of an echo, a bit like a movie filter indeed, rosy and slightly blurred face all over — as though each inch is drenched in a dim, invisible light. The way you’d imagine time travelling, or, a memory dive.
It’s somewhat of a bird’s perspective, but also not. You don’t exactly have a body to look down at; you’re not a second presence standing beside the one in the memory. In truth, it is exactly like a dream, where you can somehow see yourself, but at the same time, are yourself.
You guess that it’d be easier if you were a beetle, sticking to some wall and letting it all play out instead of actually feeling it all. But you’re not a beetle.
You’re you, living through what was, as if it is happening right now, happening again. This feels real.
Yet you can’t seem to do much except watch… see the memory unfold, and at some point soon, vanish.
It was — is? — a college seminar room. You’re in the third row, scribbling, an arm on the table and the head subtly angled. You look innocent, unbothered, calm. Somewhere here, you know that you’ll find him as well, but the room is much bigger than usual seminar rooms and the students are abundant.
Of course, you can also only see what you remember. You don’t recall where he sat; only the faces that your unconscious mind grasped onto that day. Very faint, very blurred, like dolls or as if censored.
Most of this place consists of mere pieces, really. You certainly wouldn’t know where he was or how he looked at you or anyone, for that matter. What he was doing when the professor called your name, unfairly so as he often did.
Your past self — no, you gaze up. This was that one class you couldn’t stand. The professor had a dirty habit of zeroing in on certain people while ignoring others. You were one of the former.
A second ago, you were minding your own business, bullet point notes filling your notebook. You were quiet, yes, but did he expect everyone to keep a hand raised at all times? Generally, you guess he wasn’t a particularly nice person.
Your own eyebrows lift as your name echoes, and you, while well aware of his question and the answer, unreasonably utter, “Sorry?”
The professor sighs. He puts a hand in the pocket of his dark blue trousers, legs crossed and the right palm on his table as he repeats, “I said: How would Marx interpret the rise of influencer culture?”
You repress a smirk. It’s one of the topics that your college tried to incorporate in your studies’ syllabus, to resonate with young students, modernise lectures. Quite honestly, no boring class could be saved with this method, really.
You start with a hesitant, “Ah, yes. Uhm.”
Your fingers are playing with your pen, tip of it in and out, and you hold the professor’s expectant stare. You know he’s creating his own assumptions, certain that you won’t deliver at all. He always glances over his glasses, condescending as his reputation, but then you lift your head and, as far as your brain can recall, say something in the lines of—
“Well, Marx would probably regard influencer culture as a new form of capitalism — where even people’s personalities and lifestyles become commodities. Influencers sell their image and followers consume it, which keeps the system of profit going. It’s like…”
You shrug, calm as still waters. “Like turning identity itself into a product.”
Silence. A cough somewhere that you remember vividly. You could hear a needle drop. Then, he says, “Mmh, that’s a solid take. Most people just say, Marx hated capitalism and stop there. Good.”
He wiggles a finger and then turns back to find his place behind the large desk. You tangibly feel the rush of pride and satisfaction as he nods, his stance defeated by your already thriving interest in whatever he is trying to teach you.
If you remember correctly, he won’t pick on you again after this; at least not for a couple of weeks. Perhaps he does and stops afterwards; your memories are a tad jumbled. Either way, you prove him wrong each time, the same content feeling lighting up your brain.
But you will still swear off any of his classes and choose other, more laid back professors for the rest of the subjects.
Your smile widens, lowered to your notes again. In a way, albeit the frequent recurrence of nostalgic colours even today, you are relieved that you’re done with your studies.
But you miss other aspects of it. Like the people, the busy mensas and the court you used to soak in the sun in between or after classes. Like that day.
Perhaps it is a conscious decision your brain makes, but the scene changes. You don’t reckon that more than an hour has passed; you’re still tranquil, with a steady heartbeat as you bask in the late summer breeze.
Autumn will settle in properly, with only a couple rainy days in between, but the warmth of the summer will linger.
Because he’s right here. A man so close you feel his presence, see the Air Jordans on the grass, and a moment later, you hear a velvety and joyous voice sounding over you.
“It’s you,” he’s saying.
You look up; his face is more a silhouette than anything, but you think you recognise the silky mane and the usual oversize style. You wonder, “Is it me?”
“Isn’t it?”
You put your laptop down. “I mean, it is, but you let the you sound so important.”
“I’d hope you don’t consider yourself unimportant.”
He looks ahead, squints an eye, though the sun is right over his head, breathes in the air. Then, he asks, “May I?”, pointing at the ground. You nod, and as soon as you see him properly, he smiles, says, “What I mean is… fuck that guy.”
There is no way to interpret what he said as what he claims it means, but you understand immediately. You know that Jeon Jungkook is in your class, too, and that he must be one of the people who sat absolutely still only an hour ago, recognising just how much of an ass the full adult teaching a college class is.
“Indeed, huh?” you agree.
“If it helps, don’t think he has actual bad blood with anybody. I’ve heard he’s sworn off women and now he lets it out on all the girls on campus, too.”
“How fitting for a sociology professor.” You sigh. “That’s so great, though. As if there’s not enough rage women carry already.”
You lean back, trying to process his face without ogling for too long or too obviously. This guy is inhumanly handsome; his moles sit just right in his face, the curve of his lips artistic. You don’t know what he does with his hair, but it’s full and shiny, probably soft as feathers.
And when he smiles, you see dimples emerge, unique ones, too. He’s a rare combination of beauty and poise, and even though you have already explored his mind, body and soul, you feel the initial fascination anew.
There are moments in this memory that make you forget that you haven’t turned the clock and jumped into who you once were. There are rarely second, and barely ever third chances in life.
In a moment this will be gone. You need to hold onto it, at least for a minute, at least for the remainder of the time that’s left.
You let the conversation flow, aware of all this, but unable to change the memory. You listen and smile back when Jungkook vows, “I won’t give you any reason to rage.”
“Then you seem too good to be true.”
“Really? The bar is low these days. But also… I don’t think I’m too good. I just consider myself good.”
“Really?” you echo. “How does one know for sure?”
“Well,” he leans back, too, imitating your crossed legs, head up to blink into the sun for a moment. He’s golden. “If you want to get into this on a sociology basis, you’ll have to wait, so I can write you an entire essay.”
You laugh. “But?”
“But if you want a short answer… I think sometimes you just know. There is enough evil in this world and we see it, whether in our lives or in the news… and if you can’t identify with it, I don’t think you’re bad.”
You think about it, let it sink in. There’s logic to his words, some truth you might make your own. Perhaps a silver lining whenever you find yourself in doubt.
But…
“Dunno,” you conflict, “sometimes we still judge and do things that we don’t consider bad, not really, but… they might seem awful or odd to others.”
“…Like what?”
“Like. Well, I don’t know.” You lift your hands, shaking your head. Your eyes fall to your knees, racking your brain, and when something surfaces, you try, “Like growing up with trauma and promising to not forward it, but doing it anyway.”
Jungkook hums in agreement, nodding — he must be a true talent when it comes to friendly discussions, an intellectual while possibly competitive in other areas. He adds, “Or hoping for somebody to lose a connection with someone on purpose because one can’t stand the third party.”
You turn to look at him, eyebrows closing in before you chuckle. You admit, “That sounds oddly specific.”
“To be fair… yours did, too.”
Touché.
You press your lips together to signal defeat and as you look away, he laughs, following your gaze until the two of you grow quieter. A while later, you tell him, “Didn’t think somebody would notice me.”
“After that thing today? Sure. I noticed you before, too.” You cock an eyebrow and he immediately stutters, briefly but tellingly before he clarifies, “Not in a creepy way. I just remember most faces, especially in class. It’s not a huge group of people.”
“I don’t know, we are quite a few. But… I did see you before, too.”
He shrugs a wide shoulder. “Must be my charm.”
He knows how to make you laugh; the dangerous type of person to succumb to. Not that you’re already in that spiral that he might pull people into, for sure, but you don’t assume he’s easy to combat.
“Must be,” you say under another snicker.
He nods his chin towards the laptop and the book next to it as he asks, “Are you doing today’s homework?”
“Hm? Oh. Yep.”
“Mind if I join? Might be easier together. Like a study group — duo.”
You don’t struggle with the matter at all; you’re nearly done, too. But his warmth next to your body is comfortable and you like his voice and his eyes and the way he talks—
So you succumb a little.
“Sure!”
And as soon as you do, the pixels break.
As if a connection is cutting. As much as you gave in that day, the feeling comes to pass; the place wears away, as if you’re underwater and then—
The lingering emotions become a dream. The fragments disappear.
But while the memory vanishes, the feeling doesn’t. Dr. Choi told you, didn’t she? It’ll need a core memory for it all to fade in its entirety.
Because as you move to the next room, as though witnessing a cut to the next scene at a theatre, the affection still runs deep. Your past self doesn’t exactly spell the big L-word just yet, and from where you sit, as though in her body but through somebody else’s eyes, you know you’re not fully lost in him yet.
Just on your way there…
This is another classroom, but the walls are painted in a different colour. Not white, but an ugly, dirty, pale yellow. This time, you’re further back, still diligent but slightly preoccupied.
On the other side of the room, Jungkook has his head propped in his hand, his fingers and eyes signalling messages from afar. His lips word something you can’t decode and you shake your head, laugh because his mere presence makes you laugh anyway.
You’ve known him for a while, and you can never stop looking.
But you keep your banter-loving self intact as you leave the room, your steps slowing while his accelerate. He effortlessly reaches you before you can vanish out the door — but you’d have waited anyway.
You warn, “You need to stop.”
“What, why?”
“You distract me.”
His smirk is smug, proud, proving a long intended goal now reached. His elbow nudges your side, tickling you a little in the process, and he rejoices, “That’s my purpose!”
You roll your eyes, forcing them away from his intoxicating face. He’s cut his bangs, and the way they frame his features softens him — like dipping him in something unbearably sweet, as if to ruin your day.
All sugar and warmth and whipped cream and sprinkles on top.
You challenge, “Then why don’t you just sit next to me, huh?”
“Because,” he tsks, a smacking sound, and then has the audacity to claim, “it’d make me lose my focus even more. Can’t afford that.”
“…You find me distracting? I’m all calm and studious.”
“Do I find you distracting? More than anything.”
Your steps halt. It’s the lax, nonchalant tone that catches you off guard. It doesn’t match his words immediately — but then you remember that this makes up an enormous part of his personality.
You know that in your later time together, he’ll use this as a defense mechanism, too. Will speak his emotions freely, but at the same time keep himself composed in case your reaction doesn’t match what he intends.
That is, until his restraint breaks. At some point, he’ll become too comfortable. Sometimes a blessing, mostly a curse.
Right now, you find this approach endearing, refreshing; but under the right circumstances, you’ll come to grow irritated by it.
As he comes to a stand, peeking over his shoulder to find you a couple feet behind, you calm your pulse and the pace of your heart. Your wit escapes you on rare occasions, and he summons most of them. So the best you could do is stutter, right?
No. You grant yourself a moment to rack your brain; a needless preparation, because just before you can provide an uncreative answer, he realises. His eyebrows rise by a minimum.
But then he tells you just as coolly as he likes to be, “You’re my friend. Of course I’d find you distracting. Don’t you remember your school days?”
You scoff. You don’t mean to, but somehow you still do, maybe disappointed by his response, or disappointed by your own expectations. You ask, “Is that it?”
“Yes.” The answer shoots out of him, confidently and firmly. A sigh follows and his shoulders fall, as if he’s tired of explaining something to you over and over — before remarking, “We talked about this, bug. It’s my charm. You’re supposed to fall in love with me, not me with you.”
You’re already interrupting halfway through, turning away from him and then back when his hand grips your elbow. He’s laughing quietly, a lovely and genuine cackle, and once he’s done and your old, beloved sarcasm has recovered, you question, “Okay, and is it working?”
“Is it working? You tell me.”
Douchebag.
“I meant the other way round,” you tell him, “you not falling in love with me. I can be charming, too, so — is it working?”
His laugh ebbs down, replaced by a more harmless, soundless smile. There is an answer in his dark pupils somewhere, but you can’t see behind the sparkle. Neither through his words and to their intent when he says, “I see you’re learning from me.”
“Learning what?”
“Smooth-talking?”
“You are not a smooth-talker,” you bicker, forefinger pointedly poking his chest, “you’re just a dork who’s afraid of microwaves and talks about animated movies way too much.”
“I analyse them.”
You start walking down the hall, pulling up the strap of your bag. “Right. Your analysis is like eighty percent just you crushing on Meg from Hercules.”
He grimaces, a goofy expression that indicates that he can’t help it, and you punch his shoulder which makes him stumble a step or two. Purely performative, of course. He’s built like a Greek God himself.
“Hey,” he voices softly, a rapid change of topic that you barely expect, “speaking of… Come to the movies with me this weekend.”
Sometimes, you find it hard to counter at your usual speed, even though you often consider yourself a fast thinker and an even faster talker. Today, you don’t think and only talk, telling him foolishly, “I was actually going to busy myself this weekend.”
You weren’t.
“Doing what?” he wonders.
“Dodging you.”
“Damn. Do that then.” He hardens his jaw, completing your quipping, the tongue in his cheek more effective than he knows. “I’ll take another girl.”
He’s ahead of you as you reach the college’s exit, taking two steps at once; you hurry to catch up, a hand pulling at his wrist until his brisk pace matches yours again.
You mutter, “Shut up. Don’t you dare.”
Another low chuckle. And then, everything goes blank.
Jungkook got you seats in the back of the cinema hall because he promises it annoys other visitors less — and because he talks during movies. You do, too, so you’re okay with his decision.
You look around. Somehow, you can’t quite remember how you got to this place, but you guess he must have invited you sometime before.
At least, it seems that you aren’t yet as close as your real self remembers. It’s one of your first dates, though it still feels more like a friendly outing than anything else.
Doesn’t help your nerves, though.
And the sound effects, close behind you and blaring in your ears, only add to the nervous thumping of your heart. You didn’t mind the distance to the screen until the scenes of cars rushing and music playing reverberated in your head.
“I can’t even hear my own thoughts,” you wail-whisper into his ear, careful to not yell around but determined to give him a piece of your mind. “Too loud!”
“But I was right,” he stands his point, “nobody around to feel disturbed.”
“Shut up—”
You launch a tiny piece of the popcorn at him, and he shakes his head in reprimand, lecturing, “Hey! If you’re going to throw popcorn, don’t waste it. Target my mouth.”
You exhale, clicking your tongue before you offer it to him and he snatches it gratified. Instinctively, your finger bolts backwards, though unscathed, and you say, “Surprised that you didn’t bite me.”
He swallows the popcorn, asking, “Did you want me to?”
“Yes, it’s a kink.”
Your voice roars too much as the music slowly dies, the last notes of the cello piping down. Jungkook blows out a laugh, a head a couple rows ahead turning, holding your gaze and then returning to the movie.
You bite your lips, clear your throat. And then, quieter, tell him, “I thought you knew.”
“That it’s a kink? I should’ve. The amount of times you threaten to eat off my nose.”
Yes, because it’s cute. But you won’t tell him that. He continues, “Tell me more about your kinks.”
You puff out a sarcastic breath, side-eye him. “Well, if I told you already…”
You notice your mistake the moment it leaves you. You stare at the screen in a straight line, calming your breathing, sure he’s closing in enough that you can smell his perfume. The scent boggles your mind.
You know what he’s going to ask before he does it; courtesy to your memory, but you also know that you knew at this very moment, all those years ago.
“Yeah?” he whispered. “When else will you tell me?”
He’s looking at you, not even veiling anymore that he’s closed the safe gap. His shoulder meets yours, warm against your clothes, and when you lift your gaze to his, the same words ghost your mind… in the exact same constellation…
I want to kiss him so bad.
How insane would it be if you drew in now, threw your gaze down, then up again, then down again and — met the cushiony balm of his lips?
Would he reciprocate it?
Maybe. You can’t rule it out; not with his smooth, warm fingertips reaching for your chin, lifting your face as he urges your eyes to align; they ignite a flicker. And not when he prompts, “Wanna tell me?”
“…Isn’t that weird?”
“Why?” He lets go, defuses the situation, even if only by a minimal fraction. The air is still galvanised, only almost broken by what he says next, “Really, why? We’re friends.”
You draw a breath. If he’s demanding it, you’ll play the game. What good does it do to weasel your way out of this? You’re not a scaredy-cat. And the more you get to him, the less he’ll be able to resist. You see it in his eyes.
There’s temptation and a sort of crackle neither of you can deny.
So you crawl up into his brain, snug and hot in your skin, and say, “Okay. I want to be crushed under… his weight.”
His, yours, just understand.
“Ah?” he voices.
“And I… I want him to shut me up if needed. In any way possible.”
This can’t be happening — are you dirty talking to your best friend? Is he even your best friend? He always feels more than this, like he’s stuck you into purgatory, neither in nor out of the hell that you’ll burn with him in.
Fuck.
You can see him stirring in his seat, restless, as if he’s attempting to hide in it and come out of it at once. You’re satisfied; you want him. Closer than he is, even closer than he becomes within a moment.
But as you remember the surroundings and who he still is to you… who you still are… you can’t get yourself to not crack under the nature of your bickering selves. Daredevil as you might be, you need a quiet space, someplace that doesn’t keep you waiting.
Though you’re still waiting. Still lingering. But you know — you see him. This intensity could get much worse, and you’d be forced to either flee the scene or continue things quietly, in secret.
So you go the safe route, finally break and say, “And then I want him to sell my toes pics, so we can get rich.”
Jungkook breathes out. Breathes out hard, as if he forgot for a couple seconds. His shoulders and body sink, somewhat exhausted, and he laughs breathily, inhaling, averting his gaze. That is, until he finds your eyes again, rolling his own when he sees your eyebrow twitch up in tease.
“Goddamn it,” he curses. “This isn’t doable. I think you should reconsider.”
Ah? Oh…
Maybe he’s forgotten that you never mentioned him explicitly.
So you wonder further, a lilt in your voice, “Why are you offended?”
“I’m not.” Sure. That’s irrefutable, given the peach colour his face has turned to, visible even in only the light of the movie. “Just for whatever guy you choose.”
“Mhm,” you only hum.
He waits, shifts, and once his mind, as you assume, has cleared as much as yours, he asks, a hand on your arm, “Were you serious?”
You huff. “Totally. And…” You’re as bold as ever. Closer now instead of him. Tellingly, you throw the tiniest look down to his lap, and then back up to his face — a miniscule moment before you state, “You seemed to like it, too.”
“Oh yeah. I’m just a guy, and you’re hot. You gave me ideas for the future.”
You need a million nights to let each of his words sink in because… you thought you were brave?
You’re hot.
You gave me ideas.
You don’t get to ask him who the ideas are intended for, or how you being hot actually affects him — what he’d do with that info. If it was up to you, you’d leave right now, rush to his or your place, lock the door.
But you don’t get to. You only flinch when somebody in the more front rows shushes you, asking you to be quiet and let others enjoy the movie.
You knew what was coming and you have relived this day a dozen times over the years. But you still hate all of this anew; the wait, the proximity, the knowledge that after all the vigour the two of you basked in, everything came crashing down.
But what can you do?
In this very system, you are powerless. You might try to alter a memory, even though you haven’t yet figured out how. That is, if it’s possible at all. But you cannot change reality.
Just… at times, you forget that this is bygone.
So you can only sit back. Only say what you’re supposed to say; what you actually muttered afterwards, “You were wrong. We’re disturbing people.”
His hooded eyes close and open again. He’s still in a fog, coming down from it, quiet when he confesses, “Sometimes I can be, too.”
“…Was it perhaps a bad idea to come here?”
He laughs. There is tenderness to it sometimes, not the usual sarcasm or unabashed flirting. Just a soft, small chuckle.
The memory starts to fade.
His beam is followed by an equally feathery—
“Hey… I might be wrong at times, but… this is just right.”
You lift your face. Look at him; then back to the screen. And then, he disappears.
When you open your eyes and your fingers tangle with the wires, you’re not exactly sure whether this is yet another memory you can’t place.
The purpose is to forget, so maybe you’re somewhere in the midst of something your brain has already deleted. But then your head falls to the side, your eyelids fluttering open to an unclear vision of Dr. Choi and Byul, the assistant from before.
Choi said that while it’s crucial to forget they were ever here at all, it’s okay for you to wake up once or twice, since this would be the last encounter they’d remove from your software. You’re supposed to know as little about this as possible once you’re done after all.
But your first reaction is still anxiety. You didn’t think you’d need to wake up — so naturally, with your memory of them intact, you assume failure.
What went wrong? Do they doubt that you could’ve stayed in there, living through four years of your life until they left? Maybe there’s too much info, too much to obliterate.
“Leave this here,” you hear Dr. Choi say, her voice far away, growing the more you come to your senses.
Your face feels dry, cracked, and when you bring your hand to your cheek, your fingers catch the dampness. You cried — if they really started at the beginning, you cried reliving some of the most joyous moments the two of you shared. Or maybe that’s why.
The bittersweet beginning that you can’t return to, can’t hold onto. If there was a way to head-dive into a past so long passed and restore it and promise to fix things as they approached, you would.
You would… of course. If you hadn’t been ready to fix them before too, you wouldn’t have tried at all.
That’s the issue… you tried, but— but…
Your voice is as weak as your mind as you sit up, careful to not pluck out something that might fry your brain, “What happened?”
Dr. Choi’s instructions halt, a hand directing her assistant to stop. She regards you, forehead smooth and her tone calm, cool. You must look and sound so different from her.
“Okay,” she then mutters, turning back to Byul and quietly tells her to keep an eye on the data. Then, back to you, “Everything is fine. We’re just taking a break.”
Your chest lightens, if only by a bit. There is never enough air anyway to really free your heart. It feels clumped day in, day out — you don’t think the early days that you just wiped out did much to eradicate your feelings.
Everything still hurts. Like a fucking disease.
“Is that normal?” you ask.
“Yes, certainly. Even when their content is light, the memories you’re going through are heavy, and you’re separating even heavier emotions from who you are. They are yours. Bidding goodbye to something which was once yours isn’t easy.”
You would know…
Your throat constricts.
“And,” she continues, “that heaviness can feel like actual physical aches. You know how our body protects us from extreme pain by passing out? If we burden you with too much of what once was, it’ll become too much for you.”
“…What happens if I stay in there for too long, then?”
“Technically, nothing fatal. But it weighs heavy on the brain. Bad hormones might overshadow the good ones. And we want to make you happy, not worse without you even remembering how you got there.”
You nod. She’s a good doctor, isn’t she? Delivering explanations in such logical, empathetic ways. You guess the painful truth of what the program does could be lightened with a… well, lighter mood.
But how does one do that? Even a smooth-talking doctor like her can’t gloss over something so hefty.
She gives your pat a tiny shoulder, offers you a glass of water, and you nod once again, faintly. Your body is affected to the point of numbness; not the type of numb that blanks your mind but rather hurts.
It’s a paradox you cannot fathom. Maybe there is no science behind it, no words that can truly label every emotion after all.
You accept the water gratefully, sipping once reflexively. You aren’t hungry or thirsty or need anything particular at all, but your body is burning up, demanding hydration. If the liquid on your face is any indication of what’s to come, you’ll need an entire jug.
You’re scared.
A hand tightly wrapped around the glass, you watch the strangers in your home walking around, calculating whatever needed, talking, looking back and forth.
The object, a pen you used back in college, is still touching your tummy. You don’t know whether it was important for the memories or just a catalysator for the rest, but it must have done at least something.
You don’t know. You can’t remember anymore…
Your pulse heightens.
You can’t remember. You will stop remembering.
At this time, you know how you fell in love with him, how things played out in the three years after the one year you were friends. But even that will vanish, won’t it? How does one just… just forget? Forget somebody who used to be such a monumental part of—
You swallow. If you overthink it again, you will falter. And there is no going back, goddamn it. Even if you stop all of this now, you can’t regain whichever memories you just lost, and you won’t make things good with him again because… because he—
An odd sound escapes, somewhere between a silent sob and a breath; it catches Dr. Choi’s attention. She leaves her spot at the computer and walks up to you, gentle as she asks, “Are you okay? We will continue in a sec.”
You’re still for a moment. Barely blinking, head spinning. You close your eyes for a bit, and when you open them, you shake your head weakly. Your lips won’t move, but once you get them to, you say, “I still know that… A lot of our dates passed without any further steps.”
She listens, head angled, eyes soft. So you continue, “I still remember many of them. We haven’t gotten far yet, right?” You sigh — or rather, breathe out the crying. “It was the beginning and I was in love with him. I knew. But we didn’t kiss for a while. Some of it might already be erased, but the feelings are… still fully here.”
“Yes,” she immediately confirms, her voice so, so tender, “that’s what I meant. There are many core memories, but the ultimate one is somewhere in there… It'll take time. Do you know what it is? The rest can be removed faster once this one is gone.”
You give it a thought, but… how could you possibly guess? The time Jungkook and you spent together was a time with a heart less in the world. Yours was merged with his; every moment was valuable. Or almost.
You can’t…
“I don’t know if I can really… pin down one single moment,” you tell her, “there were too many. So, so many.”
She waits. Lets you think.
But when you come up with nothing in particular and too much at once, she speaks, “That’s how it is with complex feelings like affection. It’s riddled with places and tastes, scents and memories. Forgetting is much harder than loving. We let love consume us, so it’s easy to do.”
And sometimes, it leads to heartbreak that swallows you just as fast.
If Dr. Choi wasn’t doing this, you think, she’d be a writer. A poet, perhaps, jotting down human emotions as if she invented them.
It consumes one indeed; it devoured you alive until he did. He still gnaws at you, so deeply that it might kill you. You could bottle that power of his, use it as a weapon. When did the two of you become so lethal?
But Choi’s words make you wonder something else, too.
“…Have you done this, too? To yourself?”
She smiles; you nearly assume her answer. But then she shrugs, admits, “I don’t know. If I did, I am certainly not allowed to know. There’d be no point in it.”
“You just… you sound like it. Like there’s something one can never truly erase.”
“Hmm… sometimes there’s no memory erasure needed to feel that way.”
You silence.
Her smile stays, but her eyes sink to her fumbling thumbs. This is the most disquieted you have experienced her so far; and on top of a personal life, you guess that if you were in her shoes, you’d also feel a type of deeply rooted pain from the job alone.
Witnessing somebody’s pain and then watching it disperse can’t be easy. That’s what makes the job of a doctor what it is, doesn’t it?
Her chest rises and falls, and then she looks at you with newfound confidence. Back to what her profession demands, she states, “We’ll just get through everything and see where we find something. It takes time, but not ages.”
“How… how long was I gone now?”
“Only a couple minutes.”
You’re baffled. “That’s it?”
“It feels longer than it is. A lot of the memories are grouped and then taken away. You just relive those individually that were particularly important to you. As I said…”
Her smile is faint. Yes, you know. Core memories. “And the individual ones pass like dreaming. You might have noticed,” she remarks. No; you can’t say because you don’t know. “We don’t dream too long, but the story plays out that way.”
You can’t imagine which memories your brain could put into groups; you regard all of them as important.
“Yeah… yeah, okay.”
“Do you feel okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure? As we progress, it will get harder. So use those breaks.”
Breaks… it’ll be a break until it stops being one. At some point, they’ll find the core memory, and then, you won’t wake up to their faces anymore, but to your room, empty, unaware of what transpired. Unknowing that something just broke off of you.
“Some of the core moments might be when we were already together. Or when we broke up,” you aid.
“Yes?”
“We can… we could try.”
Another nod. “Let’s do that, then.” She turns back to the computer, mumbles something to the assistant, and then orders, “Lay down again? We’ll continue.”
You shift on the pillow until your body feels light enough. Closing your eyes, you perceive some of the words, waiting for some signal or a start.
A moment later, you drift off.
She was right; this does feel like a dream. A soft and somewhat rosy, non-bug view.
And Jungkook is right there. The sting is extreme, searing.
He’s right here, in your arms, his usual warmth burning your body. Seasons passed briskly — and then, another autumn and another winter arrived and went. It’s been around a month that you’ve been with him now; for over a year, you endured the struggle his presence brought.
This must be the main echo of another group of memories. Once this one goes, the others will, too.
But for now, you remember the time that passed close to the day you’ve jumped into; and in those many, short, ecstatic weeks, the ambiguity between you shifted… and now your luck is immeasurable.
Or at least, at this very moment, you think it is. At some point, when more seasons have arrived and passed and arrived again, he will be gone. Luck might take on a different definition then; or rather, it will be wiped out of your vocabulary entirely.
Sometimes, love just isn’t enough — that’s what makes a star-crossed story tragic.
No villain, no betrayal. Just a beautiful connection that doesn’t survive the reality human beings build around themselves.
This isn’t a bad memory yet, but every ounce of the adoration you feel will lead to one. To many. Maybe you remember this one because of the nature of the conversation. Or because it foreshadows something you should’ve known back then already.
Or maybe because somewhere in your heart, you know that this will bring what you’re looking for… to dull the pain faster, straight as an arrow toward the core memory…
But first you need to reach that break up you’re looking for, right? The reason you suggested it to be the deeply buried trigger was easy; because in hurt and longing — this is when one loves the most.
Jungkook once told you.
No… he will tell you now.
He’s playing with your hand, moving closer to you under the sheets, still fully dressed. In truth, you haven’t reached the highest base yet. You’ve been in bed together, dating, making out, cuddling.
But something would usually come in between. Red alert exams. Your parents visiting. Jungkook’s brother visiting. Your period.
“We always talk about society, norms, the modern world and all that stuff in the books,” he says, “but never really about the real world itself.”
You were just talking about your current college classes and about who despises or loves you as fellow uni-goers. The class you attend is yet another one of those hipster ones, students with Starbucks lattes and other sociology clichés.
The professor is nice, the topics are great; but Jungkook doesn’t seem to agree. So you ask, “What would you like to talk about?”
“Mmh… if there was just a class on how human beings act when affected by their emotions…”
“I don’t know,” you click your tongue, “this feels more like psychology than sociology.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s justifiable to talk about it in this class, too, though. Because, it sits right at the border… internal processes — psychology. Emotions in social context — sociology.”
He’s a good talker, and you’re easy to convince. You purse your lips, nodding on the pillow. Your stare is still fixated on the ceiling; you like listening to him. Calms you.
“So,” you repeat, “what would you like to talk about?”
“Okay, so—”
There he is. Revved up, turning to his side, your hand in between both his palms now. He likes the closeness, the touch.
“I’ve been learning a couple new words these days. They belong to different cultures and I don’t know. I wondered whether having words for certain emotions in one language, that don’t exist in another language, has any effect on the way a person thinks.”
You rethink his query, let it echo in your mind until it has dawned on you. Okay. You gesture for him to continue, “Like, does someone who knows the word Meraki go through life differently than someone who doesn’t know Greek?”
You snap a finger. You saw a similar post on Instagram just recently, a compilation of terms that cultures use to define certain complex emotions. Wide-eyed, you contribute, “Or, Koino Yokan. Do you know what it means?”
You meet his eyes, tearing them off the ceiling. When he gives a brief, “No,” your cheeks heat up. Aside from the way he looks at you, the phrase calls upon a warm, tingling sensation in you — something your body of that time remembers that your brain can’t.
An already deleted memory, you’re sure.
You trace his digits with a gentle forefinger, explaining, “Japanese. Knowing that one day, you’ll inevitably fall in love with somebody you just met. A sense that they’ll be yours.”
“Right… that’s pretty,” he smiles. Hums. “Saudade. Portuguese… Specific type of nostalgia. Missing somebody who is gone.”
There’s melancholy in his words, but somehow, your fondness for him grows. Something about the way he talks about emotions, understands them, draws you in. Jungkook has always showcased a clearly high EQ, but you couldn’t foresee just how much it’d deepen your attachment.
You ask, “Do you have more of these?”
“I do, yes. Some of them are sad.”
His voice is so tiny, so fragile. You blink. “You sound like they make you sad…”
“Maybe. I sometimes feel like I have felt a shit ton more than I needed to in life. I mean… like you, like everyone does. So somehow, these phrases hurt. There’s bittersweetness in them. I don’t… I dunno. Example — it’s difficult to lose somebody and not yet know what the emotion is called. Grief sounds almost… like an understatement.”
You grow bewildered and scared the further he ventures into his mind. Is he hinting at something? Trying to communicate through implicit musings?
Your eyebrows arch and then knit, and you ask, “What are you talking about?”
He hesitates, weighs his options — whether to say something or not. Maybe this is far bigger than you. Once he sees the growing dread in your face, his lips form an O, and he shakes his head, clarifies quickly—
“No. Nothing like that. Most of my friends moved when I was younger, and then we moved a lot. It’s just that it didn’t feel like I could keep people around for too long.”
He’s never told you that before. Or did he and you don’t know anymore? You can’t even guess.
But of course he’d treat these words with such care; once scarred by something so young, it is anything but easy to fully recover. You haven’t experienced such difficulties in life, hard knocks on wood, but you know plenty of people dealing with their own miseries.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can say. You can’t undo his past, but you can make his future brighter, right? “I’m around.”
“You are,” he says, releasing your hand to kiss your palm.
“What was it?” you wonder, another inch closer to him. “The sad word you were thinking of.”
“Ah… Onsra, it was, I think. It’s an Indian word that Indians themselves don’t even always recognise. I’ve heard it’s kind of rare? And it describes the moment of loving someone for the last time. Knowing things are coming to an end, whatever end it may be.”
Your parted lips shut. You stare at him for a second, breathing out quietly, and he cocks an eyebrow with a tilt of his head as if to say, “Yep. I know.”
You say, “This is… so sad. That’s a shitty feeling.”
“It is… But oh — have you heard about that thing that—? Like, how people nowadays deal with such heartbreak in crazy ways, too? There are all sorts of programs to erase your memory and stuff, so the last time you love can be an actual last time.”
You feel like you’ve read about it somewhere, but you dismissed it as a hoax meant to squeeze money out of people. You didn’t think it was real. But Jungkook is usually well informed about worldly things, so there must be a certain truth to it.
Yet, you wonder, “Seriously?”
“Yep. Science and technology are advancing. But I feel like, if more people knew these words limited to some cultures, they might think about life differently. With a bit more hope.”
Ironic…
You mention, “Is this how you felt? As you moved around? Like you were loving for the last time.”
His answer is ambiguous, yet as clear as you can demand. You don’t address the subject matter further once he says, “I have felt it before. I don’t want to again.”
So you only promise, “I don’t think you will.”
“…Yeah?”
“Yes. Because,” your hand settles on his face, his skin hot under yours. You don’t think you’ve said this before because his eyes widen with each word, “I’m in love with you in a way that I know will never stop.”
The melancholy falls.
And his Cheshire Cat grin is immediate; eerie almost, or as much as Jungkook’s ethereal face is capable of looking. But it pulls you in because gosh, your cheek muscles hurt, unable to relax as you laugh, and then ask,
“What? You wanna say something, too?”
His grin falls, an expression taking its place that, at first glance, reminds you of fatigue. But it’s not. It’s one of the versions of his dreamlike stares, eyes so lost and found and achingly fond.
You can almost feel and taste the sincerity when he says, “I don’t need to tell you.”
“…Why?”
“Because. You know how I feel.”
The quiet stretch between you doesn’t feel awkward. He’s patiently ceasing all conversation, only looking at you, waiting for your reaction. But you’re not too big on words right now; your tongue is dry.
Longs for him.
So you only whisper now, bringing this era of endless teasing, safe distance and pure, innocent, silent craving to an end.
“I think I do.”
That’s more than enough.
Because a moment later, he’s kissing you.
You’ve kissed him a hundred times by now; your lips know it, and your body too, even when your mind doesn’t. But this time feels different. He is closer, holds you tighter, like he’s reaching for you from a distance.
And when the kiss deepens, he is more out of breath. Explores your lips with his, moving slowly, his mouth warm and sweet. His hand slithers to your sides, under your shirt, and at least some of his restraint wavers when he shifts fully to climb over you.
He holds your leg against his hip; you already had it wrapped around him, whenever that actually happened. And as he does, you feel the growing bulge poking your stomach, firmer when you kiss him like you’re glued to his lips.
And then… a subtle touch of the tongue.
Just the tip, just for a nanosecond before he backs away again, looks at you with misty eyes. Gauges your reaction. And then gives in when you sigh in want, diving back to seek the tongue. You play around, taste it like you’re starving, and he’s faring no better.
Not at all. In fact, the erection only hardens further, and you lift your ass, estimating what you’re getting in a bit. Not that you’re entirely unaware, though because…
Fuck, he’s hard. You arch your back until you press into him, call his name when he moves to your bare neck.
You hold onto his shirt as he licks a stripe along your skin, paving a way up to your jaw and then back further down to your clavicles. Your shirt is already oversized, but it’s stuck to you right now. It only moderately helps when he pushes the neck of it down; his kisses to the mounds of your tits suddenly chaste.
It’s when you whimper that he appears in sight again, all messy hair. You think he would’ve asked eventually; and when he does now, your heart soars, “Do you… want this?”
You flash a weak smile, too enraptured to properly react. “What do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I need you to say it.”
His voice is so soft; like a pile of cotton. You grab him by the collar, lifting your too-tight shirt until your tits jump out. His eyes widen for a second; you watch, bigger than ever. He has seen you like this before, even if just for moments… but it never not amazes him. Men.
Cursing under his breath, his hand grazes up and down your sides slowly. You break his string of thoughts — if there are any — as you admit, “I want you.”
“To… do what? Hm?”
“You know it.”
“Say it, bug, fuck,” he urges with a greed in his voice, humping into you. You breathe in.
“I want you to strip me bare.”
His tongue darts out, licks his lower lip and then yours. He shakes his head, waits, and when nothing follows, he laughs, “That’s it?”
“No. Of course not.” You swallow to wet your throat, even if just a bit. He could help. You’d get to your knees and keep going for him to help the dryness in there, you swear… “I want you to kiss me everywhere, too. And I want to suck your dick.”
The last one is impulsive, not very thought out. But it helps. It affects him. He draws a breath so sharp that it nearly reminds you of a whistle.
His head is visibly spinning, but he focuses, “Everywhere? May I?”
“Fuck, don’t ask. I… I want you to fuck me dumb, okay?” You mewl quietly when he lightly bites into your perked nipple. Those damn nerves; he’s making you say all this, “Pound me stupid. Right the fuck now.”
“Oh, get all bossy on me.”
“No. You.”
“Yes? I’d say you seem impatient, but… you took your sweet time telling me all that. Your kinks.”
You laugh; you really didn’t. You couldn’t have formed a thought faster. You’re already a mental mess… does he know that you’ve never been this empty-headed before in your life?
“Isn’t it obvious that I want you?” you ask.
“I don’t care. I need permission.”
Shit, you might dissolve.
“Take me then,” you order through gritted teeth — or beg, you don’t know, “I’ve been waiting for this.”
“…Ah, now that is… Since when?”
“Since… the movies.”
Too quick of an answer. He knows, too, judging the smug chuckle.
“Right, right… there was a reason for you to list all your fetishes,” Jungkook remarks, lips above your ribs.
“Great observation but… you don’t even know half of them, baby.”
“Fuck, you’re killing me. This damn near killed me. What is this?” He’s talking about or to your shirt, upset at it, and the interaction makes you laugh. His expression is hilariously irked when he pulls it over your head, only relaxing when he buries his face in your tits. Hums. “Mmmh, I want you naked. My God, you’re drop dead gorgeous.”
“You—you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you tits out before, Jungkook.”
“I’ve seen you, too,” he jokes, a slap to your chest, “just haven’t gotten this far yet.”
He means gone, not gotten, you’re sure.
He’s right, as he proceeds, he’s still as little innocent as you are. While you wished to get to know each other better before giving in completely, his lips still sometimes found their way between your chest, his fingers up your thighs… this isn’t new. But it just… truly never went far.
Because Jungkook is a fucking tease. Would stop before you’d unfold, so you’d stroke his dick over his pants before he could explode. He’d kiss you, light up your nerves, but then suggest getting dinner just when his fingertips slid under your panties. That’s it.
This is much more. Much, much more.
He kisses you one more time before he moves down your body, licking stripes along your skin and leaving behind gentle, temporary bite marks. Your shorts are easy to get rid of, so if he teases you now, you’ll flip.
But Jungkook being Jungkook, of course does; tells you, “Let’s see what you’ve got there for me.”
He raises your leg once more, further kisses to your inner thigh, inching in until he reaches your pleading core and pulls down your panties, too. The repetitive innocent touches of his lips to your heat rile you up.
“Look at this,” he says, well aware that you can’t, “you’re already a waterfall. What if I did nothing at all? You look so… ready.”
“Yeah? Then come up and do your thing.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, and assures, “Is this reverse psychology?”
You want to answer, shrug your shoulders, throw out a provocative, bratty response or two — but a moment later, he’s attached his lips to your pussy.
And he does it so well from the very first moment on. Kisses your nether lips the same way he made out with you before, crude, wet sounds erupting as he moans into you.
You reckon this is all much more tender than he will be in a while; because while the tongue that he adds a second later is pleasant, you see the flames in his eyes when he looks up. You throw a glance down at just the right moment.
See him staring up, beastly pupils, almost rude the way they affect you along with the figure eights down below. If he continues just a bit longer, the saliva, combined with the juices he’s lapping up, will dirty the sheets and his clothes.
But you don’t think he gives a rat’s ass about the bed at this point. He’s moving into it, seeking friction, all while concentrating on nothing but your taste and your touch and your smoldering body.
You call out a desperate, “Jungkook,” when he wraps his soft, velvety lips around your clit, softly sucking, never painful. He’s not oblivious like that, you think. He’s paying attention.
Whenever he grunts and groans, the sounds echo through you; the vibration only adds to your pleasure; you cannot complain. Or maybe, maybe you can…
Because as he shifts, his clothed shoulder brushing along your inner thigh, you flinch at the scraping of the unpleasant fabric.
Why is he even still wearing clothes? Goddamn inequality.
You tell him, “Take off your clothes.”
“Huh?”
“This,” you tug at the shirt, trying to pull it off of him, “off.”
He stares for a second. The info must not register in his brain, because his eyes are lost, processing it. And when he does, he says, “Is only fair. ‘Kay.” He flicks the bean, hilariously dramatic as he says, “Be right back, lovelies.”
Moving back, he comes to a stand at the edge of the bed, his lips glossy from your essence; you do wonder whether he’ll keep the promise to be back. From what you can deduce, he will make you beg today.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, gathering the fabric slowly, almost absentmindedly; he cannot stop staring at you, up and down, taking you in. The cotton bunches in his hands before he lifts it over his head in one smooth motion, hair falling back into place as the shirt drops to the floor.
Then, his fingers move to his joggers. He loosens the straps, slides them down along with his boxers, and sets his limbs free; hurls the clothes onto the lonely shirt until an unceremonious pile remains on the floor.
He doesn’t rush it, of course. He moves like someone who’s adjusting to a sight, getting comfortable, familiar. Despite having feasted on you already, he’s still not used to you. You feel proud.
You melt under the half-smile, the kind that knows you’re carefully watching. He doesn’t mind at all; he wants you to. And you so are.
You’re taking in each detail. The ripple of his abs, the firm chest. The perked nipples and bulging bicep. And the smooth pelvis, leading down to an impossibly stiff, growing, huge dick.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter, and he rubs his neck; less out of humility, but more to say, “Well, yeah.”
Maybe he expected you to react the way you do. The open mouth and the surprise in your eyes; the hunger and the urge to jump his bones. But you bet he doesn’t expect you to get up to your knees, watching you near his awaiting body.
In truth, he’s already readying himself to fall back onto the bed, continue where he left off; but you’re faster. Sitting up straight, you reach for his cock, eliciting a gasp of surprise when you start moving your hand up and down.
“Now that is…” he starts, clicks his tongue. He caresses your hair, pushes it behind your ear. And when your thumb circles around his slit, he puffs out a breath and says, “I think I’m okay with this.”
“Okay, huh?”
“More than okay. Do your thing, my girl.”
You break out into a grin. If this is what a life with him is going to be like, you’re certainly prepared for it. Love is only half as scary when someone offers a sense of safety.
Funny how only a single endearment can do that, too.
You should let him know that you feel the same.
So your knees shift further, right to the edge of the bed, and as you bring your legs together to seek relief, you return the favour, too. Take him into your mouth keenly, leading him in as much as you can take.
The head lays on your tongue dripping, precum spilling as you repress your gag reflex. But you remain steadfast. Begin darting your head back and forth. You hollow your cheeks, suck at the tip, spitting and gathering more saliva until he’s drenched.
Your tongue comes into play not long after; it swirls around the skin, draws circles the way he did. You attempt your best to get enough air in, sure that you won’t stop until he tells you to. You keep going as long as his cock twitches inside, throbbing, so hard that you suspect he’s already close.
His hands settle on your head, leading you in and out. He’s not forcing you, not fucking your throat, though part of you wishes he did. But he’s careful so far, loving; the real danger might come later.
For now, he lets you suck, kiss, lick and hum.
That is, up until the warning a minute later.
Out of his mind, he leads you back, and you let go with a plop, though reluctantly. His mind is whirring visibly, eyes blinking to refocus, and under his breath, he says, “Now some day… we need to do nothing but this all day.”
“Gladly,” you tell him, purposely collecting the spit under your lips, wiping it off with a thumb. He hisses, shakes his head.
“Seriously. I’ll have my cock buried in your throat until you’re hoarse…”
Well, shit.
“But today, I just…” He sneaks a look around the room. Initially, you don’t entirely understand, about to ask what he’s looking for, but then he asks, “My jacket is on the couch, I think.”
“Why?”
“Condoms.”
“Oh…”
Right. Right, maybe he’s not wrong. You are on the pill, but it might just be a reasonable idea to use protection for the first time.
“Hurry then,” you tell him, and he does.
It’s comical, in fact, the way he rushes out of the room; you hear the rustle of clothes from afar, and a couple seconds later, he’s back again, three condoms in his hands. You scoff.
“What?” he wonders. “I’m all for a good time. Might it last as long as possible.”
“I can’t believe you have condoms here at all.”
“It’s you, sweetheart. I’ve been carrying them around.” He shrugs a shoulder, his breath a whistle as he rips the package, rolling it rubber over his tall length. “Why? You gonna complain?”
“Me? No way. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good,” he mutters as he flings himself back into bed, forcing you to the back of the bed and mounting you until you find yourself under him.
His kiss is even filthier now, a taste so foreign yet your own. He is hot and keen above you, heavy as his quivering limbs struggle to keep him afloat. Your unclad, restless body is giving him a hard time, literally, but he’s mastering the challenge like a champ.
The doe eyes are long gone, profound hunger prominent in his predator gaze; you see the longing already, but you welcome it when he says between kisses, “If it was up to me… I’d ruin you right now.”
A shiver runs down your spine.
“What? Why do I sense a but coming?”
“Because you’re the priority. I want you to enjoy it and not just nut in a minute.”
“Fuck, will that happen?”
He tilts his head, a click of the tongue you want back on your skin. “I will try my best not to. But you are… so fucking sexy.”
“I have… your dick poking my stomach and it… it feels huge. And your muscles are pretty much caging in my face, Jungkook,” you say, a breathy explosion of your thoughts, “and those tits. Why are they bigger than mine?”
He laughs. “You were saying…?”
Right. You had a point to bring across. “Let’s not talk about me being sexy when you look like… this.”
“I look like what? Like myself? You enjoy that?”
“Anyone with fucking eyes enjoys looking at you. You’re so—”
“No,” he interrupts, a shake of his head; his hair is falling onto your neck, tickling you, “no, you are. So gorgeous. So hot, no matter how you look and what you wear.”
“And you still waited to do this.”
“Took more patience than I’ve ever needed in my life.”
You scoff, “You ass. Why did I have to suffer, just ‘cause you’re a tease? I’ll sing a song about how wrong you have done me.”
Another chuckle breaks out of him, but it’s curt, cut short by his teeth scraping over his lower lip. His eyes flit up and down, his mind buzzing at the feeling of your breasts, and he asks with insufficient brainpower, “No song… do you want me to shut you up already?”
“…You’re an idiot. Don’t do this to me.”
“Wouldn’t have yet anyway.” The yet drives you crazy. “Besides, I want to do so many other things to you.”
“Good. Good…”
“So what about the toe pics?”
Goddammit. This clown—
You want him to fuck you so bad. This is terrible; the waiting, the jerking of his cock, the way he sometimes shifts to hump into you, balls covering your pussy. Your legs are getting weaker as they wrap around him, your body inching towards his.
He’s so cruel.
You tell him, “Those, you can sell.”
“God, you’re hot.”
You don’t know if he’s even still hearing you; perhaps your humour is amusing, arousing him. You wonder if you could continue for long enough to make him come with words and provocations alone. Or maybe, he’ll do it himself.
Because his cock moves down to your pussy, the head stimulating your clit as he holds his weight above you. You grip his shoulders for support, trying not to crumble from this alone — this is the first time after all. Every touch feels dramatic to you.
“Any last words?” he inquires.
“Many.”
“Yeah? Then I must be doing something wrong.”
Your voice, all strident and worn, rises in volume as you complain, “You’re not doing anything, that’s the problem!”
“Okay. One last question and I’ll give you what you want.”
“What.”
“Since the movies, huh? What’s a few more seconds?” He snickers when you breathe an, “I hate you,” following up with a, “So how did you feel back then?”
God, he’s a monster. A sadist. You answer, “Horny. Like now.”
Unmistakable smirk; he’s enjoying this thoroughly. Who would’ve thought that a cool-headed, gentle man like him could turn out so… dominant? Not that you’d dare to complain about it. You feel that if you did, he’d wreck your shit harder.
“Give me specifics,” he demands, and you groan in mild annoyance. Reach down to his cock, leading it to your pussy, but he, while gasping in surprise, pulls back. “Stop. Keep it short, though. I’m at my wit’s end, too.”
“Mmmh… how do I talk… if you keep playing with my cunt like it’s a bell?”
The laugh is sudden, broken by pants as he keeps himself together, but he doesn’t hesitate to emphasise his demand when he moves, his hand leading the head of his dick to your pussy before pulling back again.
“Jungkook—” you call.
“Talk, or this is all you’re getting.”
“Fuck you! Fuck me,” you say, pausing when he kisses you with passion, tongueing before he stops to wait, “Okay. Okay… you know how there are scenes in movies where people meet at the bar?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And… and they flirt with cringey dialogue. And they drink and then there’s a sudden cut to them making out at the literal door and then they’re suddenly in bed, bird’s view of the bed shaking, them fu—”
All the air escapes your lungs before you can finish your nonsensical thought. You don’t know where you were going with it and you won’t find out either.
Because mid-speech, he splits your pussy without a warning, without a word. He pushes in further, and you assume he’s bottomed out, so many curses on your tongue that you cannot let out.
Your mouth is open, and you’re gasping, your breath catching. You only realise that you’ve thrown your head back when you relax it again, meeting the sight of stiff jaw muscles and fires in his eyes.
Bit by bit, he slides in more, and while you appreciate the caution, you feel ready enough to take him in one fell swoop.
You grit your teeth, your cheeks burning, and you inaudibly state, “You— you’re out of your fucking mind. You’ll get that back.”
“That I wanna see. Need to fight me for it,” he says, halting his ministrations to ask, “You good?”
“Not good enough. You make me wait so much, and then dismantle me just like that… I— fuck, Jeon Jungkook.”
“This is such a beautiful sound… say it again,” he orders, kissing your jaw.
“I hate you, Jeon Jungkook.”
His tongue peeks out of the corner of his lips, an entertained undertone in his voice, “That’s good enough. I promise I’ll make it good again.”
“How?”
“I’ll get you amazing croissants from my favourite bakery.”
You are with a manchild. An endearing, adorable, though beastly one, but a manchild either way. Hard to believe that this is the same guy who dives into philosophical conversations and doesn’t surface for a long time.
“Seriously?” you ask.
“Fun fact. It’s close to your work.”
“…This is it?”
He actually manages a dumbfounded, clueless expression, a top tier actor when he wonders, “You want more?”
“To make things good again? You could fuck me… like actually.”
“Are you complaining, you brat?”
His right veiny hand bolts to your face, fingers digging into your cheeks as he moves your head left and right. A warning reverberates in his words that turns you into a titillated puddle. First and only time in your life that you’re ready to serve as somebody’s slave.
So you risk it, “What if I am?”
“Fuck around, find out.”
Great decision after all. Because he finally pulls out until only the tip remains inside and then dashes back in. Once or twice, kissing you as slowly as he’s fucking you. You sigh, moan, troubled because of the pace until you declare, “Fuck it. I will ride you.”
“But I want to look at you…”
“Get off of me,” you order, and you know he has half a thought to not listen; but you’re charming him.
So he laughs, obliges, leaning back until you’re pushing him onto his back. You keep him there, an admonition in your eyes, but he’s already too busy ogling you. And as he does, a quick idea forms in your mind — turning around, you execute it immediately.
Much to his disdain.
You hear him say, “Thought you were going to ride me?”
“Just you wait.”
You straddle his legs, allowing a full view. You grant his eyes to drift over your ass, satisfied when he grabs a handful, presses in, leading you to his cock. Looking between your legs, you see him grabbing the length pinned to his stomach, and slowly shift back to align with it.
He must be loving the sight. The sounds are telling, heavy, guttural when you sink down on him, not stopping until he’s buried head to hilt. And you make sure to go slowly at first, so he can wallow in the slickness that your pussy covers his member in.
And how you’re wrapped around him, your ass constantly meeting his pelvis, hips circling. Your eyes roll back into your skull each time you take him all in, and your head falls back whenever his hand touches up and down your body, soft on your back and then aggressive on your ass.
“Fuck, I am losing it, bug,” you hear, a brief, smug smile gracing your face before your mouth parts again.
You’re satisfied. He isn’t just yet.
Because no matter how infinite his prior teasing seemed, he doesn’t seem too eager to let you do the same to him. Because as you fuck him on, he soon gets sick of your hidden face, pushing himself off the mattress until his chest is glued to your back.
A hand suddenly wraps around your neck, not too harsh but certainly unexpected. His teeth start nibbling at your ear, and he repositions only slightly until he can thrust into you from below.
You reckon it’s not easy; he’s out of breath. But he still does it with such vigour, determination and strength that you barely notice how tiring it must be for him.
The hand on your neck turns your head until your lips meet, and he kisses you hard, the tongue impatient. A hand grabs your tits and kneads them, keeping your torso in place before he removes his arms entirely.
Not to torment you this time; but to push your body forward. You fall onto all fours, detaching from him; but he’s quick as his knees hit the mattress, nearing your weak legs before he pushes them together.
Strong fingers dig into your ass, and you yelp; louder when he rams himself in, an effortless motion. He doesn’t wait to pound into you this time. He’s unmasking himself, letting restraint go. Holds onto your hips, keeps you in place — but it doesn’t work all the time.
You bolt forward on the bed, your mind boggled as he switches up the pace. Fast first, then slower; tiny pauses follow before he starts wreaking havoc again.
His lips move along your back until he can barely hold the weight anymore. Your knees shake, equally feeble, and when you fall onto the sheets with him in tow, he uses the new position to try something new.
Something dizzying again. Grabs your wrists, relocates them above your head. He’s both relentless and sweet somehow — his kisses are worlds apart from how he’s tearing you open. You can’t help but laugh; the satisfied, blissful kind.
You gasp, tell him, “Holy sh-shit… you’re… not as sweet as I thought.”
His laugh is breathy and broken, and he kisses your temple before he asks, “Am I not? Damn…”
“Not just a nerd… but merciless, too.”
“Only… only with you. You make me spiral.”
He brings your wrists together, locking them in one of his large hands and sneaks the other between you and the mattress. It takes a moment to seek out what he’s longing for, but when he finds your clit and starts fumbling with it, you turn wild.
“Oh my God—”
“He can’t help you now either.” His thrusts are slower now, calculated. “So just let go, yes?”
Your legs are shaking, angling as his cock penetrates you deeper, hitting just the right spot. Jungkook understands that stimulation isn’t merely about pace but about deliberate jolts, too. He proves it immediately.
With how attentively he listens to you, panting, fingers keeping a rhythm.
In that sense, you’re not surprised when your walls start narrowing, rogue waves approaching until they hit the shore and you drown. He keeps the pace as you ride out the high, positively delighted as you hear him chuckle.
You can’t speak properly, your voice hoarse as you ask, “What?”
“I just. I wish I could do this all the time.”
This is really it — you can’t talk right now. Your body is loud enough; you can’t yell over it because you won’t even be able to hear yourself. So you just listen.
To his huffs when he lets go of your hands, waiting for a bit longer before he resumes fucking you again. You whimper, slightly overstimulated already, call his name — and he uses the moment to fulfill a fantasy you’re sure he’s held veiled for a while.
Because he slaps a hand over your mouth, jokes, “There we go.”
You scoff under the palm, but it sounds more like a pathetic wheeze.
Another strange sound follows when Jungkook decides that he has crushed you for long enough, wrapping an arm around your tits as leverage. Then, he moves the two of you to your sides, your ass pressed to his tummy.
He raises your left leg and drapes it around his own, spreading you wide to pump into you diligently. You wish you had a mirror standing in front of this side of the bed; you’d be able to watch the thick, creamed length pushing in and pulling out.
Would see his eyes, all foggy and fucked out, mouth open against your ear, staggered breathing into it. Or how he pinches your nipples, how you bring your arm back to his head, feeling for his lips.
The kiss is sloppy and sinful, and you groan into it when he slows down to drive the entirety of his cock into you. How can he reach so deep?
You shut your eyes tight, let your head fall to bury your mouth in his arm.
And then, amidst the insatiable gluttony, he says, “I think I’m… about to come, too, but I… I want more.”
More? Holy crap.
“Are you… kidding?” you clap back. “Your stamina is…”
He snickers, answers, “Well, thank fuck. Never doubted I’d fuck you well, though. Know why?”
“Huh?”
“Because it’s you. No other way… to react to you. Like, shit, I… thought about this. A lot—”
“...Insane. Insane.”
Nobody can blame you for losing your train of thoughts. This is all you can really mutter right now; certainly not a single coherent chain of sentences. He’ll have to do with this, and you’ll gladly listen.
Like when he confesses, “No, I would. All the things I’d do to you… for you. The way I’d touch you. Gotta have the entire building hear you.”
For you.
Another shiver along your spine, ironically co-existing with your boiling blood. The influx of emotions seems misplaced at first; feelings and physical symptoms mix, but you’re not the least surprised by any of it.
The rush of affection and adrenaline is just right. Because.
“Fuck, you have a hold on me,” he tells you, pecks all over your neck, “you are so fucking sexy.”
Yes… because he makes you feel that way.
“Still just so—” he starts, pulling you in tighter until it feels more like an embrace than anything. You turn to look at him. He’s sweat-soaked and warm, orbiting around you. “Still surprised I didn’t come the second you touched me.”
“How are you still…”
“I’m trying so hard to hold on.”
“Jungkook…”
You call his name so sweetly that you damage half his brain. Your eyes are looking up into his, your voice quiet and pure, no matter the circumstances. His answer is just as delicate as his fingers raise your chin, “Yes, baby.”
The rush of affection and adrenaline is just right, because—
“…I love you.”
And the movements stop entirely.
You wonder whether you’ve said something wrong, but his gaze suggests otherwise. The sentiment is too fiery and present to mean anything but reciprocated adoration. You know it the moment you say it.
And he proves it when he shakes his head and declares, “No… this won’t do. I need to see you.”
He is… but you know exactly what he’s talking about.
So you know to turn around before he can pin you to the bed, and once he’s back to the initial position and glancing deep into your heart’s core, you see each of his defences down. Not that he has that many when it comes to you.
But right now, he looks as vulnerable as someone ever could.
If possible, he’s harder now, fully immersed; you don’t assume it’ll take much longer. Because his balls are already firm when you reach for them, fondle them. And when you tug him in to kiss him, he lets out a sound that’s new to you.
A weak mewl, a moan that’s somehow both lewd and sweet. He submerges his face in your neck, arms wrapping around your body again. And as he sinks back in, filling your every inch for the last time tonight, he whispers—
“I love you, too. So much.”
He doesn’t stop now; keeps the speed. Not too fast, not too ruthless. The kisses to your shoulder and your face are constant as he compliments between each one, “You are beautiful. And an insane human being. In the best fucking way.”
“Kookie…”
“No,” he disputes, not sure what; he’s a goner, much like you, “I’m yours. I want to be.”
“You are.”
“Fuck, I’m… I can’t.”
His voice is strained, his hips stutter. He can’t hold himself back, is what he means. Your pussy aches, but you don’t care. You’d watch him chase reprieve all day if you could.
“It’s okay,” you assure, and that suffices for him.
He jerks, all jittery, and then lets go. You wish you could feel him filling you up. Could actually keep him inside, hot and abundant, let him watch as the liquid streams out of you. Fuck, fuck…
The way he’s looking at you. The thick, furrowed eyebrows and the gap between his lips. The shiny skin and skilled hands on your face. Fingers brushing back your damp hair before his face falls back into your neck.
Despite all the mess, you feel at peace. The control and harmony between him and you is indescribable, somewhat beyond belief.
And when he’s done, he emerges, a tender smile enlarging your heart as he says, “I didn’t expect that.”
“…That we’d fuck?”
“No. You saw me come in prepared,” he says, and you laugh, “no. That you’d tell me you love me.”
“Well… I do, handsome.” Cloud seven carries you to Heaven when he brings your knuckles to his lips, kisses one by one. You add, “Why did you not expect it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to make assumptions.”
“Do you never feel that I do?”
“Now that you say it… the permanent banter should’ve revealed as much.”
“Exactly.”
You titter, pause, take a moment to look at him; nothing else. But then curiosity gets the better of you and you ask, “What about you? Did you expect yourself to say it?”
“Expect it? I don’t need to expect anything I know to be true.”
“Right… Right. You’ll be the end of me.”
He shrugs a shoulder, still melting into you, hesitant to move at all. Tells you, “You’re stuck with me. So I better be the end.”
“I want you to be.”
“Good… me too, love.”
You lie there in the dimming light, quiet settling around you like a blanket. His length softens inside you, and given the condom, he should probably let go soon — but he only does once his breathing slows enough.
As he sits up, leaving you cold and open and finally discarding the full condom, he murmurs, “What now?”
You hum. “Shower?”
“Would it be evil of me to suggest we go another round?”
You can’t suppress the laugh. “Yes. I am sore as hell because of you.”
“Okay, okay… I’ll let it slide this time. Not that I can’t get it any other time I want to.”
“Not wrong.”
“What do you think of… the bakery?”
“We could just stay here, too,” you say, brushing your foot against his. “Put something on. Wait till we get hungry.”
He cracks his neck; smiles at the ceiling. “I’ll get hungry in no time, gorgeous, believe me.”
You inhale all the air in the room. Shit.
“You dirty talk now,” you jest, “but you’d fall asleep half an hour into a movie.”
“Shut up.”
You sift through options with the lazy comfort of people who feel no smidge of stress, no rush, exchanging small glances and laughter and half-baked suggestions until he finally pats your thigh and says, “Okay. Shower first.”
“And then bakery,” you add.
“And dinner after.”
“Look at us,” you tease, “functioning adults.”
“Barely. Not after today. Maybe half-functioning adults who love each other.”
You rise with a wide, goofy, school girl smile; still warm from each other, still soft around the edges. He half carries you to the bathroom, stealing kisses on the short journey to the shower. It occurs to you that sometimes, things can truly feel within one’s control.
And for years, they will; until they won’t.
Because it takes a while for them to spiral out of control.
The utopia you built, the clouds you made your mattress — all of it would crack and dissipate soon. Every inch of your soul encased this relationship, him and you, but the second the rosy, bubbly opening act closed, you found yourself in a nightmare.
Your apartment has changed. It’s still the same, except that months must have passed, because you remember that it looked different when you were a sophomore. At this point, you’re already a senior.
Jungkook has moved in with you. Once months passed, he found a safe home on the bed next to you, sharing positively everything he could with you. His time, his thoughts, the space. He’s done some cosy things with your place; you like the scent of his cooking, the diffuser and the quiet clicking noise of his controller when he games before sleep.
But as the state of the apartment improves, the two of you wither.
Girls’ night today.
Either the mirror is particularly flattering to you tonight or you have actually managed to doll yourself up in time, with a result you are one hundred percent satisfied with. You twirl once, flattening the dress just in case, wide awake and prepared for long-lasting hours.
Jungkook is texting a friend he’s known for a bit. Met him at some work-related dinner party a few months back, and they clicked at least enough to spend nights Overwatch-ing in front of the monitor. They aren’t in touch too much, but they find company in each other when you do your own stuff.
Tapping the screen, he looks up briefly when you announce, “I’ll be going then.”
You round the couch to where he lays cross-legged, pinning your bag back to your hips as you lean down and peck his lips. Big, round eyes stare up at you, peeking through his permed bangs, and he asks, “When are you coming back?”
“Hmm… I can’t say yet. But you don’t need to stay up.”
“I’ll worry, though.”
“Oh, it’s okay. We usually carpool.”
He waits, hesitates. “Shall I pick you up somewhere?”
In the beginning, you thought of his worries as sweet and his offers as disarmingly chivalrous. And any other day, you’d say yes, too — but over time, you have learned that Jungkook is overly paranoid. Sometimes, his concerns concern you in return, which saps some of the fun out of the night.
He has picked you up many times before; but today, you tell him, “It’s okay. Really, you can go to sleep.”
“Let me wait for the cab downstairs at least. I can’t sleep otherwise, and it brings me a sense of relief, too.”
Okay…
You know that he cares — if you rejected each of his offers, he’d only grow agitated, nervous. So you lift the left arm a little, then let it fall again, shrugging before you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay.” Good — it brings a tender, small smile to his face. “See you, babe.”
And that’s where this is supposed to end.
You’re supposed to return drunk and joke around with him in the bathtub. You should be dropping the latest tea and watch his eyes expand, no matter how often he claims to be unaffected by drama.
And then, you’re supposed to fall into a slumber, sleep like a rock and wake up to another tender Sunday morning. Bright and new and hopeful.
But the night plays out differently.
Somewhere inside, you know you’re not truly here, that this is only a replay of a done deed. The dream becomes more defined, the more you think about it, but you still cannot reshoot this very scene as they do in movies — and yet, you hope for a different outcome.
Jungkook picks you up the way he promised. Lets you wrap your arm around his neck, your body light, pushing into his. You’re tipsy, foggy-brained, enthusiastic as he closes the apartment door and stalely asks, “How was it?”
You don’t notice the tone at first; the dopamine blends out the grey tints of the world for now and focuses on the fairy lights in your living room. He hung them up there… you love them so much, you really do.
Just a little less than you love him; but he, in return, does not seem amused. It’s not his voice that betrays him, but rather the humourless, solemn expression he sports. His lips form a thin line and his eyes are glazed, crestfallen.
But you simper, try to lighten the mood. Maybe he’s just tired.
“It was great. Sooo fun,” you let him know, fingers in his hair, “a lot of stuff I need to tell you.”
“Tomorrow. Get some sleep now.”
“But… it’s extremely interesting.”
But he only repeats, “Tomorrow.”
You scowl. You leave his hair be, separating from him in wordless embarrassment and beeline to the bathroom. A hand on your hoop earring, you swallow, throwing a look back to where he slumps onto the couch.
“Why aren’t you going to bed? I’m here now,” you argue, laughing a little.
“Wanna make sure you’re okay.”
You wait. Nothing more comes; his attitude doesn’t change. So you follow up with, “…Okay. What did you do tonight?”
“Nothing. Gamed a bit. What else can I do, really?”
Your frown deepens, forehead muscles stiff. The tension sobers you up; you halt mid-motion. Turning around entirely, you lean against the living room doorframe and spit, “Okay, uh. Is everything okay?”
His answers are clipped.
“Yeah.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
There’s a curt pause, words hanging in the air, and you see the gears in his head turn, an explanation slowly being sculpted. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this upset before — the lonely, overthinking type, not quite the raging one.
His voice turns significantly softer, but there is no use in tempering the unease anymore — his declaration easily evokes new guilt anyway.
“You didn’t message me once.”
You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. In truth, you’re not even sure he said what he said, or why what he said might be… bad at all. Are you stupid or drunk… or both? You can’t make heads or tails of this.
Your unfiltered brain nearly blurts a gutsy, “And?” But you decide to draw from your empathic yet rational vein, as cautious as he is. You admit, “I didn’t realise I needed to.”
“No, just… a Hi or How are you or I miss you. Just anything, I guess.”
Fuck… what?
You’ve seen such skits on social media. Discussions on relationship issues, insecurities that tug one farther from goals and the ease that should be present between couples. This is not a particularly healthy sign.
“I was with my friends, Kook,” you try to pacify, “we don’t use our phones at the table. It was a girls’ night.”
“I text you when I go out.”
…What? When?
“You don’t go out often.” It is in no shape or form meant to be an attack. It’s true; Jungkook enjoys a change of scenery from the apartment, just not necessarily with people around. He’s a gym rat, a homebody. An introvert. “And also, it’d be okay if you didn’t text me, because I want you to enjoy yourself. Baby…”
You push yourself off the wall, your feet too light and unsteady, but you manage to get where he sits. With a playful groan, you make yourself comfortable on his lap, and though slightly reluctant, he lets you anyway. Looks up at you with an ache you cannot comprehend.
How come that he’s saying this now? You’ve been together for two and a half years.
Or has he gotten truly comfortable just now? Were the two of you too in love, too tactful about everything because it was all so… new?
Has the falling stopped for him? Where does he really stand right now?
“What’s wrong, Jungkook?” you wonder, a hand on your boyfriend’s cheek. The skin still feels the same, but the person doesn’t. All these years — this is a first. “I didn’t realise this could become a reason to fight.”
He quickly defends, “I’m not fighting.”
“But you’re disappointed.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what I am.”
You want to say childish. But you’re trying to be patient with him, to understand him. If you snap, he’ll snap, and what good does that do?
“Okay, then let’s talk about it. I am sorry that you feel the way you feel.”
You hiccup for a second, closing your eyes and opening them again right away. You clear your head; looking at him, it doesn’t take much to do so. He woke you. There’s no possibility for sleep just yet.
He shakes his head. “But you’re drunk.”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry I came in like this, but… I want to talk about this.”
His eyes pause on you. You’re pouting a little, earnest and concerned, in a determined fight to win him back for the night. The guilt backfires as he tells you, “Don’t apologise.”
“What can I do then? What’s up?” You exhale, wipe back the left side of his bangs. His dark, sparkless pupils are still innocent, pure, but riddled with something that’s much bigger than you. “Baby. I don’t know you like this.”
“…How do you know me then?”
His words are a whisper; still not a strike, still not aggressive. Just… quietly disheartened. You put your hands on his shoulder, slowly rubbing as you count, “You are happy. Witty. Kind. These things never bother you.”
A shoulder shrugs under your touch.
“Maybe they do bother me and I just never had the chance or the courage to express it.”
Wow… this is… a statement.
“A chance?”
…What does a chance mean? Were you hindering him? Or was he holding back for your sake? This is not how love is supposed to grow.
You lean back a little, muttering, confused, “So… I should worry about your feelings like this each time I go out?”
Perhaps it’s clicking now. Perhaps he’s understanding the underlying ridiculous nature of his words, because he clicks his tongue, softly shoving you off his lap, and says, “No… No, forget it.”
You stand in front of him like some immobile stick figure, staring down as he manspreads on the couch, face in his hands. This is insane. Not a reason to argue in a million years. Is this what your friends mean when they mention a boyfriend’s permission or his doubts?
But Jungkook isn’t like that.
After a minute, just as the discouragement increases, you chew on your lower lip, balancing on one leg and then declare, “I’ll go shower.”
He doesn’t hold you back when you stomp away, and you don’t look back. The water is hot, inflames your soul and frees your brain. You rethink the conversation, shake your head at the bits you never hoped for in a relationship.
God. Communication is supposed to nurture a relationship, not… insecurities.
But as you finish with an ice-cold switch, cooling down each nerve, new motivation washes over you. This is stupid with two O’s, and you cannot conclude the night like this.
You dry yourself up. Walk out with words on your tongue that might mend this. When you come back, he is still sitting where you left him minutes ago, but he’s glued to the back of the couch, slouching. Palms on his eyebrows, rubbing.
He hears you when you return and shoots to his feet like a bullet. The rapid motion makes you flinch and softens him; for a moment, you think he’ll freeze at the spot and then dash past you and to bed.
But he opens his arms. Closes the distance to you, wraps you in. Your hair is damp, free from hair spray and dirt, wetting his shirt as he nuzzles you into him. The words stuck in your throat scatter until you forget about them, and instead, he speaks—
“I am sorry. I…”
His chest vibrates, and so does your brain. You are sleepy all of a sudden, eased by the reappearance of the man you actually know. You close your eyes and listen on.
“I think I am not used to having somebody around, and maybe I’ve become too attached to you. I… I didn’t consider myself the dependent boyfriend, but… maybe I am and maybe I need to work on it.”
You breathe in. More regret settles in. Confusion, too.
Work on it…
So the reason he flipped wasn’t because of the usual toxicity you have heard about, was it? Not the type that demands permission from him or requires a status update every other minute. He doesn’t want to lock you in, but rather let himself out.
It is him, not you.
Or maybe you are telling yourself all that because your love reaches an abyssal depth. Maybe it’s becoming just as dark, too.
No… probably not.
You aren’t blind to his issues; you love him, but you won’t lie. So you admit, “If you truly are dependent then… you should work on it, Kook. I’ll be here.”
“Me too. I’m here for you, too. I am so sorry.” His breath trembles, uneven. He’s suppressing tears. “I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”
“It’s okay, Kookie. I promise I am here.”
He is sorry; as the memory begins to depart, you feel that he is sorry.
Not every apology undoes a mistake, but you know he means it. Jungkook has never been in an actual relationship before. Situationships hurt and casual friendships that could’ve turned into more never did, some reason or another.
You two seem to fit together, so it is easier to love and adore. Right? But… now you catch yourself wondering whether you being a match or not was, is, ever will be the issue between the two of you.
Because if you — truly you, not this unaware past self — dig deep enough, realise what followed after, you know. You know that you were just convincing yourself that his personal problems were solvable.
Which doesn’t mean he is wrong believing in redemption. But you should’ve walked away far earlier.
Because it happens again.
A plethora of mistakes that stem from deeply rooted insecurities do not just go away. Human beings are fragile; apologies sometimes only do so much before one returns to the old ways.
Jungkook loses half his mind whenever you walk out for the night, and then you fight about it. Of course your brain would choose these memories to search for that final moment.
It can’t even remember the previous one, but judging by these flashing pictures, you know your system is working at a high pace. Deleting the upcoming fights, the irritation he shows, the voices gaining on volume each time.
The self-pity, the guilt-tripping. You give in and apologise, and then he apologises, and from some point on, you fear going out without him at all.
The exasperation remains and heightens, and once your mind settles on the final proper fight, you start hearing some dialogue again. The fast-forwarding stops.
“You can’t make your doubts my problem for the rest of our lives,” you’re saying, “you need to change this or I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep living through this every time.”
By now you’ve learned that he doesn’t need to curb his temper, but rein in his abandonment issues. But he’s not able to — and you hate being blamed constantly.
“Then don’t live through it,” he fights, as loud as you — this is different from the tipsy, somewhat peaceful argument you had three months ago. He points to the door. “Just go then.”
The blood in your face boils, your jaw stiffening. You breathe out like a bull and then curse, “What the fuck, Jungkook? I’m not out fucking somebody, I’m with friends.”
“We can go out, too.”
“Are you fucking jealous of my girlfriends? We do stuff all the time!”
“Yeah, sure, say it like I’m forcing you.”
The gaslighting takes up a new level. You’re aware. You’re not a psychology student the way Jungkook wished to be half a dozen times, but you can read a situation.
You argue, “No, you’re not forcing me to go on dates. But to be somebody who I am not. To worry about things I never worried about. I can’t fucking do this.”
This is… the first time you have bared your thoughts like this. You are gentle, you swear you are; but there is this headspace you have found yourself trapped in lately. A limit you have reached. How long can you feign understanding until you run dry of it, too?
You guess you have struck a nerve.
Just the way your words surprised you — not that you thought them, but that you dared to verbalise them —, they prick him just the same. His stare falls to the ground, lips parted, button nose in the way.
You melt each time. This is the problem. You always surrender.
Your heart softens as you step in, bringing his hand into yours. Vexation still resonates in your voice but so does affection as you explain, “Look… I get what you have been through. You aren’t used to somebody sticking around, but— I promised I would.”
You swallow and lick your lip, weak by the lashes moving as he blinks. Fuck…
“Jungkook,” you call; he meets your eyes, “it’d be great if you trusted me.”
Silver lines your eyelids, and you sniffle, rapidly blink the tears away. He stares. A second and two, and after around half a minute, he mumbles, “I… I’m not doing this on purpose.”
“I know… I know. But it’s hurting me.”
You know Jungkook as somebody usually so bright. Intelligent and snappy, wit one of his main strengths. He likes to be philosophical. Whatever else you can still remember, you know his stance on good and bad people.
Perhaps this is what he implies whenever he assures that you, or he, are good because neither of you identify with the evil of the world. But… one doesn’t always discern the fine line.
You don’t know what you are, ultimately. You know what he isn’t.
You tell him, “You’re not a bad person, Jungkook. You need to work on yourself, on these issues, just… because. Baby, I am not your permanent anchor. I want to be here with and for you, but you need to be your own person, too.”
“I…”
“This here did change me. It isn’t me…” You grasp his hands tighter. “I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t want to lose myself either. Do you get what I mean?”
But Jungkook only catches one real statement, as if in trance and circling around the words he picks out, “I’m making you lose yourself.”
“Just… everything. Not just you.”
You don’t know what everything is. He is everything. But you don’t want to make matters worse. He still seems to understand.
Repeats, “I am sorry.”
You shake your head. “Look at me,” your hands float up to his face, lift it and hold it in place. “I love you. Please just trust me.”
His words are barely more than a whisper. Sweet and frail. “I trust you… I trust you.”
It sounds sincere. You want to believe it. You can’t force anything more out of him and can’t make yourself believe otherwise, so you choose to hold onto this. A million fights need to show any ounce of change… at some point.
Maybe this one will. You don’t know. But you do know.
You decide not to care; bask in the moment you won’t get back. Let the memory play as you find yourself back in the sheets with him, moaning I love yous and I am sorrys.
And as the room grows dimmer, he breathes the admissions back to you — but the distance is already established; and you should’ve known.
The further you progress, the less you know who Jeon Jungkook was as a person.
Well, rather…
You don’t lose sight of who he truly was, not in the sense that you forget about his existence just yet. But by now, you don’t know what he enjoys. Don’t know how you met. Don’t remember the dates you went on or what you mostly did when you spent weekends at the apartment.
You do know when you got together and when you felt the most in love with him, and you know how you broke up.
You think that most of what you know about him or experienced with him is already gone. You stop at the major memories and skip-remove the rest. There were probably a billion pictures you flipped through.
Three years, right? Three years is a long time.
Will it hurt your brain once you’re done?
You don’t know.
But what you are fully aware of is another pain, stacked behind your ribcage; most intense right the hell now.
Jungkook is distanced; how long has it been since your problems began? You can’t say. But there must be some depth to it, because he looks dejected, his cheeks hollow as he approaches you on the couch.
As of what you can currently tell, you thought the two of you were okay again. You know he isn’t doing particularly well, so the fights must have been heavy — but the you from back then thinks that he was reflecting. Waiting for things to blow over.
But you only realise what his expressions and the energy-lacking movements really mean when he kneels in front of you, bringing a concerned look to your face. He touches your knee and you want to ask what’s wrong. But then he says—
“I think I should leave.”
You laugh nervously, not expecting for him to walk out on such a cold January afternoon. “Where to?”
He waits. The way he struggles… the poignant pain in his eyes… and the reluctance in his words.
You understand; know what it is before he says it.
“This… us… we should stop.”
For a good, prolonged moment, you are perplexed. You must have misheard. Or he is pranking you, playing out one of his dumb jokes. But… but in hindsight, you feared, knew…
This was coming.
You utter, “…What?”
“I’m just. I’m ruining it. I don’t want you to lose yourself.”
Your heart knows that he is right. You know you are merely half of who you should be, need to be. The confessions buried in your heart might not be too buried after all… you must have told him before.
Because just like you, he knows he’s right, too. Took it to heart, didn’t he…
And yet…
“Jungkook, wha—”
“Please listen, I… I thought about this for a long time.”
You touch his arms and he shifts closer, knees falling to the ground to settle. The two of you might stay right here for a while. He can’t rush this. You can’t let this happen.
Desperately, you try again, “Jungkook—”
“You know what’s the worst part? I can feel myself turning into someone I don’t even like and you… you keep shrinking to make space for me.”
“That’s not true, I’m just trying to help—”
“It is true,” he interrupts again, “I know you’re trying to help, but… I think that’s the problem, too. You shouldn’t have to keep fixing me or changing yourself, so everything fits. No, listen,” he lifts a hand when you try to argue in between. Your vision starts to blur. “Every time I worry, you pull yourself smaller, so I don’t fall apart. I see you being more careful.”
“Stop. What are you talking about?”
You know what he’s talking about. But the panic is growing and consuming you, and he isn’t considering it, all depleted and affected by his own beliefs.
A tear travels down your cheek, and he wipes it off, waits before he talks on. Your chest constricts, and you don’t know whether there’s enough dry space on his palms to truly catch what’s to come.
Your upper body curls, and you lean forward, crushing his hand as you echo, “Please?”
“You don’t get it. I can’t keep taking pieces of you just so I can feel whole. Okay?”
“So… so what are you saying…?”
“That… I need to figure myself out before I make those around me disappear completely.” His voice quietens, as if he’s forcing himself to let the words out at all. “I can’t do this to someone like you. I love you.”
His eyes are drenched in tears when he looks up. The spark in them is still present, but this time, it’s not joy that birthed it.
“But if… if I stay like this,” he stutters, “I’ll end up resenting myself and you’ll end up resenting me, too.”
You know, so undeniably know that he is right. There is not an ounce of a lie in his admissions, even if some piece of you might want to combat it. Of course you want to — because no matter how ridiculous your fights and problems are, you’d rather keep them and him than drown in the silence.
You know this pattern.
Holding onto a rope that cuts your skin, aware that you need to let go, yet imprisoned in the illusion that if you fight for long enough, the rope will turn to silk. You want to be happy — but you want him to stay, too.
There is no way to do both. But you don’t want him to leave. You don’t fucking want to.
Breathing becomes harder, your throat tightening and your limbs falling into an uncontrolled tremble. Your voice is as cracked and raw as it can get, and you more so stammer than you talk, “No, I— l-let’s work on this, ple-ease, I’m— I don’t want to fucking lose y—”
“You won’t lose me… I hope to stay a part of you.” He smiles, but it doesn’t improve anything; in fact, you come undone, your sobs louder, frenzied. “But we won’t work like this, you— you deserve to breathe. Baby, shh… please, sweetheart—”
No, you can’t. Fuck, you might pass out.
You close your eyes, seek the oxygen for your chest. It barely helps, but you hear him encourage you, counting, instructing you to inhale, exhale. A hand touches your cheek. Your heartbeat thumps unrestrained.
Your world view will change now, won’t it? It will change along with your idea of love, of joy, of chaos and of silence. All this, only for his touch to remain the same.
Because as his fingertips run along your cheekbones and your temple, you know this damn touch is right, if not everything else. You do not have the faintest about the moments you shared, but, in the deepest parts of yourself, you just know that this is how he’s always touched you and always loved you and that this hurts like a bitch.
You can barely breathe; part of your brain houses a blaring alarm, bright red and loud, and you fear you might slip into near-hysteria. How does one stop this? And how will you prevent every other breakdown once he’s gone?
How…
You shake your head. Instinct leads you on, lets his hand electrify you. His eyes are yearning, pained, already singing an entire ballad on the affection he inhabits and the prospect of having to keep it on from this day on.
Where will any of you let any of this out? Where or who will you put all your love into? Is there anybody even out there except him?
What… why…
This shouldn’t be up for discussion. Him leaving, him staying. You’re supposed to figure it out…
You shake your head again. Beg once more, nothing more than a quiet whisper. You sniffle, let the tears drench your face, and when his scent nears too much and you’re reminded that, in a moment, it’ll be gone, you break.
You lean in, grab his arm, steering him towards you until your lips meet his. For a tiny moment, the impact is clear; for just a second, he stays there, as if it’s a reflex, but the very next instance… he pulls back.
He holds you at arm’s length, well aware that none of you will be capable of letting go or forgetting or accepting the situation. But his eyes double-cross him — you don’t see an iota of actual bravery or restraint in them. The arm pushing you away is weak, as if wanting to be shoved away.
And then, he does so himself.
He gives you a second to react, and when he sees you hunger for him, all sorrow and longing and madness, his hands tug your face in. The kiss is more fierce, harder now. For a split moment, you wonder whether the force of his grip will lead you down the couch, onto the carpet.
But instead, he goes in with all he can, pushes you up the sofa again and says, “Lay down.”
You do. You’ll do anything today. Let him kiss your lips, your neck, your tits. Will easily let him undress you and melt with you, so fast and so hot that you almost imagine him keeping you whole.
Your million pieces don’t feel the ache, just for now as his kisses turn fervent. All tongue and bite, humping and shifting, moaning and whimpering into your skin. He holds you close, preparation brief as he slides into you so effortlessly.
You don’t talk much. Only glances; only pleas. Skin slapping against skin, teeth scraping the mounds of your breasts, your shoulders. He fucks you until you can breathe even harder; flips you, turns you, nails digging into your hips as he holds you on top of him.
He lets go and you let go, and you know for sure that nothing the two of you ever did must have felt this intense before. Nothing hurt this much before, either. It’s cruel, this pain of loving somebody for the last time.
Sometimes, he whispers, “More. More—”
And you breathe, “I… I need you, harder.”
He listens. You cry into the kisses, let him take over, bury your mouth in his shoulder to muffle your whimpers. And he hammers into you, out of you, and you vividly feel the goosebumps all across; all the extra love; the speed at which you fall apart.
You feel each movement, each friction, each thrust actively.
You can’t name this sudden heightened emotion, but it feels familiar to you. The insanity of it, the volume of your wails, how you call his name. The way you feel him, hold him, want him to wreck you.
There is a name for it.
As you near the end, all he declares is, “I love you. Fuck, I love you so much…”
And you implore, “Then don’t leave, just don’t—”
He doesn’t listen this time.
As he catches his breath above you, the stare is painfully resolute. Those dark orbs are expressive, you think; they reveal much more than he is allowing. Because he is steadfast in his decision, and though weak, he will not stray.
You see that in his eyes, too. Even though he’s still holding you; and even though he is still peppering kisses on your face.
You try a last time.
“Please don’t go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Your eyebrows kiss. You let your head drop to the side, a tear trailing down your temple. When you inhale, your breath is shaky. And a heartbeat later, he gets up. Pulls out, leaves you empty, head to toe.
You don’t cry much. But the sobbing won’t stop. This is fucking shattering you.
“Jungkook… Kookie, please…” you whisper. You sound more hopeless now, the syllable barely a sound; more a puff of a breath.
He inhales so deeply; dread befalls you that he might turn and yell at you, drill into your brain how right he thinks he is. But though his movements are as fast as you anticipated, his touch is soft. Feathers when he stoops to where you sit, your face suddenly back between his hands.
“I love you,” he declares, his gravelly voice much clearer than yours, though just as hurt, trembling, “I fucking love you. You are the best thing to happen to me and the best thing that’ll ever happen to somebody else.”
The mention of a potential stranger digs a sword through your heart, and you nearly buckle, your head too weak to stay tall on top of your torso. You want to curl in, press a hand to your chest.
He doesn’t let you. His palms hold you firmly. He continues, echoes like a prayer, “I love you. I love you so, so fucking much, it hurts.”
And all you can incessantly repeat is, “Please…”
Your constant implorations fall on deaf ears; or at least, on unreasonable ears. He hears your sounds, but he doesn’t stray from his too firm, too rash beliefs. Or perhaps, he is perfectly aware and his decision perfectly sane, and you’re the one failing to make sense of this whole… thing.
But you keep pleading while he keeps nodding, helping you get dressed. You’re like a child, numb and crying, hands clamped together and knuckles white. You let him lead your limbs into your warm pajamas; except, everything feels cold.
When he kisses your forehead and his lips leave an invisible mark on your skin, it still feels icy. You feel you might vomit when you, syllable after syllable, manage to spit, “So you’re just… just leaving?”
He never offers reprieve.
“I don’t want to,” he says, “but I… have to. If I stay, I will panic and you’ll aid me, because it’s who you are. You love in such a way, just so…”
His eyes are glassy, a single tear rolling down. Sometimes, you think he might get through this rather unscathed, but then he betrays his heart, hiccups, the lower lip restless.
“You love selflessly,” he continues, as if it’s a superpower, a gift rather than the insult you perceive it as right now, “but I’ll fuck up… and you’ll stop loving me for good.”
The hum of the streets outside fills the space between you. You’re a wet mess, a hot face and tangled hair. Your cries fall quieter and the world’s noises amplify. But with that, the emptiness starts its expansion, too.
When you were a teenager, you once read that as a way of dealing with pain, the body often shuts down. Falls unconscious, numbs you momentarily. You recall Dr. Choi telling you the same.
As your inner system fails and the room blurs, you know it’s shutting down, too, but… you don’t lose consciousness. It’d be easier if you did, but you don’t.
You’re awake, aware, every single fibre burning and frozen. You don’t quite recognise your own, now lower voice when you say, “I believed we could make it work.”
Jungkook’s eyes stay glued on you. The more you say, the clearer his pain becomes. And so do messages, without a motion of his lips, but they’re clear to you. He’s saying that you’ve always believed; that you did for the both of you. That he won’t be the reason you stop believing in anything at all.
As he breaks the gaze, stare floating down to his feet, you see the damp lashes. The soft cheeks, the full lips. The way they’re turned down a friction of an inch. Regardless of what you might remember or not, each inch of your body knows just how much you’ve loved all these little pieces of him over the years.
And he’s taking them away from you. Keeping himself to himself. If you love selflessly, he loves selfishly. You denounce such a balance.
You try to say something, but the words have ceased for good. The chaos that your brain endured over the last half an hour ebbs down to complete quiet, one that ironically resembles disquiet to its core.
As you stay mute, he hesitates. All you can do is look up at him. You watch him lean into you, just close enough that you can feel his breath. It’s not a kiss, just a pause; fingers find your hair.
And then, he doesn’t utter a goodbye, but something else. Or maybe, he does; maybe, to him, it is a farewell.
“Thank you. For seeing the good in me.”
There’s meaning behind this that’s long lost on you. You cannot imagine somebody not doing so. But you can’t ask. Deep down, in the present version of yourself, you know, or think, you aren’t capable of it.
And the past never occurred the way you’d want it to, so you let time pass… let this pass.
A couple seconds later, Jungkook throws on a black jacket over his grey turtleneck sweater, zips up the backpack he already prepared…
And a minute after, he leaves quietly.
You stand on the same spot, at the edge of the couch for a long time. The door remains closed, trapping his scent and warmth so cruelly.
You stand silent, breathing slowly, shakily. You’ll have to learn to fill this silence again.
And you stand until the world fades and your knees buckle, and eventually, you let yourself imagine that he allowed you to love him properly one last time.
Somewhere, there’s a word for this emotion, isn’t there?
THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼
1k block limit! so you can read the rest of the chapter in this reblog! (refresh if it's not there yet; still editing the last 2 scenes!)
It takes longer this time for the memory to vanish entirely. You’re still within a certain set; this will, too, go away as one instead of memory by memory. And it’s a long one.
Because as you jump to the next day within the blink of an eye, you still remember every moment of misery he put you in when he left yesterday.
It’s not quite a Yesterday, more a Back Then. But all this time, for your brain, this is currently happening.
For example.
You are breathing through a time so numb. You are waking up, taking in each detail but none at all, and then falling asleep to the sound of cars. You’re fast forwarding through the bleak days that follow the break up, and for a second, you establish that these people out there in the real world are torturing you rather than helping you.
You perceive everything.
How the sounds around you seem altered. How human faces look unfamiliar, as if lit from a different angle. You wonder whether anyone can see what you feel — whether they notice the ache sitting behind your eyes.
And it strikes you as unfair that someone out there is driving a truck, or flicking through a novel, or laughing and holding hands… all while you can’t grasp even a fraction of that same happiness.
In a sense, you’re drowning in an illusion, in a pain so acute that it feels like nobody else might be experiencing it but you. Of course you know people have their own lives, but you’re in a void. In some weird, warped Nothing.
The one you wake up to, and the one that turns your bed into empty space; no dent anymore. The absence of scents, of touches; of his laughter, of him. Because. You can’t enjoy his cooking anymore, can’t taste anything, and you can’t tell him about your day.
This is what gets you the most.
There is no second toothbrush in the bathroom anymore. The jokes you read on Instagram, the reels you like — you can’t share them with him. This entire emptiness makes things unbearable.
He still hasn’t come to collect some of his belongings; he got the rest when you were out or at work. But when days and weeks pass, you don’t think he wants them anymore. The gifts you got him, the shirts of his you assume you probably wore sometimes.
It takes all the courage hidden in the depths of your soul to box these presents and stuff them in some corner of your basement. You mail him the rest of his useful objects, like clothes or books.
Forgetting is truly harder than loving, because now you have to try the former with so much more effort than loving ever needed — but you can’t. You learned to love him for the past four years, and now he’s left. Has killed something inside you.
You hate just how quiet it is every damn day. You hate missing his honeyed voice and his smile, his words and his touch. You genuinely detest waking up from dreaming of him, of kissing him, of his skin on yours. Nightmares are what they are now.
And most of all, you hate how he left. That he didn’t fight — that he gave up instead because it seemed much easier. Or maybe, he didn’t actually capitulate. Maybe it’s true that he needs to work on himself and that he wouldn’t drag you with him.
Because honestly — if you were him, what would you’ve done? Is it actually selfish of him? Or selfless to set you free?
Your thoughts turn into doubts.
Because you don’t know. You can barely think, only focus on how it hurts, day in, day out. Your mind keeps hungering for answers it cannot get. Like, what is he doing? Is he seeing somebody? Is he missing you? Is he doing better?
You need to ask. Will he ever come back? Does he ever think you’ll end up being endgame, after all, someday?
But for a proud time, you resist. You live.
You move slower than usual. The kettle sounds louder and the floor feels colder. You focus on your senses. Get used to the silence, because it never invites words anyway, so you just sit there.
Sometimes, your phone buzzes; friends and family asking how you are, whether Jungkook and you would want to go on a double date. It always stings.
When it happens on a tiresome Tuesday afternoon, you bluntly write, “It’s over.”
Then, you delete the message, rewrite, “I think we’re on a break.” You delete it again, try again, “He broke up with me. But don’t want to talk. I’ll tell you later sometime.”
It’s almost embarrassing, this state. People out there are living harsh lives, and you’re mourning somebody who’s very much alive, choosing to stay out of your reach. But sometimes, you pour tea and forget; sometimes, you don’t cry, just remember the words he whispered, a goodbye-not-goodbye.
You analyse the last touches and the way he looked at you, what these moments meant to him, whether they almost made him reconsider.
Embarrassing.
This isn’t the peace he promised. You grow angry with time.
One day, probably a month and a half later, you instinctively grab your keys, drive over to the address he told you to deliver the remaining stuff to and knock with a tight fist.
It takes a second for the door to open; when it does, your heart stops. He’s wearing a black shirt that hugs him like a second skin; his hair is tidy, his bangs shorter; his entire self more put together in general.
Freedom and relief fill his eyes, but not because you’re here. More like he’s been like this lately.
And he’s smiling at you. Not the nostalgic, in-love smile, but a friendly one. Subtle, formal; and he doesn’t say anything at all until you call his name, “Jungkook.”
He doesn’t look surprised or hurt or anyhow affected, either. Only raises his eyebrows in question, waiting for you to continue. So you clear your throat, balance from one leg to the other and ask, “How are you?”
“I’m…” He looks confused, pensive. Your heart sinks. “I’m great, thank you. Can I help?”
So formal. Too formal.
“Can you h—” you attempt to repeat, confusion etched between your eyebrows. You blink, and then try, “I wanted to talk.”
His pupils flicker to the side, as if he’s contemplating on shutting the door again. But he doesn’t; somehow he refrains as he says, “We can talk, sure.”
He leans against the doorframe, his demeanour neutral. Fingers of both hands fidget, but in a calm, need-to-busy-them manner.
You draw a breath and query, “How are you really?”
He scoffs, angles his head. Repeats, “Yes, I’m good, I’m great. How are you?”
“I’m… okay.”
He nods. Waits. Then finds some bravery in him to admit, “…I don’t know. If you don’t mind me saying,” he regards you from head to toe, “you don’t look okay. Can I help?”
“How do you?” you ask in return. “Look okay?”
“I, uh. I don’t understand.”
What the fuck.
You scour your brain. If you dug deep enough, you’d once again find the knowledge you need. Deep down, you know what’s going on. But as the scene plays out, you’re left to recover the truth the way you did back then.
You prod, “I miss you, Jungkook. I thought you did, too, and I just… I don’t know how to fucking move on, and you’re just here, being all—”
You gesture vaguely at him, but the look on his face stops you anyway. It’s odd; makes you shrink a bit. You falter as he asks, “I’m sorry. How many Jungkooks do you know? And if only one, how did you get to me?”
You blink again. Once, twice. Then you blurt, “Are you joking? It’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry. Really.” He brings a hand to the nape of his neck. It’s insane, how you still know how he feels and tastes, how these muscles flexed when they held you that last time; but how he still says, “I don’t know.”
The words drop like a bomb. Your heart palpitates; it’s louder than anything you could say. You swallow before you whisper, “What?”
“Sorry.”
“…What are you talking about?”
Panic grows in you; you haven’t felt it to this extent in a couple days, but it comes back with a force that overwhelms you. An impulsive decision curses your mind, about to become very real as you fish out your phone, ready to scroll through your gallery to show him who he was to you.
But as your phone opens to an ad, a random one that popped up as you distracted yourself with some language app before driving over… you remember.
You’ve seen it all over the internet and on social media. Of course, your phone seems to have read your mind and emotions over the past weeks, because it appeared every now and then, like some dystopic, too positive promise reminiscent of a 20th century sci-fi novel.
You’d always swipe it away. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?
Better Tomorrow.
Jungkook is a frequent doom-scroller. He must have seen it, too. Must have decided that you weren’t only not worth fighting, but also not worth remembering.
Your stomach turns.
He inspects your reaction, understands your distress and asks, “Do you need me to call somebody? I totally could. Or we can just talk, like you wanted to. Maybe I can help.”
He’s overly generous — nobody else would react this benevolently. It makes you feel more ill. You take a deep breath, repress the urge to sink to the ground, instead look at him.
The man you knew is gone. The memories he had, the college girl he so fiercely loved. Gone. You’re a stranger to him who means nothing more than a passerby on the street.
You blink away the tears. Clear your throat, upright yourself, and muster every ounce of control before you say, “I must be mistaken.”
He insists, “Are you sure? I can try and help, maybe I’m wrong after all.”
You wish he was. But the truth is that he has rewired himself in a way that can never be undone unless you recreate all you used to be. Now, you cannot remember any of it either; and even if you did, what would you do?
He chose this. Free will is an underappreciated yet such a real phenomenon among humans; who are you to take his? All he’s ever done was his decision: loving you, cherishing you, ruining you, erasing you.
If he crushed your existence like this, he must have a reason. And you’re not one to condemn him. You will be angry, you will carry this hurt, you will be inundated in it… but judging him? How?
If he ever felt even an iota of what you feel for him, then you understand his pain, too. Maybe he’s right and this is the only way left to survive. People are greedy after all; they grasp every opportunity they can to make life easier.
You hold yourself together. You ignore every piece falling apart, and every piece yelling at you to make him remember, to make him yours again. Without mistakes and tribulations this time. You’d go into it correctly.
But there is no correct way. And ultimately, Jungkook is still Jungkook, and you are still you. Incompatible love remains just this.
You tell him, “You aren’t wrong.” Sometimes he might have been, but… today he isn’t. You smile. “Really. I realised.”
“I am truly sorry…”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, don’t apologise, I should be saying sorry—”
“Why, though? This didn’t seem random. Listen… Do I know you?”
Ah. This is why he didn’t straight-up ask how you knew his name. Love is genuine, even when toxic, after all. Or maybe, he still senses who you are somewhere deep inside. Keeps you here on purpose, intuitively.
You shake your head. Sprinkle in some hope, some lies disguised as kindness. “We met long ago, in some uni class and… honestly, it was a dare.” You wave off your visit, laugh a bit, though weakly. “Just a dumb dare. I am so sorry, it was pretty uncool.”
His countenance changes. He might have worried a moment ago, but now he’s… not agitated, but. A lot less concerned; more so surprised about the waste of time. Well…
“Ah,” he voices, “okay. Well. Would you still like to come in and have some coffee? Now that you’re here and put so much effort into a prank.”
Something stirs in you. People truly do not change.
Because you know he’s asking you due to a premonition; the same that one has when they meet somebody who they’re attracted to. The one that whispers that this somebody might be your somebody, and that a step forward might mean a recipe to a happy life.
Jungkook is being pulled towards you the way he must have been when he met you. In a way, one could say that this proves you’re meant to be. That even in severe, hand-made amnesia, the two of you gravitate towards each other.
But the end result would still stay the same, too. And you guess the both of you had your fair share of what you could be, could’ve been.
And however much you hope for it to reignite, he’s made sure it won’t.
So you politely decline, wish him a pleasant evening, and leave.
And as he falls out of your reach and disappears, so does the fading, darkening world around you until it’s pitch black.
Heavy eyelids flutter open as if they’re glimpsing at an actual reality for the first time. Your mind feels blank, as though recovering, adjusting to a surrounding that you need to ensure is real.
Hundreds of sequences are missing; you feel it right away. Perhaps it’s the same as it is with thirst — an exhausting drought that needs to be quenched to be momentarily forgotten. You need to fill the void with new memories to satisfy your brain.
Because right now, this stupid awareness of the parts that are amiss is palpable. An invisible knife is turning in your chest. Twisting and cutting more flesh, straight into and through your heart. This feels too real.
And it is.
You know because you remember this place; you remember getting here, bringing these people to your home. Everything else from before is endless desolation, but this… this extreme, searing pain is here and real.
You look around hastily. You see your TV, your couch, the windows and the sheer, white curtains gently dancing in the breeze. They must have let some of the early winter air in. You’re thankful — God knows you need it… you can barely breathe; you’re crying again.
The faces above you look worried, foreheads furrowing and lips moving slowly. They must be hushing and soothing you, but you somehow can’t quite hear as you focus on your lungs and the breath stuck in your throat.
Why are you catching your breath anyway?
You move cautiously, wires of the machine on top of your head still tangled. You push them off your legs, once again careful to not tug at them. The dizziness is intense as you sit up, limbs cracking from the stiff position; you’ve been laying here for hours, you think.
As your naked feet touch the carpet on the ground, you lean forward, a fist pressing into your chest. One of the first things you notice is the empty feeling between your fingers… You were holding something before.
“Where is it?”
Your mouth barely moves enough to form the words, hushed mostly to yourself, but Dr. Choi still seems to catch your concern. You frantically searching your surroundings might be the likely reason; you must look insane to her.
A fragile girl with a chipped heart, driving all the way up to Better Tomorrow’s office, determined to erase her ex — and now she’s sobbing at the sight of some lost object that references said ex.
Your face is hot; you can’t get yourself to care. There should be more pressing questions haunting your head — there are — but you can’t think clearly enough to ask.
Dr. Choi appears close to you, never truly gone; her lips part to offer an answer, but your dread-ridden brain is faster, “The… I was holding something. A shirt or something, I don’t know.”
You know there was a box at the beginning. The objects were part of this procedure, part of your memories, but you can’t see any of them anymore. The couch is tidied up, and so is the table.
Waking you up even twice was too often. They shouldn’t have… they should’ve left you in this half-conscious, reminiscing state, sweeping all of him off your entire self until nothing remained. You didn’t want the break.
Fuck.
“We don’t need them anymore,” she then finally says, slower to speak between your hiccups. Something implodes in your chest; that constant reminder that you don’t need them anymore, either. “We put away all of it one by one. And you actually didn’t need to hold them either.”
You bring your eyebrows together, breathing in and out hard.
She explains, “We scanned them all in before we started. But we think having something with the patient helps the memories come up stronger. By the end, we dispose of them.”
Dispose of them.
Years of affection, stuffed in objects and letters and jewelleries or whatever you possibly chose. Disposed.
You’re still crying as you nod. It’s all you can do; your head doesn’t properly move either. A lazy motion, automatic. You’re too distracted realising how soaked your face is, how out of breath you are — over the course of the last hours, your lungs must have overworked themselves.
Because it feels like you’ve been crying for a while.
“Everything’s okay.”
It’s her way of controlling your pulse. She wants your heart hammering in your ears as little as you do — she probably wants this over and to go home, too. You feel sorry for her… this is her daily bread after all.
“Is it?” you wonder, one syllable low and quiet, the other loud and high.
“How do you feel?”
“…It hurts.”
“I know. It’s almost over.”
Oh God. Almost isn’t good enough. It’s piercing your skin, organs, mind, everything all over. What the fuck has he done to you? You barely even… he’s pretty much a stranger by now, so why—
Your lips are still trembling. You plop back onto the couch; your legs won’t carry your weight. Palms push into your eyes, blinding you with a force, incessant until you see stars. You let out odd sounds; this is too intense. Your head hangs fucking heavy.
And amidst your crisis, somebody, maybe the assistant Byul, is patting your back. What more can they both do anyway?
Half of you wants to fall into the 4-7-8 pattern, but the rest of you embarks on a search through the interconnected regions of your brain. You scour all of it; every vivid occurrence of the past years.
You don’t remember. You can’t. You don’t know him or who he was to you or what made him become that to you — but it still hurts. Why does it fucking hurt? The name is still omnipresent, and you recall his appearance. Can name your feelings for him.
You’re also aware that you can’t have him back, that he is forever lost to you.
So…
Voice unstable, you ask, this time more than a hoarse whisper, “Why do I still remember?”
There’s a pause in the room. Not because she’s hesitating or because she doesn’t want you to know. When your red-rimmed eyes seek an answer in hers, you see that she’s thinking about it — are you a tough nut to crack after all?
But then she explains, seen a hundred times before, “There is much to unpack, I’d say. This treatment always takes time. Most of what we intend to forget is something we loved for a long time. Having it all go away doesn’t just happen in the blink of an eye.”
You feel like she has said something similar a dozen times before. You must still not be fathoming this entire thing.
Childlike, you inquire, “How much longer…?”
“Not much. The system is telling us that most of it is gone. We could find a lot of core memories. Bit more, and then we’ll leave.”
You won’t know this happened, yes, yes, you know. You feel like an idiot; are all brokenhearted patients wiping their past this forlorn?
“It hurts,” you only repeat, “if so many core memories are gone, then…”
She takes a seat on the sofa chair in front of you; leans in and asks, “You still know how you felt for him, don’t you?”
You nod weakly. “I just… I know we didn’t work out. But… if we hadn’t fucked up, we’d have worked well together. It’s a gut feeling, you know? From what I feel… it’s as though we were right for each other. Like people that just understand one another.”
If you weren’t, then why do you feel so shattered? This must be it. It feels plausible to you, memories or not.
Yet…
She shrugs her shoulders, though in a slow, empathetic way, with her lips pressed together. Then she speaks what your innermost consciousness is arguing, too, “This is always the thing. If there wasn’t an issue, everything would work out.”
…Right. But there always is; this is how the world works.
If nothing ever went wrong in the world, everything would work out. It’s pure logic. You should recognise this very fact instead of hoping for an alternative world so stupidly.
You sniffle, absentmindedly tapping your knee. The surroundings blur as you zone out, and you unfamiliarise yourself with the room, as if it’s dissolving with the rest of what you’re ridding yourself of.
But the stranger the colours of this place become, the clearer another question jumps out.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
Maybe it formed the moment you saw your first memory. It is insane to not have a single picture of it, any capability of visualising it anymore.
Right now, you’re seeing everything around you. You see the patterns on your carpet and your nervous legs; feel the doctor’s hand on your thigh and the burning in your chest.
You cannot imagine forgetting all this in its entirety. Of not being able to conjure this very view; the patterns, the legs, the hand, the fire beneath your ribs.
How do they even do it?
Doesn’t matter anyway. Whether you’re doing the right thing doesn’t matter, either. It’s almost done.
Dr. Choi knows too, because she says, “It must have felt right to you, or you wouldn’t be here now.”
“Maybe I’m being impulsive,” you mutter before turning to her, repeating, “why do I still remember? We wiped it all, but. It’s as if I’m in love with a stranger…”
She sighs. Somehow, she sounds tired, but not irritated.
A tongue darts out between her lips, wetting them before she shifts to the edge of the couch chair, starting a chain of questions, as if she’s testing you.
The first one is, “Do you remember how you met?”
“No.”
Then, “How your friendship developed?”
“…No.”
Unsettled, you shift at your spot, raking your mind, but coming up clueless each time. It seriously is working. God.
“What about your break up?” she then wants to know.
You exhale, pained. “No…”
“Do you know how…. Mh. Let’s see.” Her eyes narrow to a slit as she peers over to the screen as if she could read anything from here; but then again, her eyes are probably practiced, skilled to see changes in the scans even from afar. “Okay, how about how you got together?”
Your tongue already touches upon the ridge behind your teeth, already forming another No, but then… then you think about it. Whatever jumps you did as you were caged by the machine… you don’t think it got to this one.
Because you do. This one, you do remember. The feeling of the cold and a visual of the stars, the sound of an echoing conversation and the gift of a smile… It’s all vivid.
You can’t make this up. This must still be real. You know it is. You remember.
So you halt mid-headshake, blinking at your wall unit, and then say, “…Yes.”
Dr. Choi lightly lets her hands fall onto her thighs, a gesture symbolising a euphoria akin to a snap of fingers. She nods once slowly and patiently as she gets up. Her finger points to the screen showcasing your brain activity, and somewhere, she must be seeing something.
Some anomaly or remaining memory. Because a moment later, she tells you or Byul, or nobody in particular, “This is it. It’s the last one.”
You wait. The last one. Of a million moments, this is all that’s left of him?
She seems happy about having found the solution. But even as she asks, “Ready?” you stay frozen. You’re trying to comprehend it. So once you slip back into whichever far, misty past, it’s over?
Jungkook will disappear.
Dr. Choi calls your name, a hand on your shoulder. You look up at her; she comforts, “Yes? Once we’re through this, it’ll be okay.”
“…I believe you. It’s the main core memory, right?”
“It is. There is always a subjective reason why.”
You know why. The same gut feeling, your instincts; every fibre of you knows why.
So you tell her.
“Because,” you start, tired all of a sudden, “he was my friend long before he was anything else. The switch from that to something more was… not actually a switch. Just an extension of the friendship. The foundation was always there, I think, even later on.”
You blink rapidly. “And I… I also think that. I don’t want to forget him. Or how it feels to be loved and to love. I know I will someday, but…”
But right now, in all this bittersweetness, you don’t even want to forget how it feels to hurt sometimes.
The doc’s answer is quick, professional, “Do you want to stop? It’s reversible within twenty-four hours. That can be unpleasant since we’d have to trigger and stimulate emotional centers, but…”
Right. So, aside from rare lags, this is what they meant with that, too. This is how you’d know what to reverse at all. You were surely not the first and last to doubt this entire affair; now you understand.
But…
“What will I gain if I stop? Nothing,” you say, more to yourself than to her.
“I can’t tell you that. Or decide for you.”
“No, I should. I won’t know what I didn’t want to forget afterwards. I’ll be at… at peace.”
You’ve stopped crying. Maybe it’s the word itself that you need to repeat to yourself, to your struggling, steaming head. Maybe your chest will feel lighter if you make it believe it is. A couple more hours and you will be content.
This is needed, no matter what. Because there is no way you can live with the knowledge of what it feels like to love Jeon Jungkook.
You must be overloading Dr. Choi’s nerves. Constantly zoning out, finding any focus but her. She rubs your shoulder gently, asks, “Can you do it? Just that one moment?”
Pause, and then—
“It’s all that’s left.”
It is… it fucking is.
You repeat, “I’ll be at peace.”
“Okay… I understand. Of course.”
She gets back to work, fast hands clicking and typing and science-ing through whatever. There’s a soft murmur from where she stands, though you’re sure there’s nothing more to discuss at the end stages. Maybe another reminder to be careful, who knows.
You don’t understand the first thing about neurology. You can only ask the simple questions; like, “Sorry… Can I ask you something?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Am I, the real me, able to communicate with him within the memory?” She listens. You wait for a trace of a grimace, telling you to stop fantasising, because how the hell would you talk into a memory? But then she hums; you elaborate, “I’ve tried but couldn’t so far. I mean, I know it’s a memory, but can I say something to him that’s not part of it?”
There it is; a type of grimace, but not pointing out your stupidity — never that. Instead, “It’s not easy. It’s not a dream, so it’s difficult to change. But… if you’re lucid enough, you could try.”
Lucid enough. You have been every now and then. So if you focused, you’d know what’d happen next, distinguish between real and past, right?
She explains some more, “Your present consciousness is in there, too, so you could try merging them. We’ve had people interact before. But… you know it won’t change the memory itself.”
No, you don’t care about that right now. You nod quickly, telling her, “I know. I know that it’ll be gone soon after anyway.”
“Yes… yes, I think we could try and grant you this.”
We? “How?”
She’s not quite looking at you, tapping away at the keyboard, staring at the screens that look an odd combination of vintage and modern. She says, “We’ll slow down the process. To let you stay in there a bit longer, to work it out.”
You don’t question the science behind it. You don’t think you could handle the explanations anyway; could anyone? If that was possible, anybody would steal the erasure idea.
So all you say is, “Thank you. For all this.”
She nods. The wires are put back into place, entangled where they need to be. You lay down, make yourself as comfortable as you can, ready for the same slumber as before. Dr. Choi puts a palm to your hand, wonders, “All good? Ready?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say no now.”
She smiles. She’ll take care of you for now; and she knows that once she’s left, she’s made another life easier. There is no reason for her to worry or indulge in conversations any further.
You think all that. As somebody from such a company, her job is technically not just to do the job, but to recommend it internationally to boost the numbers, too. She needs to promote this. Anyone would.
Which is why it surprises you when she suddenly says—
“I just want to say that… Even if you forget everything else, I hope you know somewhere in your heart that at some point, we need, will need, memories to love properly.”
Someday, sometime. With somebody else. Then, the pain will be worth it either way; memories will remain. Not now. But someday.
You hope so, too.
The feeling of standing between two realities is odd.
Like a foot planted in life and another in death. You aren’t dead, of course — you’re so painfully conscious of your surroundings and so clearly alive, but if it was your heart detailing its state, it might as well declare itself fallen.
There is no other way to really perceive this, you think, and as long as you relive this moment leading to what you seek, you will probably not quite feel at ease. It must be the descending winter sun above. Or the leafless trees.
Back then, you thought of all this as a comfort, just what the season promises — new sensations in the cold, a heartbeat rising to meet the frost, and cheeks hungry for warmth.
When Jungkook rushes to meet you at the gas station that you sent him the location of, he looks bright and lovely as a star. Not that you reckon he wasn’t happy during the time you blessed him with worldly joys, but…
When you fall in love… the seconds just before you admit it, to yourself and to the other… when the heart, violently pumping, almost cracks your ribcage and threatens to burst…
Then, each of these elements makes the sentiments truly significant and unique. Love gets the blood flowing through the veins, but it’s the falling that truly births exhilaration.
There is no memory like the growing adoration before anything even starts. The moment between getting to love and settling in it. The one that decides the change in life, the bridge.
That day, after the gas station, you walk into the forest. It is colder in the woods, frostier, quieter. Nobody is around. There is nothing but darkness for a while as his phone’s torch dances, him teasing you, pulling you forward by your hand.
You’ve come here before in the summer. Maybe with him, but definitely alone. You always wished to show this to somebody, and you must have shown it to him. Promising the charm of the place in the dead of the winter as you’ve always loved it.
And here you are. He remembered to find this clearing, you think. It’s a bit further into the forest, the grass dew-ridden and a small lake frozen at the back of the clearing.
The memory is dark, so you can only recall what you know. In present time and current life, it has been a long while since you saw this very clearing; possibly still with him. So the sky and the trees and ice on the lake are somewhat unclear for now.
But you remember standing only steps from the solid water, right at the shore as you ask him, “Would you dare step on the ice?”
Whatever you were discussing before fades as a genuinely surprised expression laces his face. His eyes are big even in the darkness; he looks innocent, a depth in his stare that you have never seen in anybody else before.
You don’t think anyone even glows enough to house the milky way. He does.
You might not remember everything, but you remember this. Even as he reprimands, “You must be crazy. We could die.”
“You’d save me.”
“I will always save you, bug.” Your heart soars as his hand scratches the back of his head, his full hair long and messy over it. “But the ice is thin. It looks pretty damn dangerous to me.”
“Not that thin. Believe me,” you vow. He hesitates, clicking his tongue in doubt. But there’s a relaxation visibly flooding him head to toe when you reach for his hand, lift it to your chin. “Trust me. Let’s try.”
The way he moves with you is familiar, but a significant portion of freedom, recklessness, gentle want is still missing. He’s not officially yours yet; you don’t think either of you intended to label this tonight.
But if this is how it started… and this is how it ended... then you understand the relevance behind this memory. As ordinary as it may seem, none of it feels that way.
This is… a fairy tale. Whatever happens after the happily ever after. You need to begin yours tonight.
As you take a careful step onto the ice, out of balance and tapping just to test, you hear him say, “You’re crazy.”
“C’mon.”
You tug him in. He isn’t as brave just yet, waiting until you’re successfully standing on the ice. Assuring that he doesn’t need to pull you back to the shore, up from the water, away from the cold.
You actually feel somewhat warm right now. Especially when he finally follows, delighted when the ice remains solid beneath his feet. He smiles, relaxes. Steadies his stance like someone who’s usually not scared of anything, dauntless and adrenaline-seeking and never too serious.
But this is you — you were on the ice first. It changed his readiness for risk-taking.
You chuckle at the thought, disguise it as the joy that the clearing brings. Your cheeks are warm and your hands warmer; you don’t fear anything beyond these trees and the woods as you near his body, inches away from an embrace.
But instead, you tell him, “As promised then. Come.”
Doubt creeps up on him just for another tiny moment as you urge him to sit down, but once he’s absolutely convinced that you aren’t being foolishly mad or have switched personalities with him, he tucks his long coat under his butt, like you did, and crosses his legs.
He doesn’t let go of your hand once. If anything, he clutches it tighter.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“I’m okay for now.” You let out a long breath, and it condenses as it hits the cold air, foggy and cloudy. You look around, just briefly enough to catch some of the clearing. Then, you call, “Jungkook…”
“Yes.”
“Why did you want to meet me so urgently today?”
“I didn’t.”
You squeeze his hand, and he playfully cries out, sounds soon morphing into chuckles. His head is angled, bangs floating in front of his eyes. They’re darker than your surroundings, but so much sweeter, softer — a contradiction, the flip side of the darkness somehow.
There’s so much light in him that you don’t understand what went wrong.
You ask, “Really?”
He laughs again, louder. Another hand comes up to sandwich yours between his palms. “Don’t be an idiot. I always want to see you.”
More of the sparks in your body. You conceal them for now, arguing, “But today definitely seemed more urgent.”
He stares. Stares for too long without countering with another sarcastic remark. It flusters you; you can barely hold his gaze for long enough. And if he leaned in now, kissed you like you’ve wanted all evening, you might die of a cardiac arrest.
“Say something,” you soon nudge, shaking his hands, and his arms with them.
He takes a breath; his next words come out quieter and softer, brushed with a feathery edge. Sound, feel like a fireplace to you, “Do you remember this spring? When we graduated. And I got my driver’s license.”
You think you don’t. You want to shake your head, but your past self does — and so do you. Somehow, the spring day is connected to this very moment now — the very last group. Maybe this is why you know what he’s talking about.
You’ll only forget his reference once you forget this winter night, too.
“Yes,” you say.
Yes, you do. The way the cold had bid its goodbyes and spring was trying to claw its way back. Leaves were brighter then and the flowers spread their scents.
That day, he’d hurried to you just as he did to the gas station today, elated and fast and thrilled about, what seemed, more than just his passed driver’s test.
“And you were worried you were going to be late,” you told him that day, just as he came to a halt in front of you, bending down, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “Take it easy, though—”
“No,” he panted, “I was imagining it like this.”
“Imagining what? Like what?”
“Just… you. What I want to say.”
“What–”
You paused when he licked his lips, squinting when his gaze moved up to yours. You were standing right under the sun, you reckon, blinding him in more ways than you usually did. But you weren’t so immune either.
Not to the rosy cheeks. To the dishevelled, dark hair. To the college jacket wrapped around his hips, or to the way he uprighted himself, brushing back the bangs that fell back anyway. To his smile.
And certainly not to how close he came to you when he took a step further towards the sun, waking up all the butterflies, cocoons stirring in your stomach. You felt disgustingly giddy when he lifted his hand, putting it on your shoulder, acting as if he was still helping his lungs, calming down.
As if you weren’t aware that he just wanted to be nearer, to touch you, to look at you as he liked to. Both of you knew, but you never advanced. Maybe scared, maybe yearning.
It was weird for a moment; not because you found the proximity unwelcoming, but because you weren’t used to this. The two of you were chaotic, jokesters, not ones to indulge in cliché, corny scenes.
You were friends, after all. No matter how he looked at you, and no matter how many times you’d kiss his cheek to wordlessly utter the day’s goodbye.
He had been your friend long before he was anything else. And this might probably haunt you forever. The days friends spend dawdling. And the weeks they cry over their laptops, cramming until sunset.
You don’t know about those specific moments, but your gut knows they existed. They must have. You believe briefly, ephemerally, that not everything was bad.
But. No matter how much you hoped for, no matter how much more of the cliché, corny dialogue you wanted… he didn’t say anything. Only babbled about the license, about his day, the weekend.
And after that, everything turned to normal, or as normal as the two of you could be. Your past self is whispering it to you — that he backed away.
Of course, he must have. Or you wouldn’t be here right now.
You tell him what you recall.
“Yes, you were excited about the license.”
“…This isn’t what I wanted to say.”
Yes… you knew. You know.
“What was it then?” you ask, seemingly dumbfounded.
And then he says it. As if it lay there on his tongue for so long, casually waiting to slip. As if it’s a matter-of-fact and natural. It sounds as easy as it must be hard to utter.
But it’s true. True vice versa, true for so long.
“I’m sick of being just friends.” He swallows. “We can’t be.”
And just as self-evidently, you tell him, “I know.”
“You do.”
“I have known for a while. You have, too.” The grip around your hand tightens. “You just never said anything.”
He lifts a single finger, baselessly defending himself with cocked brows and humour in his voice, “I was not scared of ruining anything, in case you want to accuse me.”
You laugh in only a breath, quietly and softly. His hand falls back to his lap, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t fight the longing undertone or the effect of the stars. His eyes are dreamy in the dim light they provide, and his words tender.
“There was nothing to ruin because I knew how you felt. But,” he continues; calm, dulcet, “I wanted us to fall harder than we had. I wanted to hold onto the friendship, not because I was afraid, but because I needed the yearning to be worth it. I wanted to…”
He waits, chuckles, as if caught in nonsensical thoughts. But somehow, they make perfect sense to you. He wanted to reach the peak. A climax before giving in.
He says, “I wanted to yearn for you.”
“And so you made me yearn, too, huh?”
“I… what did it feel like? To you?”
“What it felt like?” Your torso straightens, hands on your knees, fumbling. You try to shift closer to him, but the ice is too rough, moving difficult. And his knees are already touching yours anyway. “It gave me a sense of how it is to feel alive.”
In hindsight, you cannot remember the exact feeling. It has been some time since you felt truly alive. All your life, you thought that hearing, seeing, feeling and smelling the world already breathed meaning into that word. That just being here suffices.
But it doesn’t always. The actual realisation of what it’s like often dawns upon one in moments of sheer ecstasy. When even the air feels alive. But with him here, you didn’t need mountaintops or the ocean to walk among the ones actively living.
Being near him made you feel like this. It sufficed.
Will that ever come back? Not him, but a heart flourishing again.
“I know what you mean,” Jungkook tells you, “that thing… loving somebody and knowing how they feel and still floating between what is and could be. It wasn’t easy to hold back.”
“Stop doing it now then,” you urge, turning your hand to hold his fingers; they’re warmer than yours, “you don’t need to, really.”
Your heart might burst. Winter aside, your body is burning. The ice can’t chill you… he’s a shelter in the cold. But when he speaks again, some of this safety mixes with an odd feeling of dread, deeply buried and unconscious—
“This is insane. All of this,” he looks up, and then back to you. Lets his hand wander and stop at your wrist. “I’ll remember this, I think. No matter what… sometimes we just remember a feeling.”
You’d guess so. Maybe that’s why he haunts you even with one, final memory left.
The moments that follow remind you inevitably of that spring.
How he was still a little sweaty from running, exam forgotten, fingers leaving your shoulder and not pretending anymore when he moved them to your face. Stared at your lips for a second. Sighed as if he was yearning, dying, done with waiting.
But he still waited. Today, he doesn’t.
Back when this actually played out, you knew what was to come. You know it now, too, because you remember. You used to love that you did — and now you hate that you still do.
Yet, you bask in every touch he indulges in. The hands on your wrist, then on your elbow, on your shoulder, to your face. Just the same as in spring. Stares at your lips, sighs, dying inside, giving up and giving in.
There is nothing but pillowy warmth when he approaches you, testing the waters, but somehow, you still feel a prick.
It’s there, palpably so, perhaps more to your soul than your actual body, but it still pales compared to his affection. As does everything else — the sounds feel impossibly far away. Like the creak of the ice or the whisper of the wind.
What you do hear is how he hums, and the way you sigh against his mouth. The teeny tiny smack of your lips when he kisses you first; then again; then more.
His caution only lasts for a second before his hand settles at the back of your neck; your fingers find his cheek in return. And as he moves his lips against yours harder, noses colliding every now and then, you wonder whether the world has narrowed to this small space you sit on.
He’s not gauging your reaction anymore; he knows enough. The rhythm steadies, deepens, just enough to deliver the message, “This is real. This is happening. It happened.”
There is a fleeting moment where his tongue peeks through the seam of your lips, touching the tip of yours. He inhales at the feeling, but he doesn’t proceed. Instead, he parts from you, slow, reluctant. You know he’s still making you — and himself — yearn.
So many of these moments are to come. You know he likes the tease, even though you attempt to invite him back in with your closed eyes and a staggered breath.
But when he doesn’t, your first reaction to the moment shows in the form of a laugh. You lean in, kiss the corner of his lips, rising from your seat to do God knows what. Maybe you want to become one with him. For sure you do.
The intention fails, however, as he steadies himself, close to falling on his back. He chuckles with you as he says, “Careful… we might break the ice after all.” Another snicker. Then, “This is idiotic. We’ll probably freeze here… I mean, we are sitting on ice.”
“All the making out and this is what you’re thinking about.”
“No. We’ll keep each other so warm that we won’t even notice when we freeze.”
“Poetic,” you jest, “and entirely without logic. But… if you’re cold, do go back, Kook.”
He reaches for the hem of your beanie, fixes it until it nearly covers half your left eye. You push it back up, meeting a dreamy, captured gaze. He argues, “Can’t. You’re here.”
And no matter how tender the moment was, something about his words breaks part of your thoughts. They’re in utter disarray, and you soon realise the actual issue.
You hear the absolute, unintended lie in his statement. It wasn’t one back then; but now, as you know reality, it is.
You’re here… he’s here. But not really. Something barges back into your mind, a simple question with indescribable weight.
Dr. Choi’s words. They are snatching your heart out of your chest as you sit here, in slow motion, probably cutting you up as you dream there in front of her. It feels like it, at least.
“Can you do it?”
Friends. Lovers. Nothing.
You can’t be any of it anymore. Or can you? Can’t you, can you? It’s as if ripping the petals of a flower, asking it to predict, only something you are barely able to deal with.
Fuck…
Will this ever stop playing in your head? But you don’t want to forget. You should. You don’t want to. You need to.
Your mind is all muddled and cluttered. You need to, but you don’t know how to do it. How to give into it.
Once again, words from above.
“Can you do it? Just that one moment?… It’s all that’s left.”
He’s all that was ever left.
You stare out into the wide, open space. Your expression changes, lips falling. There’s beauty around you, but you can’t entirely appreciate it.
Like, the thin ice’s glimmer on the ground. The trees on the other side, covered and high, ringing you in soft silence. Still those clouds of breath in the air. Since the sunlight faded, it’s become quite dark, but you know the sky can still turn from dark blue to black.
And then, the light of the moon will be too faint and cold, so you’ll have to leave soon. Which means, this memory is about to end.
You look at the sky reflecting in the ice like glass. You’re unsure. How does it feel like the memory is both dying and alive? Transcendent but haunting.
This is probably what Choi meant when she spoke of slowing down the process. You were aware of this illusion before, but you feel more lucid now; like you broke some fourth wall, pushing a hand through it to interact.
You concentrate. Close your eyes.
And just this once, you feel the ability to interact return to you. It works because the rest of the conversation is redundant for the procedure; you don’t think you were going to say much before going home anyway.
So you state, “This will end.”
“…What?”
The initial confusion doesn’t come as a surprise. Your words catch him off guard, so he’s looking at you as if you’re seeing ghosts. You understand that this is something off course; but you’re breaking through, creating something new, even if it doesn’t translate into real life.
Which means that if you want, you could make him understand in this mind of yours.
You need this. You’ll treat this as the last dream before it, eventually, fake or real, disappears.
This time, when you repeat, “This will end soon,” he seems to get it. Your brain has altered this, altered him. He is somebody now who knows. His expression softens when he says, “I know.”
He whispers it with the same delicate care as you did before, though this time, ache resonates, too.
You pull in your legs, the jacket under you soon not warm enough anymore; but you still have the control to tell him, “I guess this Better Tomorrow idea isn’t too bad. Lets us relive this. In a way, it’s a gift, being able to see you and us for a last time before we vanish.”
“I agree.”
“Was it like this with you, too?”
He nods. “It was. It felt like dying, but… it was needed, too.”
In truth, you’ll never know, but in your mind, the nod and his admission are real.
You’re surprised about how stable the ice is, even though the winter hasn’t entirely settled; it’s not even Christmas yet. At some places, the ice is probably still fragile. A bit like time. Frozen, but about to crack.
This clearing is fucking perfect. Always has been. A place of vulnerability, nature’s heart laid open. Like yours.
Hard to believe that this season comes right before spring. Because love blooms anytime; yours does — did — now. But even so, this doesn’t feel like a beginning; everything is about to go away, even though the world will move on.
You sniffle, turn to look at him properly. You tell him, although in your consciousness, he already knows, “We’ll kiss now. Move in not too long after.”
He listens, as if you’re telling a good night story. Smiles a bit, though it’s the saddest smile you have ever seen.
You take a deep breath, glance down to your intertwined hands. “I know because sometimes, my apartment feels like it was never supposed to be only mine. I have lived in it for so long, but it doesn’t just… carry my personality.” You look back into his eyes, deeper. “You might be there forever. Even when I don’t know you anymore.”
“Isn’t it… crazy to wrap your head around?”
“What is?”
“Everything.”
That’s it. No need to elaborate.
“It is.”
A corner of his lip twitches upward as he changes his stance. His legs pull in like yours, mirroring you. When he parts his lips, you reckon you know what he’ll say next; it’s your head after all.
But even in the deepest of your consciousness, he seems to be his very own person. An entity you can never predict or paint the way he was.
So it hits you, hits you hard when he asks, “…Do you want to forget me?”
…Do you?
You told Dr. Choi what you think about this. It’s not an easy question after all. But maybe it’s him who you find an answer in. Maybe, regardless of whether he’s real or a figment of your imagination, it’s easier to pour out your heart to him.
No, it is. Of course it is.
“We were in love, Jungkook. And now,” you start; a low, small chuckle follows, “we’re not anything. This very confession was constantly up there, even after the break up.” You put a finger to your temple and back down again. “That moment…”
Your throat becomes clogged. The heaviness spreads throughout your body; from afar, you see a couple trees slowly disappear.
You swallow, slight panic settling in. But you keep yourself in a full piece; you owe it to yourself, so you conclude, “This whole moment… and this look, your smile. It never stops replaying in my head. Not even as a memory… as punishment.”
“A punishment… that’s what it is.”
The forest becomes indistinct, the outlines vague. You whisper again, “We were in love. So no… I don’t want to forget you.”
You look at him — his face is still there, still the same, every mole at its place. You studied each inch of him over the years, didn’t you?
Your breath is shaky as you tell him, “But I really need to. Because… in this very moment right here, so early on, I decided there would be nobody else ever again. But I’m starting to think that if I don’t let go, there really won’t be.”
He shakes his head. You don’t think he’s fishing for pity, because his voice is so sad, so lonely and serious when he says, “There are many like me.”
“I dunno, Kook… Maybe some are like you. But no one really is you.”
“Can you do it then? This one moment?”
These aren’t his words. Your mind is just replaying them as a reminder, bringing something out of life into this dream. All you can do now is smile; let go; permit the tears.
“God,” you breathe under another, fabricated laugh. You bring up your shoulder, wipe off most of the damp trail on your cheek. “This is fucking hard. I mean… once I give into this, you’ll be gone forever, huh?”
“I will be.”
“I don’t— I don’t want to erase all of you. Just this moment. But knowing you and living without you is killing me. Please understand, okay?”
He leans in until your foreheads touch. You think he’s crying, too, sniffling, sadness written all over his countenance in a way that makes him look younger. His hands are still crushing yours, and when he shakes his head, yours moves with his.
“I understand,” he assures, “I hope you do, too. I am sorry. I love you. I love you.”
There’s one thing you’re sure of — that he might delete you out of his mind and his life a hundred times. But if he could remember, this would be true: he’s sorry. He loves you.
Jungkook didn’t fight. But God, did he love you to the end of the world and back.
You murmur, your voice fluttering, “I love you, too.”
There’s a clear and audible crack somewhere under you. No sun anywhere close, but as the memory crashes, so do your surroundings. The ice is breaking, or simply vanishing. You don’t know.
He hears it, too. Looks down, says, “It’s already melting.”
It’s not. But…
“It’s still winter,” you state.
Or maybe it is melting. Maybe you’ve accepted some path towards healing or another. Have accepted that this is it. Is there some rule about being able to change the atmosphere and everything around along with your mentality?
Because maybe you are ending the winter right now. Maybe that’s why the ice is melting. In a bit, you’ll feel better. It’ll be okay. It needs to be.
You’re so fucking scared.
You can’t imagine forgetting him. Fuck.
The sounds start to fade, the ice not as hard, not as cold anymore. It’s ready to swallow who you were; so with the last of the seconds left, you hold onto him. Etch the touch into your mind, though you know there’s no purpose in doing so.
“It really is melting,” he says again, though not a bit worried. He won’t stop looking at you. “Maybe we should go back.
Your voice is muffled, too, when you tell him, “We can’t go back. If it melts… then let’s stay until it does.”
One last smile. Light fractures — and everything dissolves into white.
Your eyes open to a dazzling gleam.
Perceiving the strange ache in your muscles follows soon after, as if you didn’t just spend a night on the cosiest mattress in the world. You take pride in having chosen this one — it has never deserted you before. Except tonight, perhaps.
You sit up, still tired but somewhat weightless as you come to your senses. Weird because you still feel the remnants of a long dream still linger.
You’ve forgotten the details and the names. Behind your eyelids, phantoms of trees and stars and wires tangled around limbs still persist… but when you reach for them, there’s nothing there to grasp.
Only an echo of warmth, like the trace of some well-known song you still can’t name.
But it doesn’t matter. Because first off, if it leaves such a bittersweet yearning in its wake, it couldn’t have been terrible at least. There must have been something good about it. And secondly, you finally realise where the illumination is coming from, and this is much more important.
It’s the morning light, drifting through the blinds. Warm and golden. It paints soft lines across your face, blinding you when you shift enough to see right into the burning star you orbit. And though the silence feels strangely unfamiliar today, you feel at peace for now.
Not everyone can say that about a Monday morning. And the mess around the room won’t deter you; you’ll clean it up later.
Gosh, what the hell did you do yesterday? Cleaning up for hours, probably, that monthly occurrence.
The early stretches are desperately needed for your body, much like the coffee waiting in the kitchen. You watch the steam rise and twist in the sunlight for a bit, still fatigued from a night that felt too short.
But you’re content, and that should be good enough to start the day.
As the coffee hits your system, you swipe through the newest stories on social media — how many of them did you miss? There must be at least a hundred. Of people you know, of people you don’t. You wonder how some of them got into your following list, but you don’t bother thinking about it too hard.
You’ll assume there are influencers you decided to follow at some point. Or acquaintances of acquaintances… or somebody you followed on accident. Like this girl recreating viral recipes, or a random, ridiculously handsome man with impossibly dark, fluffy hair, a mole under his lips.
For a moment, your finger holds the story still; you look at the bright smile. He was at a concert last night, it seems…
Shit… can you afford being distracted? The time at the top of your screen says no; you should probably get going — so you do. Yawning and with drooping eyes, you look out into the winter one more time.
It’s cold, but you’re grateful for the long awaited sun fighting its way through the clouds. The days have been grey lately, gloomy and freezing. Or maybe they just felt this way to you. Work was harsh, and you haven’t seen your friends in a while either—
If you think about it, you can barely recall much of the last months at all. The days blur into one, no big event, nothing out of the ordinary.
You sigh before you get up to brush your teeth, trodding through your usual routine. Except, you loiter too long in front of the mirror, wondering why you look so different today. You lean closer, inspecting your eyes, your cheeks, your jaw.
A little thinner, a little worn.
You don’t particularly feel that way, though you can’t deny that sliver of morning melancholia — like the world’s a little emptier. But this has happened before, you guess, to everyone who’s ever lived. You’re sure it’ll change the moment you step among your coworkers.
Who’d know. Many perks of living alone, but a big downside with the name loneliness, too.
Outside, the air is frosty, the sky washed in a pale blue. You pull your coat tighter, jogging down the road; past the bookstore, the florist, the pharmacy. A subtle ad for Better Tomorrow. You grimace.
You can’t imagine what in the world would ever make you take upon such services. The world has become a dystopia.
And then you reach the car, only to halt for a moment inside.
Hmm…
You immediately spy some frost on the window when you close the door. It’s nothing too unusual, but there’s a certain, goosebump-inducing quality to how it catches the beam from above in a way that makes you pause.
Reminiscent of a fairy tale, even if you’ve seen something as regular as frost many times in your young life. Even if it’s part of daily life, a typical aspect of the season. But it’s almost like…
Sunlight reflecting off ice. A frozen lake.
You blink. Shake off the odd feeling, clearing your throat before you let the radio hum in the background. A song you don’t know by heart, but one you recognise.
You’re too early at work, but it’s not a mistake. The grumble in your stomach is incessant, unbearable; the coffee wasn’t nearly enough to keep you content. And luckily, it has been some time since you hit up the bakery you so love, so maybe this should be the first priority of the day.
You park the car in front of your work building; the bakery is a quick stroll from here. It serves your favourite pistachio croissants and world-class hazelnut cookies — you can’t say how you’ve been living on a small bowl of cornflakes and some granola bars lately when this little paradise exists.
Today particularly, the place calls for you.
The scent wafts towards you from afar, and you, like the magnet you’ve become, comically feel like a levitating cartoon character lured in by warm comfort. Gosh, you love this corner; the smell of sugar and butter always clings to the air, no exception, everpresent.
One of the staff there once told you that it’s an old bakery. A family business. You think a friend recommended it a few years back and ever since, every other branded shop has paled in comparison. You step inside; the bell above rings softly.
You’re already bored by the prospect of having to haunt — or being haunted by? — your workplace for hours today, but the knowledge of this shop waiting for you just down the street is a great consolation you do not take for granted.
But today, the atmosphere seems changed.
There is a line in front of the counter — but no surprise, nothing new, not the reason. This isn’t what catches your eyes, but the man standing just a couple feet from you, fishing for money in his wallet in advance.
His hair is a little messy, eyes down as he waits. You don’t know him personally, you’re sure. Is he some viral personality after all? Because you could swear you didn't know him when you saw him on your Instagram earlier, either.
Should you talk to him? Ask what the deal is, how you landed at the same place as a possible online star? You could ask him whether he’s an influencer. Then again, you also never checked whether he followed you back — maybe he’s a random guy after all.
But if he does, he might recognise you. That is him at least, for sure.
And your certainty grows when he looks back for a moment, out the window filling the entire fourth wall of the café slash bakery, and eventually, at you. His eyes remain stuck on you for a slowed-down moment.
Maybe you were right. Maybe…
You subtly put a hand to your chest. What is this? This… the way something shifts for a heartbeat. Something small and invisible, like the flicker of a light about to burn out. It’s evaporating as fast as it came.
And your breath; it catches without a reason. A ghost of warmth rises in your chest before it’s off into nothingness again.
The moment is already too long, but not awkward. But when you give in, flashing a tiny smile, he does so just briefly before breaking his gaze and turning back again. It was a friendly smile, nothing too familiar. Resembling the one that the customers are giving the boy behind the counter before walking away.
The stranger does the same. Orders. Pays. You hear his kind voice, hear the laugh when the cashier says something funny. Somewhere inside you, his laugh rings, faintly, just temporarily.
Maybe that’s what people mean by the spark on the first sight, or by a brief yet fleeting attraction to somebody on the same bus or same elevator or in the same damn shop.
The man soon utters his goodbyes to the cashier, flashes one more friendly look towards you. You stand there mesmerised, confused; and when he walks past and takes a seat at the back of the bakery, you let out a breathy laugh.
Funny, human beings.
The muffled noises soon come back with full force, and the chatter and laughter, footsteps and cars sound in your ears. Everything turns ordinary within the blink of an eye.
You must be insane today. But you wouldn’t swap these moments for any hurt in the world; the tiny moments of relishing a bakery scent, of falling in love with strangers who smile at you.
No matter how many of these you might see, though — somewhere out there, somebody’s dwelling who’ll make you feel this way every single day. These short-lived scenarios might be easy to forget, but life might just throw something at you some day that will be worth remembering.
Memories are powerful after all. They grab you by your throat, suffocating you, or graze you like a feather, wrapping you in warmth. Either way, they remain. So no use in wasting them.
You grab your takeaway cup, the second coffee for later, and your breakfast; outside, the day’s unfolding, chaotic and bright and busy. Somewhere inside you, your heart feels even lighter than before.
One last time, you glance back at the man, his eyes glued to his phone. He’s sipping his coffee, tattooed fingers around the grip of the cup. And then, as if he notices your stare tickling his skin, he looks up, straight to you, no detours.
His lips move up for a second when his eyes meet yours; his are dark gems, boring into you kindly yet with a slight squint; like he's seen you before. And then, as a sane stranger would, he’s back focusing on his own life again.
You turn back. Take a sip. Let the sweetness of the sugar settle in; let the sweetness within bloom. It’s faint in your heart, like the echo of love preserved under ice. Waiting for spring.
Sometimes, a feeling persists, even when one doesn’t know why.
You let it. Bask in it. The mess of emotions lingers soothingly. It will as long as life endures. Meanwhile — the globe will turn. The seasons will transpire.
And the world will move on.
hi there :') it is almost 5am and my eyes are drooping, so apologies if i missed anything while editing! do please tell me if i forgot a warning or smth. i might also come back to refine the smut at some point, but i still hope it was ok!! in any case, i put all my heart and soul into this fic for months, so it'd be super cool if you talked to me about it 🥺 and liked/reblogged/commented/supported it in any way <3
there's a lot of symbolism in this one.. so i'm very curious about how you interpret things. much to analyse!! okay and now bye, love youuuu
also just curious; since it's a heavy fic, i do wonder. how many of you reached the end? :P and if you did, let's talk about it <3
alternative ending! most of the last scene is the same; only the very ending differs. read from the moment she enters the bakery!
Your eyes open to a dazzling gleam.
Perceiving the strange ache in your muscles follows soon after, as if you didn’t just spend a night on the cosiest mattress in the world. You take pride in having chosen this one — it has never deserted you before. Except tonight, perhaps.
You sit up, still tired but somewhat weightless as you come to your senses. Weird because you still feel the remnants of a long dream still linger.
You’ve forgotten the details and the names. Behind your eyelids, phantoms of trees and stars and wires tangled around limbs still persist… but when you reach for them, there’s nothing there to grasp.
Only an echo of warmth, like the trace of some well-known song you still can’t name.
But it doesn’t matter. Because first off, if it leaves such a bittersweet yearning in its wake, it couldn’t have been terrible at least. There must have been something good about it. And secondly, you finally realise where the illumination is coming from, and this is much more important.
It’s the morning light, drifting through the blinds. Warm and golden. It paints soft lines across your face, blinding you when you shift enough to see right into the burning star you orbit. And though the silence feels strangely unfamiliar today, you feel at peace for now.
Not everyone can say that about a Monday morning. And the mess around the room won’t deter you; you’ll clean it up later.
Gosh, what the hell did you do yesterday? Cleaning up for hours, probably, that monthly occurrence.
The early stretches are desperately needed for your body, much like the coffee waiting in the kitchen. You watch the steam rise and twist in the sunlight for a bit, still fatigued from a night that felt too short.
But you’re content, and that should be good enough to start the day.
As the coffee hits your system, you swipe through the newest stories on social media — how many of them did you miss? There must be at least a hundred. Of people you know, of people you don’t. You wonder how some of them got into your following list, but you don’t bother thinking about it too hard.
You’ll assume there are influencers you decided to follow at some point. Or acquaintances of acquaintances… or somebody you followed on accident. Like this girl recreating viral recipes, or a random, ridiculously handsome man with impossibly dark, fluffy hair, a mole under his lips.
For a moment, your finger holds the story still; you look at the bright smile. He was at a concert last night, it seems…
Shit… can you afford being distracted? The time at the top of your screen says no; you should probably get going — so you do. Yawning and with drooping eyes, you look out into the winter one more time.
It’s cold, but you’re grateful for the long awaited sun fighting its way through the clouds. The days have been grey lately, gloomy and freezing. Or maybe they just felt this way to you. Work was harsh, and you haven’t seen your friends in a while either—
If you think about it, you can barely recall much of the last months at all. The days blur into one, no big event, nothing out of the ordinary.
You sigh before you get up to brush your teeth, trodding through your usual routine. Except, you loiter too long in front of the mirror, wondering why you look so different today. You lean closer, inspecting your eyes, your cheeks, your jaw.
A little thinner, a little worn.
You don’t particularly feel that way, though you can’t deny that sliver of morning melancholia — like the world’s a little emptier. But this has happened before, you guess, to anyone who’s ever lived. You’re sure it’ll change the moment you step among your coworkers.
Who’d know. Many perks of living alone, but a big downside with the name loneliness, too.
Outside, the air is frosty, the sky washed in a pale blue. You pull your coat tighter, jogging down the road; past the bookstore, the florist, the pharmacy. A subtle ad for Better Tomorrow. You grimace.
You can’t imagine what in the world would ever make you take upon such services. The world has become a dystopia.
And then you reach the car, only to halt for a moment inside.
Hmm…
You immediately spy some frost on the window when you close the door. It’s nothing too unusual, but there’s a certain, goosebump-inducing quality to how it catches the beam from above in a way that makes you pause.
Reminiscent of a fairy tale, even if you’ve seen something as regular as frost many times in your young life. Even if it’s part of daily life, a typical aspect of the season. But it’s almost like…
Sunlight reflecting off ice. A frozen lake.
You blink. Shake off the odd feeling, clearing your throat before you let the radio hum in the background. A song you don’t know by heart, but one you recognise.
You’re too early at work, but it’s not a mistake. The grumble in your stomach is incessant, unbearable; the coffee wasn’t nearly enough to keep you content. And luckily, it has been some time since you hit up the bakery you so love, so maybe this should be the first priority of the day.
You park the car in front of your work building; the bakery is a quick stroll from here. It serves your favourite pistachio croissants and world-class hazelnut cookies — you can’t say how you’ve been living on a small bowl of cornflakes and some granola bars lately when this little paradise exists.
Today particularly, the place calls for you.
The scent wafts towards you from afar, and you, like the magnet you’ve become, comically feel like a levitating cartoon character lured in by warm comfort. Gosh, you love this corner; the smell of sugar and butter always clings to the air, no exception, everpresent.
One of the staff there once told you that it’s an old bakery. A family business. You think a friend recommended it a few years back and ever since, every other branded shop has paled in comparison. You step inside; the bell above rings softly.
You’re already bored by the prospect of having to haunt — or being haunted by? — your workplace for hours today, but the knowledge of this shop waiting for you just down the street is a great consolation you do not take for granted.
But today, the atmosphere seems changed.
There is a line in front of the counter — no surprise, nothing new, not the reason. This isn’t what catches your eyes, but the man standing just a couple feet from you, fishing for money in his wallet in advance.
His hair is a little messy, eyes down as he waits. You don’t know him personally, you’re sure. Is he some viral personality after all? Because you could swear you didn't know him when you saw him on your Instagram earlier, either.
Should you talk to him? Ask what the deal is, how you landed at the same place as a possible online star? You could ask him whether he’s an influencer. Then again, you also never checked whether he followed you back — maybe he’s a random guy after all.
But if he does, he might recognise you. That is him at least, for sure.
And your certainty grows when he looks back for a moment, out the window filling the entire fourth wall of the café slash bakery, and eventually, at you. His eyes remain stuck on you for a slowed-down moment.
Maybe you were right. Maybe…
You subtly put a hand to your chest. What is this? This… the way something shifts for a heartbeat. Something small and invisible, like the flicker of a light about to burn out. It’s evaporating as fast as it came.
And your breath; it catches without a reason. A ghost of warmth rises in your chest before it’s off into nothingness again.
The moment is already too long, but not awkward. But when you give in, flashing a tiny smile, he does so just briefly before breaking his gaze and turning back again. It was a friendly smile, nothing too familiar. Resembling the one that the customers are giving the boy behind the counter before walking away.
The stranger does the same. Orders. Pays. You hear his kind voice, hear the laugh when the cashier says something funny. Somewhere inside you, his laugh rings, faintly, just temporarily.
Maybe that’s what people mean by the spark on the first sight, or by a brief yet fleeting attraction to somebody on the same bus or same elevator or in the same damn shop.
The man soon utters his goodbyes to the cashier, flashes one more friendly look towards you. You stand there mesmerised, confused; and when he walks past and takes a seat at the back of the bakery, you let out a breathy laugh.
Funny, human beings.
The muffled noises soon come back with full force, and the chatter and laughter, footsteps and cars sound in your ears. Everything turns ordinary within the blink of an eye.
You must be insane today. But you wouldn’t swap these moments for any hurt in the world; the tiny moments of relishing a bakery scent, of falling in love with strangers who smile at you.
Memories are powerful, and often so, so cherished after all, no matter how ephemeral. They grab you by your throat, suffocating you, or graze you like a feather, wrapping you in warmth. Either way, they remain. So no use in wasting them. You’ll keep making them.
You grab your takeaway cup, the second coffee for later, and your breakfast; outside, the day’s unfolding, chaotic and bright and busy. Somewhere inside you, your heart feels even lighter than before.
One last time, you glance back at the man, his eyes glued to his phone. He’s sipping his coffee, tattooed fingers around a similar cup to the one you’re holding. And then, as if he notices your stare tickling his skin, he looks up, straight to you, no detours.
His lips move up for a second when his eyes meet yours; his are dark gems, boring into you kindly yet with a slight squint; like he's seen you before. And then, as a sane stranger would, he’s back focusing on his own life again.
You turn back. Take a sip. Let the sweetness of the sugar settle in; let the sweetness within bloom. It’s faint in your heart, like the echo of love preserved under ice. Waiting for spring.
But then you glance at the world around you. At the man running over a red traffic light; a sweet, old lady gently conversing with a random hot dog seller; a sister holding her brother’s hand, leading him to school.
You recognise the dozen emotions and their colours mixing in the air.
And in between, there is you, hoping for a warmer season to come, hoping for a garden to blossom in your heart.
But why wait? Why not plant it around you yourself?
You are not a Goddess. You’re not the nature itself; only part of it. You will never be able to change the layers of the Earth or control what flourishes and what wilts. You can’t trigger or stop evolution. And emotions will always be the same, for anyone who ever was, is or will be.
But what you can do is affect your own life. Make decisions you consider right, and sometimes, even wrong.
So you turn on your heel, determined to cut the word cowardice out of your vocabulary.
But when you look back, the seat from earlier is empty. Somebody else is walking towards it, rushing to secure it. The cup is gone, and so is the man.
You sigh.
Only to realise that you weren’t the only one with that glorious idea.
Because just as you make up your mind to walk to work and finish your croissant-coffee breakfast in the break room, you feel a warm presence step next to you.
There’s no greeting — only a scent of familiarity and comfort and something you might have known in a prior life; and an amused yet somehow concerned—
“Prank girl,” his sweet, gentle voice says, “it’s you.”
His hair looks as soft as in his social media story. His face is lit golden, and his lips a delicate, perfect curve. A mole you remember from before. The flaring star is behind him, so you squint into it, not entirely sure whether he’s causing the blinding or the sun.
You don’t know what he’s referring to. Prank girl. He might be a follower of yours after all; maybe you posted something odd in the past. You decide to ask later.
For now, you only wonder about your heartbeat; and most of all, about the way he looks like the stars and sounds like a tranquil lake. The yearning that your dream left behind — this is what he emits, too.
Sometimes, a feeling persists or returns, even when one doesn’t know why.
You let it. Bask in it. The mess of emotions lingers soothingly. It will as long as life endures. Meanwhile — the globe will turn. The seasons will transpire. The world will move on.
And as long as you’re part of the universe, you will do and feel what humans are supposed to. Remember like they’re supposed to.
So, you raise a brow, eyes set on the silky mane and an oversize style and wonder—
“Is it me?”
as i said, feel free to spam me – i would absolutely love to talk to you about either ending or both, and just the story in general. i didn't think it'd mean as much to me as it does now.
–
so, this ending came to me this morning and i thought… it is very different from the original one and perhaps just as open… but it's still just as gorgeous. i think that both endings signify different things. one assures that it's okay to move on and not find love in who you thought you'd find love in after all. even on the second try, people's cores stay the same, so at times, we're not meant for them – and sometimes, there's someone out there who's truly yours. but maybe, if you interpreted it that way, they get in touch after all. the first ending is all yours – you can do with it in your mind what you think is right. this is just my interpretation <3
this ending, on the other hand, encourages to keep trying as long as one's ready to try. he might not have fought the first time, but maybe this time will be different. and even if it isn't – even if they part the same way. this time around, they might be ready to keep the memories. to live with the pain and remember who they once loved, keep them in their hearts till the end of their lives.
whichever ending you enjoy or identify with, i hope you guys also find the courage to always find hope in love, too, no matter how cruel the world sometimes might be <3 i love you
Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!!
➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation;
➳ wc: 32.3k
➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3
➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.
Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.
Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.
What’s wrong with that? Nothing.
Or.
Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.
Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.
It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.
But no.
You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…
You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.
General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.
At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.
Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.
But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.
And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.
Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.
Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.
But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.
Except you.
And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.
No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.
So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.
Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.
And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.
And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.
He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?
But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.
Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.
He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue.
And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.
When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.
More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.
But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…
The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.
Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.
He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.
Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.
Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.
Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.
A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.
Chill chill chill.
But now?
With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.
But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”
Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.
Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.
And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”
That’s sweet.
Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.
Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”
And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.
The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”
Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.
But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.
“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”
“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”
“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”
“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”
Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.
“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”
Ah. Yes — about that.
“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”
“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”
Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?
Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”
Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.
“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”
This is so excitingly new.
How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.
And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.
Ugh.
Dependent degree.
Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.
Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.
“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”
“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”
Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”
Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it then?”
“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”
Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”
Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”
“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”
“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”
Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.
No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.
Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”
But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”
“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”
“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”
“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?
“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”
“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”
The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement.
Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him.
So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.
He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”
“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”
“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”
He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.
Why?
Weird.
“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.
“Ah… Like…”
Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.
Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.
“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”
Focus.
Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.
“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”
You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?
He wouldn’t hate it if you did.
“Do you know that one?” he questions.
You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”
“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”
You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.
Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”
“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”
The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger.
Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.
You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.
“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”
“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”
“I mean— took a while to get here.”
“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”
Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.
“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”
For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?
He prods, “To do what?”
“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”
You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.
For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.
He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”
And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.
But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.
Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”
“Do you come here a lot?”
Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.
The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.
Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.
Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.
Dark and light — a healthy mix.
It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.
But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.
Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.
Because you’re part of it.
Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.
You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.
“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”
You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”
Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.
It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.
But maybe your guard can be broken, too.
“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”
A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.
“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.
It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.
Or even… scared?
You can’t truly be.
So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.
“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”
“So… I’m not pretty?”
Oh. Oh?
Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.
Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”
“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”
Why is there something so devilish about you?
He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react.
Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?
Barely ever.
“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”
“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”
“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”
Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?
Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?
Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?
Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.
Like now.
You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”
“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”
Right. Right; of course he’s right.
But… what is that?
It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.
“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”
“Sure.”
“Behave, though.”
He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”
“Right.”
“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”
He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.
Which doesn’t help his case.
“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”
“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”
“Fuckbo—”
“Nevermind.”
If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.
You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?
Yet.
You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.
Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”
You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”
“Well, shit.”
“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”
“Sure.”
Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.
“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”
You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.
But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?
When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.
“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”
“And it’s not, yeah?”
“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”
Interesting…
“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.
You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”
“Ohhh. Like what?”
“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”
Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.
You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”
Earn it? How?
Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?
And then…
If that’s what it is.
He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.
“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.
“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”
Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.
He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”
“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”
Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.
And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.
But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.
One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.
He inquires, “Are you always this open?”
“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”
“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”
“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”
Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.
Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.
Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.
But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.
Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”
“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”
“I do.”
“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”
Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”
You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”
Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.
He sighs.
“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.
And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.
And he watches.
Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”
Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.
And then… God.
He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.
Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.
When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.
You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.
But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”
You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.
But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…
He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.
He wishes he could.
His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”
The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”
“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”
People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?
Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”
He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”
Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?
You’re just a person.
Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.
He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.
Wants to be the colour green for you.
“Ah—” you voice.
“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”
“…How come?”
“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”
You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?
Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.
“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”
“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”
You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”
“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”
Another sip of the seething liquid.
If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?
Are his advances kindergarten to you?
You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”
“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”
“And you separated from him because…”
Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.
And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.
He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—
“Because I found you.”
There it is.
The slightest of reactions.
Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…
“So you did follow me,” you say.
He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.
But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”
You smile.
Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.
The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.
Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.
Green, green, green.
And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.
“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”
[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you
For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.
The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.
Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.
It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.
And…
And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.
Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.
You… you…
If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.
No, you made that mess.
Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.
Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.
“Fuuuuck.”
The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?
Too long, is all he knows.
His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.
He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.
And he feels just a little guilty.
Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.
You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.
But just for a bit. Just a little.
The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.
But you’re not. And he wants to show you.
Just one touch, please.
“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.
[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?
Should he wait? You did, too.
Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?
Screw it.
[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?
Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.
Good.
[6:53PM] You: Your music?
[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days
He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.
Because then, the thoughts flood in.
Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?
But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.
Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.
All this must mean something.
“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”
[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.
It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—
[6:56PM] You: Oh, and?
[6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec
Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?
[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like…
[6:57PM] You: 7pm
Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests.
[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion
As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.
[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :)
[6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way
Oh.
Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.
Goddamn.
You’re so thoroughly you.
[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?
And that’s it. You disappear.
Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.
If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?
If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.
[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up
Oh shit.
Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.
And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.
How embarrassing.
The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.
Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.
Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.
The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.
Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.
You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…
Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.
You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.
But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.
And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that he needs to say something.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”
He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.
You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.
What are you hiding?
If he could, he’d speak it out loud.
“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”
Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”
Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,
“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”
But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.
But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.
He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.
If he did, you might realise.
Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.
And Jungkook observes you.
The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.
It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.
And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.
He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.
“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”
You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”
Okay. Not that tough of a topic.
“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”
“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”
“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”
“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”
“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”
Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.
“How would you?” he asks.
“As a rockstar?”
“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”
You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.
Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.
Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.
He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”
“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”
The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”
And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”
He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.
“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”
He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.
“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”
You blink, frozen in place.
The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.
As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”
Why don’t you want him?
Goddamn it.
“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”
The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.
He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.
It must be on purpose.
He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.
Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”
Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.
You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”
He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”
“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”
“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”
“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”
“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”
Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.
Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.
You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.
Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.
The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.
Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.
As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.
Do you feel the same?
As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?
Maybe.
When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.
Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.
Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.
He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.
He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.
And he wants to know about yours.
Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.
Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.
But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.
So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”
You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“You zoned out.”
“Which is a good thing, I promise.”
Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.
But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”
“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”
“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”
He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”
“I see.”
Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”
“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”
“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”
“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”
“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”
His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”
His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”
Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.
“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”
“It’s good to have dreams.”
“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”
“This determined, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”
Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.
“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”
What?
Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?
Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.
“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”
“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”
Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”
“I’m sorry.”
That’s it.
Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.
And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.
Maybe he doesn’t need to.
Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.
“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.
Only to crave. To look.
At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.
Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?
He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.
Fuck.
The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.
His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.
You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.
The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.
He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.
But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.
Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.
He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?
The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.
That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.
Control was never his domain, after all.
But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.
And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”
You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”
“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”
“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.
Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”
“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”
You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—
“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”
“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”
You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.
Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.
Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.
“What question?” you ask.
It’s just.
Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.
As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.
Yeah.
You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.
He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”
“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”
Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”
You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”
“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”
This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.
But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.
Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”
Oh?
“Why?”
“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”
Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”
“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”
“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”
“For sure.”
“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”
“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”
“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”
“No?”
“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”
You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”
“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”
You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”
“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”
“…Maybe you’re right.”
Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.
Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”
It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.
Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”
His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.
“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”
“Oh… damn.”
“Yeah.”
“…I don’t know what to say.”
But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.
You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.
In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.
The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.
He can’t win.
“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.
Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”
“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”
Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.
Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?
“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”
You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”
“How so?”
“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”
Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.
And somehow, it was never the prettier option.
Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”
“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”
Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…
“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”
“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”
It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.
Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.
But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.
Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.
No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.
“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”
“How would you know?”
“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”
“Ahhh—”
“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”
Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.
What was that?
Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”
…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.
And all you say is, “I understand.”
A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.
“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”
“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”
The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.
Vulnerable.
And it makes him want you more.
Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.
And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.
It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.
Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.
And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.
Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—
“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”
“…I’m not sure.”
Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.
Yet…
“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.
And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.
You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.
Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.
And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.
Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.
He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.
Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.
And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.
Should he? Maybe, maybe—
Not yet.
Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.
A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.
You’re burning up.
So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”
Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.
Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.
One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.
And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.
And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”
But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?
Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?
Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…
Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?
He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.
He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?
No, it doesn’t.
His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”
“Yeah?”
You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.
The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”
And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.
It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Okay. What if he does… this…
Thought so.
Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…
He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.
You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.
Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.
Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.
Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.
He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.
So inwardly. So desperately.
Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.
And then…
You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.
Okay.
The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.
But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.
And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.
Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.
And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.
No… this is ruining him just as much.
So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?
Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.
He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.
Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”
Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.
“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.
He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.
And he pauses.
Oh, this treasure…
“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”
You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.
But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.
He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…
But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…
“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.
“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”
“Of course I am.”
“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”
“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”
“I…”
“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”
Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.
It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.
“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.
“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”
You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.
So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.
But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.
Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.
He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…
Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”
“Hmmm, you want more?”
“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”
His secrets?
You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.
But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”
And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”
…Hmm…
You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?
No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.
He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.
Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”
“What?”
“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”
He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.
He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”
“You’re so…”
“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”
An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.
It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.
But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.
Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.
Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.
But…
But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.
So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.
Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?
Fuck, how…
No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.
“What are you…?”
Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.
“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”
“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”
You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.
“It was just sudden,” you conclude.
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all. I’m just curious.”
He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.
Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.
He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.
Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.
You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.
And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”
Oh my God.
If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.
He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.
As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.
But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.
Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.
You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”
But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”
“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”
“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”
He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.
“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”
A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.
No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.
The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.
Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.
He’s doing this to the both of you.
The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.
He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”
“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”
Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.
No. He knows he is. But…
He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.
Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.
So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”
Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.
Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.
With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.
Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.
He wants to, too.
So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.
And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.
Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?
Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.
Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.
God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.
But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.
“Spit on it,” he orders.
You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.
“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”
You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.
Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.
You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.
The view is… worth diamonds.
Do you even know?
“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”
But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.
So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.
Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.
But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.
“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”
You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.
And…
“Holy fuck.”
Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.
Okay… okay…
Wait. You’re saying something.
His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”
“I’m already so spent.”
“Ah… do you want to stop?”
“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”
Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”
“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”
No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.
Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity.
Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.
So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”
As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.
All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.
He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.
Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.
Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.
So maybe this is good enough for now.
“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”
“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”
Shit. Expected it.
But okay. Okay.
Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.
For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.
Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?
Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?
Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.
“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”
You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”
“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”
“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”
Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”
Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.
He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.
Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole.
And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.
Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.
He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.
Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.
Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—
He wants to go off right away. But… focus.
“How’s that?” he asks.
“Stop… stop talking.”
Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”
His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”
And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.
Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.
And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.
You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.
God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”
And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”
“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”
“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”
Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?
This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.
Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.
But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.
Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.
Until…
“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”
“I… I’m—”
You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”
“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”
“Good idea. Very good idea.”
He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.
No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?
Right.
Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.
If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.
A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—
And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.
Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.
For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.
At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair.
And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”
That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.
Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.
Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.
Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.
At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.
You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”
“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”
The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.
And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”
“Wha—”
He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.
“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”
And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.
As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.
Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.
It’s like putting a key into its lock.
“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.
And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…
You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.
So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.
And then, everything happens crazy fast.
How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.
The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.
He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”
The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.
There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.
Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.
“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”
He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.
You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…
Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.
He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.
So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.
Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.
Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.
His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.
And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.
The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.
And then—
“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.
His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.
And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.
It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”
You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”
Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.
Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.
Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.
God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.
Okay. Okay, where was he?
When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.
The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”
You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.
“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”
He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.
Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”
“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—
Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”
“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”
“Ah? Why?”
“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”
Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.
Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.
Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.
“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.
And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”
Ah… okay. Sure.
Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?
Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?
Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.
When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.
Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—
“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”
Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances—
Wait.
as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end (refresh if you started reading before i reblogged with the rest of the story!) <3
Jungkook awakens to the leftover heat reminiscent of last night. It tickles his body, warming his blood a little more, as if to tell him that something still remains unresolved. Even though the moment he fell asleep marked a clear end of the day.
But the sudden feeling of slight emptiness stirs him out of the last of his sleep, thoughts jumbled more than they ever are in the early morning. As his eyes open, he realises that the world outside the window is as foggy as his mind.
It looks cold out there; much the way his mattress feels without you on it.
He sighs a deep breath, finding the power in his muscles again; subtly sore-muscled after the additional… physical workout not many hours ago. His senses adjust to the new sunrise, feeling the softness of the sheets across his legs.
And when he listens, he hears it.
A thump and quiet curses, sounding from another room, so much gentler and purer than all that still echoes in his memories.
Long fingers attempting to tame his bed hair, he throws the blanket to the side, freezing when he realises that he yet has to cover himself up. Butt naked and with a hand brushing along the hanging, sore length, he hops off the bed, trudging straight to the wardrobe to fish for new underwear.
He grabs the bathrobe draped over the chair with a weak yawn, still registering the noises outside. Unhurried but not as relaxed as usual.
And then he finally pushes down the door handle, scanning the living room, but finally finding you in front of the mirror in the foyer.
You’re inspecting your wrist, one of your shoes in an upside down position on the ground. The door of the shoe cabinet stands ajar, and your expression suggests discomfort of some sort.
“Are you okay?”
Jungkook’s words, still carrying some sort of odd endearment from last night, are emphasised by an amused, teasing smirk. But the tired joy fades a little when you flinch, looking up in alarm that doesn’t stop chiming.
Hm…
“Sorry,” he adds straight away, launching forwards with an immediate sense of protection, “what’s wrong?”
“Ah, no, nothing,” you rebut, stepping an inch back, subtly but enough for him to notice. “I just. I hit my arm on the open door. Dropped my shoe.”
Your narrative isn’t as interesting as the shield you have drawn between the two of you again. Jungkook’s eyes move to your feet, not quite aligned, your stance weird as though ready to escape.
Did he come off too strong last night? Did he let loose too much, submitting to his wants more than you might have wished for?
He doesn’t know; because at that time, you seemed just as ready to drown as him. You weren’t swimming back to the surface, never indicating defence. Then why are you rushing to the shore now?
Perhaps you deem it a mistake now. You’re co-workers; dating isn’t frowned upon, but maybe you’re one to separate these two sides of your lives.
Whatever epiphany dawned on you, he doesn’t ask for it yet, afraid that you might arrive at a conclusion faster. Instinctively pushing him away without stating a reason; it wouldn’t surprise him. He doesn’t feel like you’re one to think you owe anyone anything.
Least of all an explanation to your actions and thoughts.
Careful, Jeon.
He points to the fallen Cinderella stiletto, a hand in the bathrobe’s pocket, and nears you cautiously. As if you could bite. Asks you in the same coquette, flirtatious tone as on the couch in the room next door,
“Were you just gonna leave without saying goodbye?”
“Well,” you respond, gaining back some of your solid repose, incredibly slowly but surely, “you were asleep.”
Incredibly slowly because you’re still tense. Surely, because you don’t emanate a fight-or-flight-intention anymore.
“Baby…” he tries, nearly whispering the word; you don’t budge, “you can wake me up anytime. I don’t mind.”
Right…
You don’t budge until you do. And when you break, you break weirdly. All composure dwindling bit by bit, though somehow more eerie when your words suggest defiance, but your voice shrinks a little.
“Don’t,” you start. Jungkook, startled, doesn’t notice how immediately his eyebrows knit together, but he does feel your body pushing itself away from him. And then— “We shouldn’t have done that.”
…What.
What?
No, hold on. Rewind. Thirteen steps back; what did he miss.
His stare turns disoriented, lost in a sea of jumbled thoughts, largely filled by questions of confusion until he echoes, “What?”
“We just. We were supposed to stay professional. The flirting was stupid because I didn’t want this to happen.”
If Jungkook could, he’d plant another pair of his eyes into your brain, just to read and understand the messages and pictures floating by. To unscramble the hidden meaning in your actions and statements and apparent emotions.
But he can’t; so all he does is smirk, rolling his eyes and his head to the side until his expression resembles mock. Your riddles might have been intriguing at the beginning, but after that night and those touches and the certainty he felt…
This is ridiculous.
He loses his mental balance, scale tipping off on one side, and part of the patience dissipates. Defending last night, he gestures towards you with an entire palm, uttering, “You suggested drinking together, and I thought it was a date.”
Shrugging his shoulders in irritation, he watches your countenance darken, though with guilt this time instead of the usual mystery. Confident, he breathes in, filling his strong chest with air of agitation as he adds—
“Or a clear fucking sign. You must think this is funny.”
“Well, I don’t!” you rebuke. “And it wasn’t.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I got carried away. We drank. And I— I don’t know. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Sleeping with me was stupid?” Jungkook remarks, tutting right away, as if to add a disbelieving Wow to his inquiry.
You shake your head, but then contradict your movements, “No. Or yeah. Don’t fucking know, but I don’t want it to happen again.”
“This is so…”
Jungkook lets out a breath of mock again, half laughing, half miffed; and perhaps you expected something else. A reaction that didn’t make you look idiotic; at least that’s how he’s truly perceiving you right now.
Because you clench your jaw, replacing the feeling of misconduct with your own vexation, and mutter, “That’s just. So frustrating.”
And Jungkook catches it, momentarily barking, “What?”
“Explaining something to you. Telling you that I think it was a mistake just because I need this to remain professional.”
“You could’ve said no or anything at all at any point. You knew what I thought of you, and you let me keep going, like you were baiting me for some reason.”
“No! N— you’re right, I should’ve said something,” you curl your fingers inwards, fists firm, as if you’re about to smack them against your forehead to insert some sense into it. “God. That’s just. Nothing’s changed since the festival.”
What the fuck.
Grave mistake.
You know it as well as he does. Only to you, the slip-up is clear and easily tangible; your eyes, wide as never reveal as much. But in his brain, however, the screws loosen bit by bit, not quite understanding what went wrong and why your words seem so familiar and immediate.
And the realisation is bubbling right beneath the surface, and somewhere in the silence of the deep ocean he’s been drowning in, he hears a noise again. You got him so good. So fucking good that he deemed his certainty shatterproof.
The thought that he wanted you, no matter what. That you’d keep pulling him into the water and he’d keep swallowing the desire.
But right now, none of it remains — last night’s blooming insanity turns a dozen shades darker, and Jungkook’s mind spins in circles, close to grasping the meaning in your fear.
“What did you say?” he nearly whispers, yet keeping his voice steady.
But you won’t grant him the clarification, only ready to flee, blurting, “I need to go home.”
And his hand twitches. Even lifts a couple inches, ready to grip you and twirl you around, teeth gritted and jaw clenched. The back of your body provokes him as much as it intrigued him before, an insult to all he’s thought of you so far.
Brain short circuiting, he, however, never reaches out. Frozen in place and unfocused, lips slightly apart and drying out. The itch in the back of his mind is impossible to scratch, creating profound confusion with the uncertainty about what to do with his body.
But all he knows is that—
There was a better way to point out his mistakes. His past, his memories, the way he approached you. He thought he could decode the enigma you were, dig through your soul and find answers.
He didn’t think he’d find himself here.
And.
Maybe you aren’t what he thought you were.
The misery hangs over the dark room like a cloud of doom.
In some sense, one might find a reason in the nervous atmosphere drenching the hall, or the excited chatter, constant noise from outside. Jungkook has never wanted to succumb to the doubts that usually occur with a nerve wracking situation, but he can’t quite deny the tingle behind his chest.
Or maybe, just maybe, he might find the cause of his fright in your presence tumbling back and forth, always a different object in your hand, fervently and diligently working towards a successful evening.
It didn’t seem to be that case when you abandoned him in his own home, trudging out into the chilly morning to leave him with his thoughts. He’s circled around your words and digested them as far as they allowed; somehow, the poison you spat seemed to corrode his insides, though.
Jungkook, grateful he hasn’t been in make-up and costume yet, runs inked digits through his silky hair for the nth time tonight, messing up the mane further. Didn’t think his first big showcase would be preceded by such insanity.
You take another walk through the backstage room, right past him, barely regarding him. The tension flickers between him and you like a dangerous spark; not quite the desirable type of fire burning priorly.
You’re barely looking at him until he forces you to.
You nearly press the wrong button on the lighting control as he calls your name, flinching and halting. The caution is characteristic and uncharacteristic of you, but if you are who he assumes you to be, then he understands the sudden fear you might be harbouring either way.
It’s similar to his own.
“Hey,” he starts, focused on whether your pupils flicker as you turn to him, but when your expression remains unmoving, he adds, “where were you? What are you doing?”
Despite the lingering shattered mood and the obvious radio silence between the two of you, you resort back to your usual demeanour quickly.
Your expression isn’t as irritated as much as it’s curious when you observe his eyes, listen into the tone, much like prey pondering whether the entity in front is an enemy in disguise. And then, once convinced you can speak your mind, you slowly say, “Preparing. What else would I be doing?”
“Nothing. Just thought you’d left.”
“I was scheduled to be here way ahead of the show. Why would I—” But your sentence breaks when you crack the unspoken clarification in Jungkook’s eyes; written in them so clearly that he knows you must’ve picked up on it. And indeed— “Leave… the company? Why?”
“I mean,” he starts, the lip nibble half nervous, half agitated, “I didn’t expect you to show up at all.”
You chuckle, a bit awkward, veiling the emotions that might be aligning with his — or not. “On a day like this?”
Another signature smile, tilted head, a former recipe for Jungkook to find salacious craze in you. Right now, it irritates him; sets his chest ablaze in the worst manner possible. Perhaps you notice the stern look and the silence, because you promptly add, “I’m… I’m actually sorry.”
The situation screams for forgiveness, given the need for professional teamwork and the approaching performances, but Jungkook is done falling into your gentle traps and fluttering eyelashes. You’ve kept yourself hidden in the dark too long, and he’ll pull the answers out of your throat and mind if need be.
Patiently, his head moves to the right a tiny inch, lips still in a line that he’s sure portray him as an asshole; yet, uncaring, he smugly questions, “What about?”
“For being rude,” you still answer, not catching his drift or genuinely infiltrated by guilt, “and for leaving so abruptly.”
Are you not sorry for what you said?
He swallows the urge to click his tongue, attempting to keep as calm as you are. His behaviour contradicts the media training he’s undergone throughout the years, shedding blood, sweat and tears; fortunately, this private room does not require control.
So he lets loose slowly, surely.
“It’s okay,” he starts, thinking he can see the visible breath of relief that moves your chest, “I’m not bothered by that.”
“…Good. Okay.”
You nod once, holding eye contact for a transient moment, and then turn around. Busying yourself with a set of buttons you didn’t quite grace any attention before, entirely immersed in the lighting function now, despite ever putting it in your job description.
The stage technicians are sufficient enough, possibly out and about and having tried out all the options already — there’s no need for you to act, and Jungkook reckons you know it as well as he does.
Because the float of your fingers over the keyboard isn’t quite as smooth as your take on your work on other days. You seem underworked, not as quick or enthusiastic as usual, and so incredibly distracted; he can tell without understanding much of the mechanics behind this.
His tongue runs over his upper set of teeth, a tetchy breath escaping his nostrils. This isn’t going anywhere. Has it ever? The brief story unfolding between him and you has been a circle without beginning and end, and he’s sick of it.
Your fingers don’t cease their obviously uninformed shenanigans, even when he so audibly approaches. Your stance straightens, though; even above the layers of clothing that you’ve wrapped your body in, he knows goosebumps are painting your skin.
Unaffected, he starts, “I think what I’m bothered by,” a smack of his lips, fingers touching his strands, ready to run through but then retracting, “and have been for a while is by the feeling that I knew you. And I think I was right?”
He didn’t mean to let the doubt seep through; he wanted to sound resolute, it’s just… no matter how much having met you before might make sense, he can’t categorise you. Can’t assign you to any memory.
Casually, you turn, palms still at the edge of the keyboard, leaning back and balancing yourself. As if a natural fact, you declare, “Yeah. You might be.”
“Oh?”
You whisper a faint, familiar name, starting the conversation at just the place Jungkook expected to make an appearance. The college he went to. And apparently…
“I graduated from there, too. And you were somewhat popular, remember? Of course I knew you… didn’t expect you to have seen or still know me, though.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it wasn’t important. You and I weren’t in touch, or even acquaintances. I was a stranger to you. What does this information do for us?”
Sure.
“You’re right,” he agrees, but you hear the telling hint in his voice; immediately following up with another argument.
“And I had a different hair colour back then. It’s not important.”
“No, of course not.” Except, nothing is ever important for you; to you; about you. Except, whenever you brushed your words off, it was to hide something far deeper. “Except,” he echoes, “something’s up with you.”
Mildly stated.
But ironically, his confusion bedazzles you, too.
“Huh?” you voice.
“You mentioned the festival looking all disturbed. Flower festival, huh? So unless you mean something entirely different out of pure coincidence… something must have happened that day to you.”
And something occurred to him, too.
Something life-shaping for sure. Easy to live through the moment, difficult to forget. Improbable to finally lurch out of his nightmares; cruel enough to make it impossible to ever redeem himself.
But how do you play a role in this? You never seemed pivotal. And if it wasn’t for the torn up letter hiding somewhere on the ground in the far back of his shelves, he might someday be able to not allow it to hunt him anymore, too.
Fuck, you don’t play a role, though. Or do you? No.
Nobody ever did but him. Nobody but her.
He steps a couple inches aside, freeing up some space to breathe; moreso for him than you, even though your chest falls less heavy, too. You lean back a little, arms moving in uncertainty, fiddling until you’re about to remove them from the lighting board.
Jungkook’s eyes dig into yours until your pupils move off his face, and he takes the opportunity to blink. To shift his gaze to the floor for a second, calming his raging heart. Perhaps it’s dizziness, and he can’t say if he’s hallucinating, but a strange, red flicker flashes in his eyesight, and he wonders if he should sit down.
He doesn’t. Instead, he listens as your quiet question forms—
“Did you have a shitty day back then, too, Jungkook?”
Fuck.
Now you’re doing it on purpose. Regaining your power, understanding whatever happened back then, for whatever fucking reason and throwing it at him like a knife. No. Like a boomerang.
He started this conversation. And you’re redirecting it back to him.
The corners of your lips twitch, not quite a smile, but a triumphant emotion akin to pride. You’re a siren; a monster in disguise. Or maybe he’s the devil, and you’re the one walking a seemingly righteous path.
“Are you mocking me?” he snaps, albeit keeping his voice somewhat low, somewhat steady.
“Why?” He gulps. Answer stuck in his throat, he attempts to make a sound, and when the question marks fill up the space in his brain until none remains, you speak again, “Looking back at it… Do you ever feel nostalgic?”
What…
“Or regret that you barely attended the festival?” you continue, your voice turning slowly, scarily, into a subtle snarl. “Were you busy elsewhere?”
“What the fuck are you saying?!”
He knows what you’re saying. He understands so well. But bringing it up again, by no other than a stranger is weird. Dumb. Unnecessary, inappropriate and so, so riddling.
And your cruel, bitchy self is well aware of his inner chaos; how he’s not as confused as he might act. So you don’t reveal it all at once, but rather retort, “You asked me. That’s the answer.”
When the dam breaks, it breaks hard. After a million redundant thoughts and inquiries, he finally snaps, though eventually asking the right question for once after everything else seems to have failed…
“Who are you?”
You sigh.
If he switched to your mind, he’d know that he would’ve never seen you back then. Not because you belonged to the cliché trope of glowing up into a runway model. And not because you shied away from every interaction whatsoever.
But because he had eyes for somebody else. Even though they glew a bright red — demon-like, hungry and never satiated.
You were an observer; saw the superficial, thirsty nature of a beast.
You sigh once more. The way you do anything is how you do everything.
Much like you, he hasn’t changed.
There was a reason you mostly hid in the back of the room and in the shadows of the crowd. You weren’t quite an introvert; that was the wrong word. You just didn’t bother associating and interacting with most of the cohorts at college.
People tended to be cruel or superficial or digging for class notes or seeking any other kind of temporary friendships that they’d forget once the year ended. You did make friends every now and then; fleeting ones who were kind enough to allow you to open up.
They didn’t have bad intentions, but they had their groups as much as you had your own life, and you neither interfered nor tossed each other onto the other. College friendships where you’d go on lunch dates once every other week and then forget about the person when exams rolled around.
But there was one you could never separate yourself from; chained firmly to their wrist, invisible handcuffs glueing you together. Key tossed away years ago.
And she was worth the effort and time. She had a bright smile and brighter eyes; however, drooping sometimes, tired due to prioritising everybody before herself.
“I’ll stick around until my feet tingle,” she’d always say, naive sometimes, keeping people close. Keeping him close.
You loved Jangmi like the older sister you never had. Some people thought you’d been in love with her, but you can neither deny nor confirm it anymore; the time of clarifying emotions has long passed.
And as much as you adored Jangmi, you hated the fact that she dated Jeon Jungkook just the same.
Not because you fawned over him the way so many you knew did. Or because you harboured even an ounce of jealousy; neither because you were one to gatekeep friends like her.
More because you read people as well as you read poetry, analysing stylistic devices and interpreting their innermost intentions until you saw them written in their faces.
Jungkook’s character was clear enough for you to detect telltale, signature behaviour from afar. He never noticed you because you never tried to get close enough, but Jungkook was so uniquely colour coded that you couldn’t help but understand all about him.
Not least of all due to Jangmi’s pink-tainted stories; in your imagination, all her words were heart-shaped. Even delusional.
In the beginning, when they’d been hanging out for just a while, you admired them. She remained inspirational to you, and he seemed to bring her joy. And you didn’t mind that she spent so much time with her affair, even though he wasn’t quite a boyfriend, not really a pal.
Other than you, nobody had too many thoughts on them; Jungkook hung out with way too many girls for anybody to assume he was dating her.
She must’ve been blind, because generally, she wasn’t the type to wait somewhere in a limbo, right where borders faded and a relationship stayed nameless, undefined; but Jungkook had done a number on her, it seemed.
He bothered you as time passed. When you saw from afar how he looked at her, and then at other girls. And how he spoke to her. Short answers, distracted hums. Responding to all she said, but never quite making as much of an in-love-impression as she did.
You could tell that he wasn’t attempting to commit; that he enjoyed spending time with her, enjoyed remaining under the sheets with her, but that he regarded that rapture as ephemeral and limited. And he only invited her over when he wanted to; would rarely agree when she asked.
And… he’d never been at her dorm; just where you lived, too. Of course he doesn’t know you today. You were way out of his focus.
But you directed all of yours onto him more than ever the day the flower festival rolled around. Senior year. Close to leaving the campus behind; parting from the relationships you’d built.
Except Jangmi. She’d stay. And she’d never stop being your person, you knew; it wouldn’t change. She was your green.
You thought the flower festival suited her well. In fact, she’d been eager to help with the preparation, though coming in late enough to merely have to add finishing touches. Which allowed her additional time with Jungkook.
One who didn’t perceive the festival quite the way she did.
A symbol and celebration of spring and new beginnings, people like Jungkook rather regarded the day as yet another opportunity to get drunk or tease the girls building stations all around campus.
Some didn’t mind — the ones sitting at kissing booths literally fawned over each other, no tomorrow in sight.
Nevermind that among the crowd mingling with boys like him, there was a girl he promised to meet in the middle of that festival. And honestly, he kept that vow. Steered towards a smile that hoped and wished for tulips or sunflowers, a trip to the arcade.
Perhaps a brief stroll across campus to regard the activities with the usual golden sparkle in her eyes.
Jungkook, however, had wholly different plans.
You didn’t know; how could you? She had even less of an idea, no matter that she’d grown to understand him at least a little. Perhaps not enough. Never enough.
You’d stopped wondering, too. What they did, whenever they did it; and today wasn’t the first time you and her spent time apart because he occupied all of hers. So you busied yourself elsewhere.
Hanging out with yet another tiny circle of friends from your classes, unbothered and relaxed until the sky faded into hues of orange and red. Coloured by the spring sunset, warmth and burning star above.
The flower festival wasn’t anything you celebrated in particular, nothing you were too pumped about. But today had the potential to turn into something carefree, as you’d always expect from college when you indulged in Hollywood movies and campus rom-coms.
Because the beer in your hand, the voices around you, the free-spirited laughter felt pretty; the day advanced into something so unfiltered and nice until…
Until.
Occurrences change the pace of the clock and stretch seconds. When the clouds started passing by, the rain dreading to pour wasn’t the only reason the gorgeous colours dimmed to grey tints.
The day morphed into a big, thunderous cloud, too, rather than the blooming garden it was supposed to be.
Cheeks warm and giggling about some mindless joke somebody made, you stared down at your cold potato wedges, fishing for one of the last. You chewed the unappetising fast food, gulping it down like a delicatesse; licked at your thumb, then your lips.
And then, unsuspecting, you heard a single vocal from the side, a small, “Oh,” before they drew their phone closer to their eyes. The shift in atmosphere caught your attention.
“What’s up?” you asked.
Your friend didn’t react immediately, blinking at the device until you nudged their side. They buckled a little, a hand moving above their waist, but paying not much mind to it, they only spared you a gaze of disbelief and wondered, “You didn’t get anything?”
Weird.
“Hm?”
“Dude just airdropped it.”
“It?”
Judging from the faces around you, something was wrong; incredibly wrong. And you had neither the time nor patience to investigate it by questioning the flabbergasted people around you.
So, instead of trying to decode the situation, you grew irritated the moment another friend blurted, “Is that Jangmi?” And then, wiping your hands on your skirt, you finally grabbed your phone and detected the possible notification in question.
A video.
None that you’d ever expected. Perhaps you thought you’d meet an embarrassed, humiliated face of a best friend, somewhere in an open space, maybe dripping with water or even laughing with his crew. A clip eternalising herself as a part of his gang.
But what you saw proved much, much worse. Dignity stripped, submerging pride, not on any bingo card you’d mentally drawn.
It was a dark recording, and it was short, mere sixteen seconds long. Yet enough to recognise what it was about. And what was happening: morally entirely questionable.
“Yeah, and what about this?” you heard a whisper, though blending it out and enraged by it at the same time.
But it wasn’t anyone around you muttering it; it was coming directly out of your phone. From the same one whose hand now slipped into the picture, lightly and clearly gripping dark tights before pulling at them. Then, digits drifting up a leg, touching a skirt.
Another greedy mumble, “What do you want me to do?”
And when a different voice, much higher in pitch and softer, uttered something back… you knew it was hers. You also knew it was him. Maybe the others didn’t catch on that, because Jungkook had never spoken about his situationship, wasn’t quite famous for ever settling for anyone.
And… you were sure he had others on the side. You knew, heard them, understood the group from observation alone.
Then, with his voice being almost unintelligible, nobody but you could guess that it was him. And they looked surprised, disgusted, mostly confused and staggered.
Odd, because.
When Jangmi’s face became the centre of the camera’s attention, she looked the least bit surprised. She glew in the light that whatever source cast, and you immediately realised that she was drunk.
Grinning; letting him film her as she stripped for him, readying herself for God knew what.
You reacted right away.
Near damn panicking even, on the brink of aggression, when you heard another voice close to the end, babbling something you couldn’t decipher. One you didn’t know, but one that certainly did not belong to him.
Probably a friend. Meaning that. That he truly wasn’t alone, that Jangmi wasn’t alone.
You stood, not quite knowing what to do, because you couldn’t fucking tell where they were. You barely exerted effort into crafting an excuse, rushing across campus and to the department you assumed them to be.
They weren’t. Rooms were locked or empty or occupied otherwise.
Then to his dorm. Nobody there.
By the time you found her, around ten minutes later, they were already done, and she wasn’t defending herself. He was gone. She was standing around near a cotton candy stall, looking at the stars, unaware of how wrong the thing was that had happened to her.
Throughout the next days and weeks, Jangmi became increasingly popular on campus, like a fast-spreading wildfire — but in the worst way possible.
It was her whom people saw. They didn’t know that it was Jungkook, and they wouldn’t for their remaining time in that college. His name hadn’t been spoken in the video, and Jangmi refused to file a suit, no matter how much you urged her to.
You spent the time after the festival talking things through, trying to understand with her what had happened, recounting remaining memories. But she was doubtful; to your chagrin, more of herself than of him, because she remembered the consent she gave.
”Not to film you, though!”
She knew. Of course she knew.
And still, she kept it hidden. Didn’t let you speak up either. Begged you to lay low, so stupidly. She didn’t want to be involved with legal stuff, didn’t want to be confronted with chaos, as little as she wanted to drag you into this.
So you were hushed; big mistake. Because you knew she was blinded; still in love with him and hoping for him to delete the video, or to at least apologise as if it could redeem him.
He didn’t offer an apology. And she didn’t contact him; until she did.
First, messages, left on read. Then, a letter that he didn’t respond to. At the same time, the bullying got worse — and soon enough, she decided to leave campus; and the damn town. That you were entirely devastated might be an understatement.
Lastly, before she left, she paid him a visit, still holding onto hope. But it turned out to be the worst possible scenario she could have conjured; and you didn’t know until she returned to her room. To you. Breaking down in front of the entrance door the moment it moved to shut, spitting the same words over and over again.
“I’m so stupid.”
“I kept hoping, you know? I was just hoping.”
“He said he doesn’t see me that way and that I…”
And more. So much more. A plethora of cruel, demeaning, painful things he murmured.
You tried to convince her to stay. If not for anyone, then for you. You told her you needed her, that you cherished her, that you’d lose the one true friend if she decided to forsake you. But she was firm in her decision; and in some way, you understood.
It takes patience and a strong mind to live through such inhumanity; near the end of the semester, Jangmi was the saddest person you knew. And he’d done that. Reformed her heart until her sunshine nature faded, circles dark under her eyes, not even staying for you.
The last thing she promised you was that she’d come back; keep in touch; love you until she died. She held a speech for you, drenched in tears, watching you sob; and your cries didn’t cease as you watched the bus drive away, forcing you to your knees until you couldn’t see the vehicle anymore.
But honestly.
It wasn’t really about her going away, solely. Despite the sorrow that her absence caused, you wanted her to be happy. If she couldn’t find that emotion and fulfilment here, then be it somewhere else.
No… it was about the things that happened after, and about who knew of them. About unkept promises.
Jungkook pulled the two of you asunder first, and then her.
You stand in front of him with a brain filled to the brim, but a body as calm as a drizzle.
Jungkook doesn't know where to find the start and end of his thoughts; what to utter, which emotions to whip out first.
Should he react with confusion and disappointment, never having expected what the true you entailed? Or should he beg for forgiveness, understanding the severity of the situation and what you could do with it? Or, omit all these frights altogether and swap to anger?
He gulps, attempting to stick to the first sentence his mind allows, spinning it like a wheel and waiting for the pointer to choose a reaction. But by then, it’s too late, and you’re speaking again.
“She caught you before a class the day she left. She was begging you to apologise, just once, and to love her properly. What did you say then?”
He knows what he said. He might’ve forgotten so many details about the situationship — no, relationship? — but he remembers that day well. Mostly, because of the chaos Jangmi decided to pull him into; her own sorrows that’d trigger a butterfly effect.
But he doesn’t answer. You’ll do it for him anyway.
“You said she was expecting too much. Told her that if she wanted to leave, she should, because you weren’t gonna give her what she wanted.”
You suck in a breath, laughing in mock, delivering a headshake before you continue, “Can you even imagine how stupid she felt? Thinking you’d stay together because this idiot romanticised toxicity? You’re absolutely… despicable.”
Nah. He feels something in him snap; his voice raising as he blurts, “I am despicable for not reciprocating her feelings? But you are for all the shit you’ve—”
“What? It’s okay to not reciprocate. But… Why all the other things? All you did before?!”
“It was supposed to be a joke.”
“What kind of imbecile do you need to be to laugh about this?” you lash out, lifting your hands in disbelief, eyes wide. Then, you breathe out again, grounding yourself; but your voice still shakes. “Okay. Sure. Apart from your own feelings, why did you not apologise?”
You step closer, elaborating, “You knew it was wrong, you can’t be this apathetic. You could’ve apologised instead of invalidating her feelings.”
“Because it wasn’t serious. Who even cared?”
Holy shitballs. Do you see the question marks on his face? God, it wasn’t his fucking fault that this naive friend of yours stuck with him. That she didn’t catch that he wasn’t built for anything permanent. He gave her hints; spoke about other women, eyed them, just about ready to disappear in a room with them.
Her, stupid, gullible, hopeful. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t feel the same for her. When has he even wanted a relationship the last time? Not even with you; even during all this blissful, unknowing time you wrapped him around your finger.
Only now, you’re nothing but furious. Strangely, you make his blood boil in return.
“Nothing was ever serious to you! You cared about yourself and everything else was a joke that people needed to get over,” you exclaim, and he holds himself back from steaming. “Bet your joke drowned even more in those little mistakes once you realised she couldn’t do shit about your situation anymore.”
…What?
Situation? Was she going to hand the video to the police, as he feared for so long? Did something happen that prevented her from doing so?
What…
Confusion must be spreading over his countenance, because you tilt your head, eyebrows raised, as if you can’t believe his audacity. You scoff, and then say, “I know you know. You have to.”
Echoing his thoughts, he responds, “What?”
Your ridiculing smirk turns into tight-lipped rage; he doesn’t know how you do it, but it’s like he can see a little inferno in each of your eyes. Even when your eyebrows relax, probably noticing that he truly doesn’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t seem any calmer.
You initiated it all and still didn’t bother to keep up with what she went through?
Is that what you’re thinking?
“After your last conversation, she was upset. Chose the wrong time to leave,” you start explaining, “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like that shook her more than walking away from me. Don’t know.” You lick your lips. “She took the bus to the town her sister lives in and…”
Don’t say it… don’t say anything too dramatic. Don’t you da—
“The bus was caught in a bad crash, and—” This is sucking all the energy out of your body; he can see it. And with all the fright he’s ever felt confronted with, this is his peak, too. “She was one of the few who didn’t survive. As if she was fucking cursed.”
As if she was… One of the few who—
No. No.
Fuck no.
All Jungkook ever wanted was his peace, in whichever shape or form. When he heard she was leaving town, he was initially scared of her running to the police, but then relieved, no denying — that way, he assumed she might’ve given up on the idea of reporting him or letting the issue fester.
In some way and after a while, her absence assured he was in the clear.
But this isn’t how he imagined to gain his freedom. Fuck, he isn’t heartless! Do you think— what, what is it that you think? That he, until now, happily lived off the knowledge that she was dead, that he was saved from karma?
Then again… wasn’t there a news report about a bus crash, about people dying… deep inside, he wondered about the coincidence of her being part of this, miraculously, but then, he never bothered to look up who the victims were, huh…
She’s dead. Jangmi is dead. What the fuck.
No…
He’s fumbling with his thoughts and memories, barely noticing that you’re waiting for an answer until you give up and so cruelly add, “You could’ve stopped her if you hadn’t told her to fuck off. Literally, owning up to your mistakes would’ve been enough. Not recording her, treating her as a human being would’ve been enough, too.”
“I didn’t know it would escalate?” he defends, though the question mark at the very end only adds to his resurfacing agitation. “I didn’t fucking know she died! I I thought she just dropped off the Earth.”
“Nobody ever just drops off the fucking Earth, Jungkook! Not someone who loved you like this.” Love? What led her to this? To an emotion he never actively added to. How did she maintain such a sentiment like this? “But you don’t care. If you’d known, you’d have been relieved, right?”
Your question clogs up his throat. He needs to be careful what he says to you — because of course he doesn’t want anybody to die. Pranks, even heavy ones, might be forgivable, but death, to anyone’s account, is not.
But.
Remembering how he trembled, chewing off his nails when Jangmi stood there in front of him, pleading to take her back; to cherish her properly; to delete the video. To admit to his mistake.
When he, out of a bursting ego, refused to give into her demands, wanting to be free of her presence, he feared she’d do something to tarnish his existence on campus. He didn’t wish for her death. But if he’d known that night, if someone had told him, would he have sighed a breath of relief?
Honestly… probably. And whoever says they wouldn’t in his stead, is lying.
But he doesn’t answer just that. Doesn’t shake his head or nod. It seems that not responding is just as bad, and you seem certain in your conviction. So he doesn’t even bother; merely says, “I didn’t know it’d lead to this.”
You challenge, “What would?”
“The whole thing. The prank.” You roll your eyes. “I didn’t, okay? Releasing her strip video and making her leave… If I’d known saying all that shit to her would lead to this—”
“What did you say? What else that I might not know of.”
“Look, I haven’t the faintest what you know or don’t know! But I remember telling her I didn’t care how she felt.” It’s unfair — being judged for not giving a rat’s ass about other people’s forced ultimatums. “I—”
As if to test him, you interrupt his confession with another remark, making his patience fade, “You told her she was just entertainment to you.” His eyebrows stir to kiss. “Say that you said it.”
“Is this what it needs for you to let it go? Something I couldn’t control?” He could. He knows he could. Shush, keep talking the way you are, Kook. “Yes, I said it. And a lot more. I remember. I’ve thought about it often enough.”
“Good.”
Good? Is that all?
“…And what now? What do you want from me?” he questions, hiding the desperation. The first thing he’ll do once back at the company is fire your ass.
“What now?” You shrug your shoulders, still positively fuming, but… somehow— at mind’s ease, too? “Nothing. You used her as your entertainment and somehow grew to be an entertainer yourself. So do that now, too, okay? Entertain. You kept me occupied, at least.”
“Huh—”
The light doesn’t register right away. Jungkook only sees the red blinking dot when you move aside, familiar from the last few times he stood backstage. He’s not entirely sure, because this isn’t his department — but if he could use some logic and guess what this is—
He’d say he recognised the button too late. The one recording each of his words, caught red-handed. The video from years ago didn’t show his face; neither you nor Jangmi contacted the police.
So this is it… this is what you’re doing now, isn’t it? Fuck, isn’t it?
Jungkook’s mouth opens wide, eyes following along, heartbeat increasing so violently that he feels it breaking his ribs. Shooting out of his chest. His hands curl into fists, lips twitching. The air is suddenly thin in the room.
And… and it dawns on him. Yes, it all makes fucking sense now.
Why, from the very beginning, you looked at him so cautiously. Why you stood next to him, sporting a mental armour, defence and uncertainty in your movements whenever you didn’t fake your sympathies.
Or… your goddamn glances at your phone. The notification he saw before he undressed you wasn’t any at all, right? It was probably that damn symbol popping up when a device starts recording something. Pity that he dragged you into the bedroom, or you would have tempted your way to his confession.
Is that it?
Is that why you fucked him? Got plastered with him? Opting for him to admit, keeping the sex as a facade; or maybe you were just drunk, victim to your needs. Either a dumb slut disloyal to your friend or a deceiving siren who played along to—
“Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”
“What do you wanna know?”
“Everything.”
Right. You couldn’t uncover him before, so you’re trying to do it now. What are you going to do with this tape?
Immediately, he darts forwards, turning the recording off; oddly enough, you don’t stop him. The moment the light of the button ceases, he charges for you, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. Grabs your arms, pinning you against the wall, snapping, “What the fuck did you just do? You are not allowed to do this!”
“Let me fucking go,” you try, fighting him, but he stays firm, pushes you back.
“No, you can’t do this to me. To anyone!”
“You did this to yourself!”
“Why fuck me then, huh?” he hurls, face closer to yours; you move your head to the side reflexively, disgusted. “Why all this? Why not go straight to the poli—”
He’s not done yet. He still has a lot to say; most of what you don’t hear anymore, because another voice adds to the conversation, deep and angry. Aggressive hands pull at Jungkook, keeping him away from you, and when Jungkook turns, he’s not surprised to be met with Taehyung’s eyes.
“I’ll fucking break your arms, Jungkook,” Taehyung threatens, absolute disbelief and pique in his gaze as he holds the younger back. “I don’t care how strong you are. Get a fucking grip.”
Jungkook struggles in the grip for another moment before he calms down, freeing his sleeve, vexed before he runs his hands through his hair. He turns his back towards you, hands on his hips, keeping his head from spinning; all the while as he hears Taehyung ask, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He turns, seeing the man coddle you, a hand under your jaw; great opportunity. Acting so kind when he probably wanted the same as Jungkook all along. Fucking hypocrites. No wonder you couldn’t keep Kim’s name out of your mouth.
“She recorded me without me knowing,” Jungkook attempts.
But you, daring behind Taehyung who keeps you there firmly, answer, “For all anyone knows, it could’ve been an accident.”
Jungkook ignores you. Meets his friend’s — friend? — eyes again as he argues, “She wants to blackmail me. You should’ve hea—”
“I heard, Kook. I heard.”
Huh? If he spied on the two of you, why did he not barge in sooner? If he heard, then wh—
Taehyung doesn’t seem to want to talk, as if all of a sudden keeping this a feud between Jungkook and you. His pupils move up, avoiding Jungkook’s gaze, and a second later, he hears you gently say, “Let me. It’s okay.”
A blind person could see that the two of you like each other; Jungkook feels embarrassed, always having been the third wheel trying too hard, for a girl who despised him. He watches as Taehyung, very reluctantly, lets you go, yet sticking close to you.
“I thought you knew enough about these things to understand that I didn’t record a clip of you. This is something that isn’t permanent, but the people probably made it something that can’t be deleted. I mean… it was probably recorded, alright.”
You say it so provocatively that it makes him want to lock you up. To grab your hair and throw your head back. You’re not smiling; in fact, your eyes are watery and your voice quiet. But you’re infuriating in every way.
“What the fuck are you impl—” he starts, but you lift a hand to explain, as if teaching him something. Brazen as fuck.
“It was an audio stream, not a recording. See up there,” you point up, showing a mic for whatever stupid purpose, “your voice was brought to the people a little ahead of schedule; people might have filmed or recorded it. You’re for eternity, Jungkook.”
The last bit, despite nothing more than an inflaming whisper, is a direct insult to his goals and dreams. You’ve always known what he wanted, and you served it with a scheme that the devil might’ve forwarded to you.
Unless it’s you sitting on his throne. And to you, it’s him, isn’t it?
It’s like he’s sitting in a human-sized kettle, burned and boiled. His blood heats up, his skin suddenly searing. He notices as cold sweat collects on his forehead, pulse quickening, heartbeat over the roof.
Has he ever trembled like this? Felt this light-headed, needing to sit down, wishing he could pass out. Praying none of this is real. The rapid breathing stemming from anger soon turns into panic, and he suppresses the breakdown, not wanting to cry, not wanting to give you another reason to believe you’ve won.
But you have. You so have.
All the long nights, the effort, the sleep deprivation… all that he worked towards — was it for this? Was it for him to take a fall like this, to never grow, to end before he can begin? Was it? Fuck, was it?!
“No,” he murmurs, the world spinning. “No…”
He barely notices when you move aside, giving him space as he strides forward, eyes wide as they focus on the light. Close to the stage. Closer to the audience. Is there a chance they’d look past this? No…
He can hear them already. Chatting, complaining, amongst themselves, in turmoil. This is all his earlier days all over again.
Different words with the same meaning, spread throughout his young years. Synonyms. And only you dared to reveal those innermost traits, shedding light on them as if you were destined to do it. And oh, you did it in the most wicked of all ways.
You weren’t what he thought you were; in hindsight, you weren’t even necessarily mysterious, right? Just a liar. An actress, thoroughly vindictive. Not the colour green, but a gloomy grey.
Does he deserve it? He doesn’t know. He didn’t perceive himself as a bad person. Selfish, yes, but not bad.
But maybe it’s too late to be thinking about this anymore. Because as he steps out, merely at the very back of the stage, the crowd goes quiet for the smallest moment. Just a second before— the booing and the rage start.
They’re looking at him with furrowed eyebrows and angry expressions, shaking their heads or filming, speaking at once. So, so many people speaking at once. A mess of inquiries he can barely decipher, not much more than—
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Did you know that’s illegal?”
“I want my money back.”
He looks back to the path he came from, but it’s dark. You’re not there; Taehyung isn’t there. Hiding in the pitch black shadow, or gone already, getting you somewhere where Jungkook can’t follow you.
You weren’t what he thought you were. He should’ve known.
Of all the things he’s ever wanted, you gave him one thing, though — you were right with that. You handed him the entertainment he sought elsewhere years ago, becoming just that.
And tonight, the audience’s eyes are truly glued to him.
ALRIIIIIIGHT. this took ages!! so much to do y'all, even wrote an assignment today lmao but i really hope y'all liked it, and if not then I'M SORRY LOL I'LL DO BETTER :'D there are unresolved things, i know – you can ask me about them if you'd like.
there are also hints on jk's personality and past, so if you have any theories or interpretations, let them out! one of the fun parts of this fic could be all the different analyses, so i'm really curious what you'll make of this story – and whom you like/dislike, whether you like them all (rare? you okay, bbg?) or hate them all.
if you enjoyed it, leave a like, definitely do reblog (even if just to boost – i know liking is easy, but do consider rb!) and comment all your thoughts hehe! support really helps writers stick around. also, i wrote this fic with lots of discussions in mind, so it'd mean the world to me if you sent an ask/feedback, too!! okay love you, see you again soon <3
Summary: “Taehyung was a writer… he was a writer indeed.”
Kim Taehyung knows his way around words – they cast a spell on your heart and mind, leave you gasping dangerously fast. Until the mystery behind his persona unveils and his touch, along with his words, becomes a vivid memory.
➳ pairing: Taehyung x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: strangers to lovers, writer!au; angst, fluff, smut
➳ warnings: writer + violinist tae 🥺 who’s a gentleman in the 19th century, brief mention of injuries/a mental institution, misunderstandings, heartbreak, secrets, grief, much poetry (and my attempt at writing a poem, pls spot), much disgoosting fluff, flirting and lots of sexual tension; explicit sexual content: 2 sex(y) scenes, fingering on a boat, choking, teasing, begging, praising, soft dom!tae, big dick!tae, tiddie fondling/sucking, some manhandling, dirty talk, they’re just so cute :((, oral (f. and m. receiving), some masturbation, oc is into neck kisses, some biting, fingering, hair pulling, asking for permission :(, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (it’s the 19th century…), aftercare; there’s quite some angst ok; lmk if i forgot smth !!
➳ word count: 27k (💀)
➳ a/n: damn, this one was a lottt and i’m even somewhat proud i managed to post it cos i was dreading doing so LMAO. but my baby @hobisuniverse didn’t just beta it, but encouraged me so so much, too. i love you to the moon and back, my love 🥺 hope y’all enjoy !! as always, feel free to pop into my inbox and talk to me, it means the world to me <33
➳ listen to the S&S playlist for the full experience 🤍
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
You thought there was insanity behind the idea of fate until you met Kim Taehyung.
absolutely amazing banner by the one & only @kth1 <3
Summary: “Love has become a noun again.”
When a work trip brings you back home, you don’t expect for anyone to await your return or remember you. But despite the time apart, Taehyung still does – still looks at you the same way he used to five winters ago.
⋙ pairing: Taehyung x reader
⋙ rating: 18+
⋙ genre: exes to lovers, childhood sweethearts; fluff, angst, smut
⋙ warnings: toxic parents, mentions of bullying, mentions of an accident & a few injuries, crying; my voice kink again, tae is the sweetest freaking person EVER; explicit sexual content: multiple (2) smut scenes (one is shorter), oral (f. & m. receiving), tiddie sucking, dirty talk, teasing, imagine tae’s super deep moans :), fingering, big dick tae implied, squirting, unprotected sex (be careful <3), cockwarming kinda, begging, multiple orgasms; maybe more lmk if i forgot something!
⋙ word count: 24.8k
⋙ a/n: oh god, i wrote this based on a dream … what, may last year? :’) and it’s finally here now !! sorry for making you guys wait, i hope you like it !! <3
⋙ betas: ahhh so many people who helped me over the course of several months !! @missgeniality for beta’ing this TWICE and for letting me rant and talk her ears off, i’m nothing without you 🥺 @voiceswithoutlips @justasparkwritings @opaljm for beta’ing the first draft so beautifully and @chemicalpink & @chateautae for reading and giving me so many suggestions !! thank you so much - ALL OF YOU HAVE MY HEART <33 !!
➳ listen to the TOBH playlist for the full experience 🤎
Summary: “Does that mean that I can kiss you now?”
Becoming the roommate of Jeon Jungkook is the biggest change you’ve ever gotten thrown into - but little do you know that the addition of another man will bring even further turbulence into your (love) life.
pairing: Jungkook x reader (+ some Taehyung x reader)
rating: 18+
genre: roommate au, s2f2l; some crack, fluff, angst, smut
warnings: pining, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, fear of the dark; explicit sexual content: multiple smutty scenes (one’s milder and with tae), slight exhibitionism lol you’ll see, soft dom!jk, big dick!jk, fingering, oral (f. & m receiving), handjob on the side, breast play, jungkook sucks some tiddies, some masturbation, dirty talk, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), voice kink lol, some finger sucking, praising, biting, soft manhandling, soft sex and rough sex, cockwarming at the end?, some aftercare; jealous jk :( … jealous tae :(, jk calls oc a flower <3
word count: 24.7k (sorry, please do still read lmao)
a/n: hi, there !! credit to nicole who gave me this whole prompt and made the banner, too !! this trope is smth entirely new to me and i’m shaking in my boots here - so please let me know what you guys think !!
betas: @voiceswithoutlips @missgeniality & @hobiandsprite, thank you for your suggestions, endless help and for always letting me yell and whine in the dms :’) i love you guys to bits x
uploaded to AO3, too (for those who prefer pdfs or mobile readings!)
➳ listen to the CIB playlist for the full experience!
MASTERLIST | WIPs
His eyes keep closing.
You know sleep is washing over him slowly, but all you can do is watch him intently - because even after numerous pleas and annoyed shakes of your head, he is still standing here, back leaning against the wall and wobbly legs carrying him god knows how.
You know that you would’ve definitely given in to the tiredness and weakness by now, understanding exactly that you become a victim to gravity anytime you drink too much. And from what you can tell, he is entirely wasted.
Summary: “I’ve never in my life known anyone who I could spend all my time with and still miss them while they’re right here.”
No matter how many years pass between you and Jungkook - you will never cherish and worship each other less than you did on day one.
pairing: Jungkook x female reader
rating: 18+
genre: established relationship, soulmate/fantasy!au; fluff, smuuuut
warnings: soft dom!jungkook, teasing, fingering, oral (f. & m.), marking/biting, a little body worship, multiple orgasms, handjob, temperature play, finger sucking, ass grabbing, breast play, some pet names, riding, some cockwarming, rough sex, unprotected sex (pls don’t do it!!), jk and y/n simp so hard for each other smh, one two little surprises at the end - so read carefully hehuhahi
word count: 5k
a/n: sooo, i really love this couple and wanted to explore their future relationship further! which is how this little sequel was born! another big thank you to @dee-ehn for this breathtaking banner and @voiceswithoutlips & @missgeniality for beta’ing the fic <3 !! and now, without further ado, enjoy!!
[!] NOTE: again, this is a sequel to my fic scattered stars! reading the first part is advisable, but i tried to keep it in a way that you can read this as a stand-alone fic, too!
MASTERLIST | WIPs
“I’m telling you, Y/N.”
An exhausted sigh left your chest as you heard him complain for the umpteenth time in the past forty minutes. The night had been tiring, stretching endlessly when Jungkook and you had gone hunting today, lured into the woods by a cry for help while you’d only wanted to read a book in the comfort of your four walls. Turned out, it had been a false call, someone confusing polar lights for soul-sucking spirits - and it was safe to say that your boyfriend was fuming.
Summary: “And with that, a picture of Jungkook flashed into your mind, his fingertips caressing your cheek and his gentle and affectionate smile sending shivers down your spine as you admitted to yourself that yes - you wanted him.“
It’s easy to despise Jungkook when your contradicting magic doesn’t allow you to touch each other without fatal consequences - but what if your eternal enemy turns out to be your soulmate with whom you, unfortunately, do fall in love?
pairing: Jungkook x female reader
rating: 18+
genre: enemies to lovers, soulmate!au, fantasy!au; fluff, a ton of angst, smut
warnings: characters fainting, near major character death, light swearing, some fighting, characters crying, explicit sexual content, oral (f. & m. receiving), bit of a handjob, fingering, temperature play, soft sex, rough sex (yes, both), unprotected sex (there’s magic, don’t do it irl, guys), breast play, marking/biting, ass grabbing, y/n and jk feel a lot of pain but choose to ignore it cuz loveee; uh i think that’s it?
word count: 17.9k (SORRY)
a/n: welcome back! this fic was created for the “spring will come again”-event hosted by @bangtanarmynet (prompts at the end of the post) and is also my submission for this month’s theme ‘bloom’ for @thebtswritersclub! again, a big thank you to @dee-ehn for this beautiful banner and to my betas @missgeniality , @venusiangguk & @voiceswithoutlips!! you made this story what it is right now! and now, enjoy!!
uploaded to AO3, too (for those who prefer pdfs or mobile readings!)
listen to: out of love (alessia cara) | in the fall (hwa sa) | talking to the moon (bruno mars) | already gone (sleeping at last) | medicine (jc stewart) - recommended by @moonsetlover
➳ read the sequel scattered stars: collision here! (both can be read as stand-alone fics!)
MASTERLIST | WIPs | MOODBOARD
Your flower hadn’t bloomed yet.
Despite having turned 21 quite a while ago, the lightly faded imprint of your tattoo - or birthmark? - hadn’t moved a bit. Every once in a while you’d give it a peek, seeing that all the blossoms, leaves, and colours were still the same, and it did nothing to ease your tension.
Your mother would always complain about this as if it was your, and your fault only. Remind you on a daily basis how Eva had already found her companion, the love of her life, and settled with him, an engagement ring decorating her pretty hand.
Summary: With a decade’s distance between Jungkook and you, your paths cross on the same island you deemed your second home years ago. And you realise once again – the ocean can never compare to the twinkle in his starry eyes.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: estranged best friends to lovers, vacation/beach!au; angst, fluff, smut
➳ warnings: so so much yearning and pining, gentle fuckboy jk cos i’ve no control over myself, a bit of jealousy, the first kiss, arguments/fighting, unresolved issues, heartbreak, angry confessions; explicit sexual content: making out, asking for permission, dom & big dick jk, handjob in the shower, oral (m. & f. receiving), some clit slapping, some biting, squirting, jk loves her tits… and her ass even more, fingering, protected sex, soft and rough sex, body worship !!, jk is SUCHHH a goner, he comes on her ass, aftercare, praises; so many emotions; lmk if i forgot smth!
➳ wc: 22.7k
➳ a/n: here we gooo !! @missgeniality & @voiceswithoutlips my angel betas, as usual, i’d be lost without you 😔 i’m really happy with how this one came out, so i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i did writing it !! as always, don’t forget to drop a message in my inbox – it makes my day <33
➳ yaila’s beach art 💙
➳ listen to the SBW playlist for the full experience 💙
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
There is a long lost beach somewhere at the end of the world.
It belongs to a blooming, floating island, pleasant and hot. Wildlife chirps hidden behind trees, calm and welcoming. There are waterfalls that must be somewhere in the middle of the island – you’re not quite certain anymore, since your memory of the place has weakened over time.
You do remember the sun that descended there, though – you always used to say it wasn’t the same as the one you admired at home, watching from your garden.
Jungkook would always reprimand you, tut at you, throw tiny little shells at your bare thighs until you, furied and irritated, abandoned him at the beach. He would stay there until the moon rose from the east, and you would watch him from afar.
Summary: An empty clearing. Quiet, tiny waves. A broken heart, a seething chest, love unbridled. And lurking in the water, him and you.
➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader
➵ rating: 18+
➵ genre: siren au; strangers/friends to lovers kinda; angst, smidge of fluff, smuuuuuut; oneshot
➵ warnings: heartache, unrequited love (but not really); flashbacks, coping, lake talk, yearning, impossible love, arranged marriage (oc is married off and can't be with jk), oc is also quite cold, manipulation, siren powers, well...death implied but nothing too hardcore (siren au yk 🤷♀️ ), drowning, panic, angstttt, SMUUUUUT, cheating but not on each other, they're both naked basically the entire time; explicit sexual content: oral (f. rec.), teasing, cockwarming, spanking, licking, biting, lowkey aggressive touches from both sides, kissing, sex by the lake, harddd sex, dom!jk, big dick!jk obv, manhandling, jk fcks his frustration into her, multiple positions; spot the siren hints hehe; andddd yes the ending… if there's more, i will add them later - or just lmk.
➵ word count: 13.9k
➵ a/n: jinshi jk. kinda. had a dream of him a while ago and decided to write it down, all stephenie meyer style <3 it's been a while, but i hope you guys enjoy and in case my writing deteriorated in those last months... shhhhh 🤫 other than that, happy festa y'all!!
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST
At a place as deserted as this, the quietest of sounds may disrupt one’s peace of mind.
The breeze is almost silent. It doesn’t move the trees; the leaves don’t rustle.
But Jungkook feels its touch along his neck and the emerging goosebumps with it. As the sun descends and the chill returns into the late evening air, the water stops feeling warm, too.
Today’s summer noon and afternoon were perfectly seething, much to the forest’s standard. Jungkook has only ever known mild to humid temperatures. Subzero is a phenomenon he’s ever heard, dreamed of. Ironic for him to be born and remain at a spot that never scratched the itch for him.
But this is the best he can do for himself. He might not be too fond of the heat, but he likes the water. That’s why he hand-built his cottage at the shore of this lake; added a porch and a wooden fence, overlooking the clearing, just far enough to see the other side.
It’s peculiar, the shape of the lake.
Long, but not quite too wide. Too large and deep for a pond, but almost too small to really be a lake. Whenever Jungkook leans on his fence, he can spot deers sometimes, peeking through the forest but never daring to walk out to the water. They seem to fear it, and he understands.
The clearing is foggy, empty; just what Jungkook desires but what everyone and everything remains wary of. But he thinks it’s pretty. And just now, the quietude is all he needs.
He’s stopped dreaming of winters and the snow. He’s gotten used to the waves around him. Because there’s a big enough storm in his mind, too cold and uncomfortable to wish for a white wonderland.
Jungkook sighs. His body has started feeling weird; the summer tinted his skin a darker golden and his shoulders are already a slight, burnt red. The heat spread throughout the past hours, warmed up the nerves in his body.
Despite the tremble, however, that the barely-there wind causes, he refuses to leave the lake just yet. His eyes remain closed for a bit longer, and he leans back, his long, black hair and ears soon submerged.
The world is even quieter down here. The twitter of the birds ceases, their song already faded; the dull, light waves overtake. Such a peaceful sound, yet not tranquil enough to calm the tension in his muscles and his heart. The riot consistently persists.
Did he expect it not to? Truth be told, yes, in fact, he did. Because only a couple moons ago, harmony was a constant. The water would wash away his troubles; as his limbs floated, he’d feel that this was the closest he’d ever come to weightlessness.
But back then, he had you.
Perhaps this is deliberate torture. A search for reprieve and satisfaction in something he should’ve known would only drag his heart further into the pit of his stomach. He should’ve known that there’s no true cure. Your absence will do nothing but pull him farther from redemption.
It’s not just the pain itself slicing up pieces of himself. But the existence of such slices at all; once his organ is left in the fragments he’s counting on remaining, he fears he might lose his way back to himself, too.
But somewhere inside, he reckons he’s doing this on full purpose.
Remembering you, basking in what was. When you’d meet him at the house on the other side of the shore, secluded from the rest of the villages and the town you resided in. Right what he’ll never step foot into again; where your high class family never found him in the past.
The shabby boy who, alone most of his life, assumed he’d done well for himself after all; perhaps not a villa in town, but a cottage at a lake. Must be a good enough life, he thought. Much until he realised he wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was. Or, at least, as much as he needed to be for the one it mattered to.
Of course he wasn’t. In hindsight…
When he first met you at a farm near the forest, you were still just nineteen, and he was already twenty-two, slaving away, far from the only extended family he could ever call his. He remembers you wandering the hills and fields with friends of yours.
How the two of you noticed each other at that very farm, and would do more often from then on. You would, as you’d disclose one day, flee the small town life to find him there; and when he quit the work, he’d take you to other hidden places.
In that lonely and fleeting reality of his that he’d call life, seeing you standing among smileless faces was a remedy. You had something mystical, something otherworldly about you. Something he couldn’t force himself away from.
Maybe he should’ve told you earlier. Word for word, just that, when he met you in parks far from your home or when you snuck to his cottage quite a walk into the woods. He should’ve told you how quickly he was handing himself to you.
It was a dangerous game; getting to know you came with a loss of his sanity. And the more time passed, the more you consumed him. Bit by bit, gnawing away at his soul.
An amusing picture, you eating away at him, more so each time you’d tell him how unique, beautiful, everglowing you considered this very soul of his. The most gorgeous you’d ever seen.
Told him how anybody with “such a piece veiled in their body should consider themselves lucky.”
Your eyes were gentle, sparkly when you warned him of the darkness in the world, how he’d have to shield himself to protect the heart sent from Heaven, beating in his chest.
People like to tear it out, you said.
Amusing. Quiet foreshadowing, perhaps. With what he knows now, your words feel like mock to him.
He should’ve asked you more questions on what you had on your mind back then. Told you that he’d give you his soul if you just asked, and that he trusted you to not rip it out just like that.
But you were too enchanting to even commit his thoughts to. He wanted you with every piece of his being, but he was scared of losing you, too.
For the longest time, he couldn’t glance into the fortress your mind was. If he’d peered past your ever-so-impenetrable, obscure eyes and seen the colours you later promised he spread through you, he would’ve wrapped himself around you. Hidden you away.
Whenever you decided to walk into the cottage in the mornings, breathing through noon, sometimes failing to remember the time and returning home by sundown – he should’ve kissed you all these moments he bid you goodbye.
And as years passed and your laughs echoed across the lake, or you stirred the pot in the kitchen, singing a gentle, enchanting tune as he chopped the vegetables. When you’d watch him watch you, talking about your days and nights, the moon and the stars.
Staring out at the lake for minutes and hours until you broke the comforting silence with, "I will never unlove this lake of yours. And this cottage. Like a pretty wreck at a shore. Sailor Kook."
He'd chuckle.
But he’d never touch you. Never push his too-transparent emotions onto you.
That is, until you began revealing your parents’ thoughts to him, growing by the day. Barely a year ago – when you were just twenty-four years old, like a tender bird, but already past the age of marriage. It was a desperate attempt to make him understand, as he knows now.
When you’d admit that they were bringing the feared talk to the table, and when his heart sunk to the ground of the lake that his cottage stood above – that’s when he knew he couldn’t veil what was truer than anything he’d ever known.
“They are determined,” you said most of the time, smiling, supposedly joyful. Your gaze drifted down to fix your dress as you basked in the previous summer, facing the sun. “To find me a proper man. One who’ll give me more than I could ever want.”
It was ridiculous to hear, since Jungkook, in his lovesick mind, had long convinced himself, more often than he cared to admit, that he could promise the same.
Sometimes he thought that you had, too. Because your voice quietened, though he couldn’t at all tell what you were thinking. Most of the time you were carefree, confident, almost whimsical. Almost because you concealed your thoughts. Almost because there was a mystery to you, always.
And you were kind. Kind, but so sly, too.
Focused on yourself more than anyone. Eloquent and so, so unbothered – more than he enjoyed, but something that drew him in either way. He saw you with your eyebrows all relaxed, and you, in turn, never saw the absolute terror spreading across Jungkook’s face.
The things you said cut him.
Deep enough for his heart to split open, releasing what he was always, consistently longing to say. The yearning in his voice was so pure and unfiltered that he knew you understood when he blurted—
“I’m in love with you.”
You looked up. “Jungkook.”
“I’m in love with you,” he hastily repeated. “You can’t let this happen.”
Jungkook knew he had to. You weren’t going to marry him — your parents would drag you away, make his life hell. He knew. He knew so well, but he had to try.
You tilted your head; your hair fell to the side, onto your legs as you looked up at him with hooded, hazy eyes. What were you thinking? What did this mean? Did you care at all?
He attempted again, “Do you want that to happen?”
You looked for a little longer. Then uprighted your body, hands in your lap, gaze straightforward to observe the blue, light waves. Then, you said, “No. But that’s how it is.”
“What do you want?”
“You know me too well. You should know this, too.”
The impatience grew. His hands twitched; he was urging to reach out for you, but he kept his hands to himself, getting a grip; but still, a quiet shaky voice pleaded, “But I need you to say it.”
He watched as you licked your lips, the tongue running along the seam. When your eyes met his, he swore he could hear the crack beneath his ribcage. He could already guess what you’d say before you did.
“I’ve always wanted you.” There was no reason to hurt. He should’ve cheered. But the context in which you spoke your confession was jarring; and your gaze told him what he needed to know. “But I can’t fight it. What do you want me to do?”
You wouldn’t allow yourself to break the way he did. He knew your upbringing wasn’t easy, that you had an incredibly hardened shell, and that you had learned to develop your power over others, so your attachment to them wouldn’t overpower you.
But as love goes, he thought he was special. He always had. So he asked, “Does it not bother you at all?”
“If I…” you started, a hand sliding over to his fingers. You intertwined them with yours. “...Let it bother me, I will never grow out of how it feels.”
Jungkook’s chest tightened. He put a hand to his clavicle, rubbing, fingers slowly drifting to his heart to press against the white fabric. The thumps wouldn’t relax immediately, and he thought he needed much more than a moment to find the steady rhythm from before.
Then again, the consistent pendulum he was used to hearing during lonely nights unexceptionally escalated to much crazier chaos when you were around. So there was no helping him anyway.
But right now… he felt an uncomfortable flood of guilt.
Not because he was trying to drag you out of something you couldn’t escape. But because, in some way, he didn’t want you to grow out of how you felt for him.
He swore that your joy was what kept the time moving, and what, occasionally, froze it, too. But right now, as you sat next to him, pulling your legs to your body, he waited for you to catch the same lovesickness he had been suffering for so long.
Your poker face didn’t do. He needed you to break with him. To stay within this isolated room that inhabited nothing but the two of you, filled with the scent of longing and sorrow.
It was a thoroughly selfish thought; that you weren’t supposed to be happy if that contentment didn’t include him.
So he insisted, “You’ll have to try. To get out of this.” He turned properly to look at you, freeing his fingers from your grip to catch your wrist instead. You breathed in sharply, eyes flashing down to his knuckles. They remained as if locked as he whispered, “I don’t know how to possibly lose you.”
Whatever he was expecting from you, you weren’t going to budge. Not in your decision, at least — he knew that, no matter your feelings for him, you wouldn’t risk any additional drama for him. You weren’t going to fight.
“We’d have to live with it,” you said.
The grip tightened.
“And become all weak without the love we really want,” he argued, “no… love is stronger than grief. I’d rather fight than see you in everything for the rest of my life.”
Love is stronger than grief…
There was no possible description for the way your expression changed, but Jungkook was so convinced, so sure that he saw your eyes widen for the briefest bit. A flash of a flicker, he thought he saw; an epiphany that lasted a heartbeat. It was gone the second he blinked again.
You had to have understood. You played the biggest role in this game; he needed you on his side. If you were going to stick with him, he needed you to understand the depths of his feelings. And he needed that epiphany, so you could help him make this damn love prevail.
“I love you,” he then added, the words barely more than a gentle whisper. You gulped. “If you don’t, then you can do as you please. But if any part of you knows otherwise, then…”
He would’ve surely missed your sigh if the lake and the wind hadn’t been so still, as if holding their breath in his stead. Because his heart beat like an arhythmic drum, its pounding led and manipulated by your pondering eyes and your barely moving chest.
But the quiet release of the quick breath, and the transparency in your gaze when you eventually decided to meet his hankering orbs, were an answer clear enough to him. You could play your part well, veil the hunger in a way he never could; but even you weren’t made of steel.
You were bound to crack one day.
And when you did, a burst of something unnamable, so distinctive, brought Jungkook to his feet. His body jumped up of its own accord, hands moving by a stranger force, though entirely and perfectly synched with his soul nevertheless.
Nothing had ever felt this right.
The doubts dwindled. Even if just for the moments that his lips met yours, he was certain that your movements against his mouth and your fingers gently grazing his waist would suffice.
Out there, he thought, the world was transforming into a better one, a different reality; one where the lake still stood, the house resting atop of it, but the hurdles nonexistent. In this alternative to whatever he might face later, you were to stay.
Of course he hoped. You were kissing him back with unspoken confessions. You let him throw you onto the unmade bed. Let him peck your neck; like soft butterfly wings caressing your skin. Down your clavicles, pausing at your cleavage.
Determined fingers pulled down your sleeves, his tongue lapping and licking and tasting. His fingertips wandered between your legs, testing the waters, meeting a waterfall; his body sought your touch as it moved to the top, floating over yours.
Jungkook remembers the impatience best. Whenever the memories of you flood back, this is one of the statements of love he recalls easiest. The urgency. The flaming heart. How he rocked against you, all dressed still, trying to find relief just like that as his fingers drew out every whine with the fabric never gone.
And he didn’t stop until you mewled into his mouth.
Your heavy breathing prevented the words you attempted to form, but when he started plucking at the hem of your panties to remove them once and for all, your senses came back to life. Your hands rushed to his wrist, holding him back.
He still knows how you looked at him, knitted eyebrows, mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as you delivered a simple headshake and crushed him inside out. “This shouldn’t be,” you said, “if I end up with a child, it’ll ruin both of us. They’ll kill you.”
Jungkook didn’t care. And now, he wished they would. But he listened.
If he’d continued, he’d have ruined his worth entirely. There was no deserving you if he didn’t allow you the freedom. He tried to convince you otherwise.
He tried for so long. For a year, he waited for the drama to blow over. For him and you to ultimately realise that anything else would not make sense, and for you to admit just that.
But you didn’t. All you did was succumb to his kisses again. The fingers stayed diligent, the touches didn’t cease. He’d seek your skin, pull you in. Replaced what you longed for with his mouth instead.
Between laughter and passion, the sun rose and set, and Jungkook was content for now. The jokes you returned to and how you tilted your head when you looked at him; how you warned him of nightly strolls to find you in town or to find relief in the lake under the moonlight.
“There are creatures in the woods and in the water, I’ve heard,” you’d regularly repeat, joking, “If I can’t have you, they shouldn’t either.” He’d laugh.
Nothing you ever said brought him off his path to you. Perhaps, Jungkook reckons, it didn’t help with the amount of hope he harboured that you never much spoke of your parents at all after that one conversation a year before.
And he kept praying. Begging. That, along with you, they’d, too, recognise that their daughter already knew what true love meant. That it overshadowed success and reputation.
But.
Then you distanced yourself. Visited him more sporadically. When he was alone, he’d pace the rooms, fingers in the nape of his neck, eyes wandering out the window and along the shore. And when you did visit, you wouldn’t let him touch you again. Your lips were a line too thin for him to not worry.
“Hi—” he tried, but you only sighed.
You had to have arrived while he was gone in the forest. He hadn’t met you on the way; he was uncertain how he’d missed you, considering that sounds travel far when one’s mostly alone out there. But he couldn’t bother to think about it for too long.
Because as you leaned against the wall of his bedroom, looking up when he walked in, you declared the truth without sugarcoating it. Not even for his sake.
“I’m going to stop meeting you.”
Jungkook blinked; his heart dropped to his stomach. Arms suddenly limp and legs weak, he tried his best to speak, but the thick knot in his throat was a hurdle to the word trying to fall out.
He tried a sound; then a syllable. Eventually, a question, “What?”
You were as placid as he certainly wasn’t, answering, “I’ll be marrying Son Hayoon.”
Jungkook knew this guy, he thought, from his few strolls in town. His name wasn’t unknown — but Jungkook couldn’t quite conjure up a face at the moment. Like a stranger; that’s how it felt to him. What he did know was that the man was nowhere near anybody who could make you happy.
Not your type. Not your age. Not your satisfaction.
You were permitting your family to drown you.
Disbelief spread across his countenance; and your expression was impossible to crack.
He asked again, “What are you saying?”
You pushed yourself off the wall, a hand coming out of your crossed arms to rub your forehead. Then, you shrugged a shoulder, no filter, no comforting, “Jungkook… did you really — I don’t know, did you think we were going to talk each other into existence just by loving each other?”
“I thought we co–could fight—”
“Jungkook,” you reiterated, “this is beyond our control.”
“No.”
No stopping it — this time, he spoke before he could think. You sighed, averting his gaze when he crossed the room in two strides.
He reached for your hand resting on your chin, but you were reluctant. Licking his lips, he inched closer, telling you, “No. We can leave, just go somewhere else. We don’t need them, and you know you never have. We just need—”
You pulled your hand away. Small movement… but effective. Catastrophic, rather.
For another second, he only stared; and then, he tried again—
“Please.”
Your eyes flickered; but they weren’t as uncertain as his. In some sense, the sentiment behind them even looked like… pity. Jungkook hated it. Needed this to be over.
Was there any attempt left? He had to try.
He stepped closer, desperate enough to ignore the warning in your posture. His hand found your cheek, thumb trembling against your skin. Just once, terrified of an actual answer, he said, “Just tell me you don’t love me anymore.”
But the silence stretched — and that made matters worse. It held on for too long, enough for hope to surge through him. So he leaned in.
Maybe, he thought, if he kissed you, you’d remember. Maybe a touch would help you realise that there was no truly comforting future outside these walls.
He closed the distance, eyes falling shut; his lips barely brushed yours. And when you turned your head, he thought you were ready for him — but your intentions didn’t lie in reciprocation.
The movement wasn’t harsh or angry or too sudden. Almost gentle, even. Which somehow worsened the pain.
The kiss landed at the corner of your mouth and died there. Jungkook was frozen, something in him cracking badly — not yet all at once, not like a glass falling to smithereens. But rather quietly, patiently, like a slow death.
“Don’t do this,” he voiced. What else could he do now? Nothing was left.
But… but you had already done it, right? Because you stepped back. Once, twice, further away. When you neared the door, Jungkook didn't think there had ever been such a space between the two of you.
Yet it kept growing. And for the first time since Jungkook had known you, he realised that love wasn’t always a definite, final emotion human beings could grasp. For him, it was something present yet still lost.
You stopped at the door, a hand on the frame. You restated, like a cruel reminder, “It is just. Beyond our control.”
No. It isn’t.
He remembers wanting to say it; remembers this clawing at his throat.
Nothing had ever been out of his or your control ever before — not any storm. Not the winters cooling the lake. Not the endless expectations of a village too small to dream in.
But you were still surrendering so quickly.
Nothing was ever out of his control but you. You slipped through his fingers, moving off the ground and out of the forest without certain and clear heartbreak in your eyes. You didn’t look as torn apart as he felt… but rather, resigned.
You had already chosen your future, and you’d only come to inform him.
He remembers staring at the empty doorway long after you’d left. Waiting for you to come back, to realise your mistake… but you didn’t.
You didn’t.
The house and the doorway dissolve. A sound cuts through the memory of the past.
The soft sloshing and gurgling sound of the water stirs his chest. It’s not the usual lapping of the waves as they hit the near shore, but an intentional ripple, caused by a close existence rather than the breeze or nature.
It’s sudden. This is Jungkook’s quiet and unmoving oasis. The fish can’t be heard, and even the birds save from some hooting owls deep in the nights are silent. But the moon hasn’t yet fully emerged. And remaining animals do not often end their days here except for thirsty ravens, perhaps.
So when he snaps his head around to the point of near-whiplash, he isn’t hunting for a danger in the wild, but for an intruder. But, as his eyes soon detect, the only other presence lingering turns out to be both.
A breath falls out of Jungkook’s gaping mouth, almost akin to a surprised, accidental sound as he detects a face with the backdrop of nothing but the dark green forest. Your name follows as a whisper.
Your countenance emerges where emptiness greeted him before; he doesn’t understand where the line blurs – where his dreams end and reality begins. Because your features are one with the air around you, blurred by the thin fog.
You appear like a memory to him, a fairy tale nymph silently waiting to be found.
And for a moment, he’s sure he’s just seeing things. You aren’t here, not the way you used to be, the way he wants you to be. You never will be again because you swatted away the chances life threw at you so quickly, so lightly.
Jungkook might never truly learn which part of your cryptic, impenetrable heart he ever inhabited, but the ease with which your eyes and sounds vanished from this very place, and with that from his surroundings, has haunted him ever since.
Not the words you uttered and the steadiness, the certainty in your movements, in your articulations. But how effortless the separation seemed to you.
So of course, there is no way to fathom this very sight.
Your parted, tinted lips. The already soaked hair, brushed back, floating in the water. Your shoulders are bare, much like his, and you’re still, as if standing on an invisible pedestal in the clearly deep water.
The picture is odd, somewhat eerie. You’re not closing in; not swimming off and away either. You are half turned to him, looking at him, and he does not know why.
For a second, he doesn’t utter a word. His body moves of its own accord, small strokes to reach you, hesitant. But when your body breaks the waves his swimming sends towards you, his doubts evaporate, and for now, he trusts his sanity.
Another exhale of your name topples out of him, and finally, you sigh. He can’t see your chest or generally most of your evidently naked body, but you inhale the evening through your nose, eyebrows twitching an inch.
That sigh of yours is ominous, too magnificent to not scare him. Something’s severely unnatural about you. Or about the situation.
He backs away just a little, as if your touch could burn his nervous system and turn his heart into a piece of coal. It’s already damaged goods, barely keeping itself pumping.
Jungkook is about to repeat your name as if to ensure that you’re not a hallucination as feared, but you speak first. Unsure, reluctant for the merest heartbeat, you blink, gaze wandering to the forest and then back to him.
You say, “I was going to leave.”
Jungkook blinks like a lost puppy.
“…What?”
“I was going to leave before you saw me,” you repeat, like a matter of fact; like a continuation of a past conversation, “I forgot how quiet it gets here.”
Jungkook furrows his eyebrows. His body is ridden with goosebumps, only partly due to the chilly brisk now. It’s still too warm for him to be freezing like this. You are emanating something you shouldn’t—
“What are you doing here?” is the first thing he acquires. Croaks. He hasn’t used his voice in so long.
He wants to ask whether you are really here. But he knows, too. Knows that he couldn’t fabricate such perfection, even though he remembers most of your body. Inches of your skin. You are you in all your glory, only when you are truly here.
No way to make all this up; his mind doesn’t have the capacity anymore to function that way.
You smile. You’re nearing him now, fully turned towards him. As always, he can’t quite detect true pain behind your gape, not the kind he’s become used to feeling. The one he’s sure his treacherous, dark eyes are so obviously revealing right now.
The minute insecurity you moved with just a while earlier, facing away from him, is gone now. You might not have noticed him detecting that minor change, but he knows something isn’t right. Whatever reason almost urged you to silently depart again must have been weak, too easy to diminish.
Odd, to go through such efforts to disregard your clothing and to jump into these cold waters, just to want to back away again. Just to come back now. You seem sure about your approach as the distance closes, and the way you look at him – that barely open mouth of yours – clouds his mind.
“Jungkook,” is all you whisper as the gap disappears.
You’re daring in a nearly callous way, a hand coming up and out of the water slowly; like a haunted ship’s mast slowly materialising above the surface, the sinking sun darkening the sky.
Your fingers move as smoothly as the waves, dancing up to his sun-burnt shoulder. But you don’t touch him with the force he’s wanted you for years. A hint of a space still remains between his skin and yours; he doesn’t dare look down.
Your body doesn’t meet his. Still, the wet, soft tips of your digits drift down his shoulder and to his bicep, and as you lure dangerously close to his hand, his limbs still moving to keep him from drowning, he pulls away again.
His legs push the water off, feet between him and you again, and he inquires, “What do you want?”
His voice is supposed to be stronger now, to let the hurt and fury seep through, but instead, it’s meek. He tries again, “What do you want from me? You can’t leave and return… and leave and return. You’re…”
Saying that he’s never thought about you coming back would be a colossal lie. There were a dozen scenarios he drew and built in his brain, and the vexation mixed with the everlasting ache would always yield these results.
He’d ask what you were doing here. Reprimand you for turning him into your toy. And he’d… he’d stutter less, but he’d remind you just as much as himself—
“You’re married.”
He pushes out an exhale when you try to reach out again but halt mid-attempt. His chest hurts under the water, his neck hot. He can’t help the growing panic, because whichever intention you came to him with, he knows you’ll leave again – the place empty and him in shambles.
“You are married,” he repeats.
Perhaps because he’s hoping for you to deny it. To correct him about the status he saw you accept from afar with his own dim eyes. Maybe you didn’t go through with it after all; maybe you rejected the stranger once he locked the doors of your chambers.
But it’s been long enough, and the ceremony lasted from beginning to end. The marches on the streets were grand and the bond you never wanted was certainly established. The rituals commenced. You left. It looked real.
So of course he should’ve anticipated the sting when you say, “I know… I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
You have made up your mind. Thought it through. Maybe not cleverly, but you have. Your answer is immediate, “I needed to see you. Be with you just once.”
You must be joking. Must have stolen your lines from a book you read. There is no reality in which you yearn enough to fight for him. Even if just for a moment with him.
Beyond our control.
“Be with me just once?” Jungkook shakes his head, feet moving to swim off eventually. His body is going numb; he can’t hold himself afloat anymore. And your eyes are fogging his thoughts. “I asked you to be with me forever,” he says, turning, “If you think you can reject me and come back whenever it suits you…”
“I do not.”
“I’m just a person, too.”
A hand grazes his shoulder from behind; he’s able to pick up on enough pace to dodge it. But… there’s a spark to your touch. However fleeting, the sharp prick feels as though you’re reaching out with claws.
“Jungkook,” you call out once more, your voice deeper, more impatient; he’s never heard you speak like this before. “Jungkook, listen to me at least.”
He doesn’t.
There’s a gravitational pull, your voice leading him to you, but with all it takes, he fights your appeal until he reaches the shore. Up until now, you were trying to catch up, but when his made up mind expands the distance and his wobbly legs carry him to land, you come to a pause.
His body almost gives in. He readies himself for the fall, affected by not only the duration he spent in the water, but by your mere presence watching him strut away. His hands are ready to catch him, but he regains balance just as the water falls out of reach and the balls of his feet dig into the small patch of sand that the clearing offers as a rarity.
Jungkook’s clothes are draped over a low branch of a thick tree, right where the sand ends and sparse grass begins; every piece of it.
In this tumult, he didn’t think of the intimate sight he’s unintentionally offering to you: exposed skin from head to toe. Such an outcome was rooted in other intentions before. Deliberate.
Only hurts more to think about now.
But he doesn’t care. No, he cannot care. And he genuinely wouldn’t if you weren’t in the exact same state.
His eyes stay glued to the tree trunk, never panning to you. His body, no longer buoyed by the water, suddenly feels unbearably heavy; and by the time his clothes are close enough to grasp, he’s already fallen to his knees. He turns, his back meeting the rough tree.
He’s not concerned with what crawls up his skin or about the splinters the wood might punish him with. He needs to breathe.
The towel underneath offers at least some comfort, and he remembers to drag his shirt over the parts that aren’t yours to look at anymore.
There’s no time or mind for anything else. Your existence at this very clearing makes him want to throw up. He needs to focus on heaving his chest. On pulling in the crisp oxygen that the forest so generously provides.
But you don’t disappear. The illusion stays, still surrounded by a fairy tale mist that dips you in something utterly surreal.
Your form surfaces the way he did, as naked as he is. You’re a blurry figure; his vision quivers like his limbs. The elegance and beauty with which you walk aren't new to him, but they are taunting him in a manner he has never perceived before.
And once you tower above him, looking down soon enough and your chest as calm as his isn’t, he knows he’s doomed.
There’s only so long that he can keep denying you.
You kneel. Pulling your legs in, you wrap your arms around them tightly; concealing the parts of you he always craved. Even now, a carnal desire grows within, but it is so promptly and swiftly overshadowed by the pain you cause him.
The lack of readiness to stay. The urge to bid him goodbye one more time. The entirely missing fabric covering your skin, adding to your mock.
He sees your willingness to love him one last time and cut him into pieces so clearly. You do not understand what you do to him, how this final meeting severs his heart.
Or maybe you do but cannot find it in you to care.
Everything you’re doing might mean something. All of this exists to scramble his mind and hurt him further.
Your intentions have never been simple to decode, so he asks, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
You’re right. Doing what, anyway? Why is he so dizzy, so… so out of it? And why does the world, turning too fast up until now, suddenly stop spinning when you put a hand to his chin, lifting his head to… to do what?
It’s like you’re examining him.
Then, you whisper, “I… can’t stand him.”
Is that why you’re here? Because he could’ve figured this out himself, effortlessly too. Your face is too close now, nipples barely a hand-width from his chest when he breathes, “I… I know. I always knew.”
“I hate him,” you emphasise, “I hate how he talks to me. How he looks at me. And…” Your eyes wander down, along Jungkook’s body, pupils moving over the shirt and then back to your hand on his chin, “And I despise how he touches me. How he claims me.”
Jungkook will throw up. His chest is on fire.
He can feel the agony growing with every second and every syllable. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it either. But hearing you say it, confirm it, shatters him.
How he claims me.
“What is he…” Jungkook starts but then stops again. Even if there was something happening behind closed doors that he’d like to resolve, you won’t let him.
That’s always been the entire point. You do not want to fight for this.
“Nothing forceful. But also nothing I didn’t expect,” you say, “I hate how he reminds me what I had.”
Jungkook shakes his head and your finger off in the process. You curl it in, your hand a fist now. He says, “I told you so many times. It’s too late.”
“It’s… it’s not.”
You always say whatever you want so blatantly. No regard for this human heart of his. What are you made of?
Jungkook’s limbs resemble the liquid water when you’re near; he can’t move or avert his gaze, can’t send you off with actual, true conviction in his words. It’s always been like this: him melting into the ground or the sheets or the fabric of his bed; and you stand tall, a brightly lit candle incinerating him.
Yet, he can’t help but let the fury spread in his chest. It’s scorching hot, and your weak, tentative smile fuels it further. Your words and your expressions — none of it help him calm the riot. Instead, his nostrils flare. A scream climbs up his throat.
But he doesn’t yell at you. Not even when you add a whispered, “I’m sorry. But it’s not. I just…”
You don’t finish your sentence and he doesn’t urge you to. No matter what you say, there’ll be nothing but torment ahead. Your Sorries are a habit, but only half-sincere, and after stomping on a fragile heart, you do not get to apologise anymore.
Jungkook shakes his head again, finally able to look away as if your eyes had his gape trapped before. A tongue darts out to lick his lower lip wet, and you, observing his every subtle touch, place a gentle thumb to the corner of his mouth, ghosting over the plushness before he dodges.
You push yourself up a little, some dirt on your legs. The lower parts that your pulled-in limbs hid so far are on full display again, and Jungkook tries, really, truly tries not to stare. But you’re not having any of it.
You’re not standing to leave. You’re still half-crouching, and soon, too sudden, dragging your left leg over to his right hip, straddling him with nothing between him and you but the thin piece of pathetic clothing.
The gasp he breathes is immediate and unintentional. Even if he tried to push you away now, you’d look through him instantly. His mind wants to fight you, but his body can’t. There are multiple ways he’s always belonged to you, and his entire being always revealed as much.
And still…
That smile. The pleading eyes. Your damn touch on his neck.
He gulps hard, hands rushing up to your waist. Softly, he tries to shove you off of him, but not really. It’s too much of an easy play for you, having him like this. And when you grip his face, it costs him an amount of energy that he certainly does not possess. Not anymore.
The escape out of your grip is tough, and the word he utters is feeble, “Don’t.”
But you insist. “Just this once.” Nothing but whispers, even at such an empty place where nobody listens but the water, the birds and the moon. “I need you just once. Properly.”
He’s lightheaded. Again. His words are mumbled; he thinks that if he was you, he wouldn’t quite believe himself either, “I’m not a puppet. I have… I’ve got real feelings. Unlike you.”
A smidge of pride blooms in him. He didn’t think he’d pull off such a confession, but you seem visibly startled. Somewhat irritated. He could never guess as much if he focused on your eyes only, but the slightly clenched jaw is… telling. New.
“You really think that?” you ask, still patient but… something still off. He doesn’t understand the approaching temper in your voice. You left him. “That I have no real feelings? That’s what you think?”
“I tried to love you,” Jungkook attempts, repeatedly swallowing the dry lump. “To help you see how I loved you and how you loved me. What we could’ve been if you’d let us.”
“Back then… Love wasn’t enough, Jungkook.”
Jungkook smirks. A hollow, sarcastic smirk.
His body feels drugged, but he keeps himself upright. Perhaps his emotions have reached a point that exhausts him inside out, and he’s lost the capability to face you by now.
White flag, must be.
He repeats, one eyebrow cocked, “Love wasn’t enough?”
“Mh-mh,” you voice, a slight shake of your head. “I disagree, you know. Love might make people stronger than grief can, but it isn’t truly stronger itself. And love and grief fulfill different purposes.” He looks up at you; your head is tilted, your lips a gorgeous curve. Prettier when you speak. “When we break, we love harder. We can use that love.”
Use that love…
So you had to grieve to understand that you wanted him. Grow weak to want to return to strength.
But he presented the idea of loving enough to fight through obstacles over and over again; it’s too late now.
He clicks his tongue and wonders, “You want to use it now that… that we’ve become impossible? What about him?”
“I will find a way.”
“Empty promises.”
“No,” you vow, harsher this time. “Never empty.”
Your grip on his jaw is strong; he’s not used to you grabbing him like this. Your face draws in, and as your upper body leans forward, your lower half moves, too. Grinds on him. Or at least, touches along just the length that he tried to hide under the shirt.
His fingers dig deeper into your waist. You sigh, and he knows exactly what this means. He can distinguish your breaths, can interpret your sounds. You’re not frustrated anymore, not tired like he is. You are pleased.
Because he’s growing; fuller and harder by the second.
“No,” he tries, “this might end horribly. If you end up… with…” His hands grip your shoulders, but he isn’t really pushing. Not lifting you off of him. “They will kill you and me both.”
Your smile widens, as if you’ve thought it all out; as if you’ve come here with a plan that presumably profits nobody but you. And Jungkook already knows he doesn’t want, doesn’t need to hear it before you say it, “They can’t. Even if… they’ll just think it’s his.”
No. No, no, no.
Have you hiked up all the way to this place to use him as a rebound? All the promises you’re forming right now, are they in vain, to offer some fleeting relief?
I will find a way.
You won’t.
“That’s not enough for me,” Jungkook mouths, his words stuck at the back of his tongue, hushed, “it means… you’re not truly trying to call him off. You’ll go back and find an excuse. Not to leave him, but me.”
“I only gave an answer to your statement, Jungkook,” you defend, coating your words in honey, “truth is: I’m ready to die for this one moment alone. Aren’t you?”
“No… no—”
“Please. Even if you don’t have it in you to fight anymore…” You lean in further, your nipples touching his chest. You keep grinding. “Just this once. Give me one, just one more night.”
His shirt slides off his lap just a little but not enough; not in the way Jungkook inwardly hopes, just so he can blame the lust multiplying on anything but himself. Despite everything — the anger, the disappointment, the approaching, everlasting pain — he wishes he could feel you better.
Just like you are perceiving the constant twitches below. No hiding it.
And then, you take it a step further, sending a shiver down his spine, cold under his burning skin, “You can do whatever you want with me.”
His chest and stomach stir. His body feels heavy, your touch razorsharp. “What?”
“Whatever you want,” you reiterate, “I want you to. I need you to.”
Your breath shakes as you shift back again, all along the line of his stiffening cock, the shirt moving off more. You can already see the V-line when you glance down, and if you weren’t sitting on your throne the way you are, his entire shaft would jump out beneath the clothing.
It doesn’t. Instead, it stays trapped under you, blue and aching and never reversed to its previous state; even less when you repeat yet again—
“Anything… anything you want.”
The control diminishes; and despite all his attempts, Jungkook snaps.
His hisses echo, curses fall. He closes his eyes, his nails bruising your skin; he gives you one last chance to retreat, though he knows he’s long lost.
“Stop it,” he nearly growls through gritted teeth. His chest constricts, not enough air provided in this world, as if the lake water is bending on its own will and filling his lungs. He’s already drowning. “Stop it.”
You evaluate the tone, quietly bearing the sting emerging in your sides where his nails scrape your skin. Jungkook knows you’re waiting for him to change his stance and crawl back to you; head in your neck, lips parted, you’re anticipating him to crumble in your grip.
He’d know even if he wasn’t keeping his focus so intently fixed on your every movement.
You are personified torture, a murder weapon when you verify, “Are you sure?”
If he had an ounce of strength left, he’d attempt a lie. You’d look through it anyway; Jungkook is as transparent as glass. Predictable. So he whispers, “No. But stop.”
And this time, you do. With ease, too.
You do not hesitate on his lap, do not tempt him further. He knows why. He knows that you know, too. Because the moment you upright yourself, muttering an, “Alright,” your voice betrays you — you’re cunning.
And you understand that you have him wrapped around your fingers.
Before he’s capable of reacting to your tactics and retrieving his armour, he’s long succumbed to his own wants. Acting before thinking. You have never allowed anything other than this order.
The mutter dies under his breath, soon a whisper compared to his groan and with a single, quick tug, he’s pulled you back to where you were. The grip around your arm is minimally less harsh than around your waist, but jarring nevertheless.
But you don’t seem to mind a bit. You don’t yell out in pain; but you gasp in surprise. The sight is one to behold, even for Jungkook. The moment plays out in slow motion, split into nanoseconds.
The way your body twists and starts falling onto his; his immediate intuition bringing his hand to the shirt covering him and removing it before you’re settled back into his lap; and your chest crashing against his when he lets you go, fingers hovering up to your neck to meet your lips.
You let out a tiny mewl; he breathes into your mouth. The effect from the blasphemous skin-to-skin contact unfolds instantly. You’re already gliding along his cock; and he is already at nearly full growth underneath.
Just like before, the jerks of his sensitive muscle are constant; he wonders whether he might burst before he’s felt you all the way through. Stuffed every free inch of yours. The aggression your lips meet him with are certainly relentless, no help in softening the situation in any way.
Because your body stays in motion, a back and forth of your hips numbing his limbs, and you try to grab a piece of him – his long hair, his arms, his back – to hold onto. He has you pressed against him; you won’t escape either way. But you move as if you fear you might.
Your tongue is hot, diligent, skilled as it mingles with his. Jungkook knows these very touches, but his mind is playing tricks on him. Have they changed, even if just a little? Did you have time to aim for higher satisfaction, to find a pace to make him remember your taste better?
The thought squeezes his heart like a heavy hand, but he wipes it off his mind, focusing on what he might only be able to linger in for a couple more moments. Who knows? Who knows when the mist might return…
The passion needs to remain. How you open your mouth and whimper into his. Tongue playing around, pulling at his lips. He backs away, his head sinking to your jaw, then to your hot neck for only a second.
You moan so lasciviously that he nearly skips the stage of teases and games, jumping straight to lifting you off his lap and then slamming you back onto it and his raging, towering cock.
But instead he listens. Hears you whisper his name in fragments.
“Ju—koo–” and “Ngh–kook—”
He runs the wet tip along a vein before his head turns to the other side and kisses you again. A hand slides south to your ass, at first merely a featherlight touch, but soon landing on the flash with a force; and he won’t let your mouth go. You’re fighting for breath, panting, squeaking into the kiss.
Jungkook has woken up from these images. Fairy tales and nightmares. He doesn’t know what this is either; the start of something gorgeous, sinful; the end of something that once was.
He doesn’t know. And this very level of uncertainty makes him want to devour you. To remember this. To move his fingertips with intent.
When your lungs constrict and Jungkook’s face heats up, you back off, your lips and your chin wet. He must be drooling, too, he thinks; a sight like his, you here as the goddess — the beautiful monster — you’ve always been, is bedazzling.
You glide back a couple inches until you can see the length standing against his belly. You grimace, your mouth moving, cheeks hollow until he realises what you’re doing: A blob of spit falls onto his dick, and you reach out quickly to spread it over the head.
Your thumb runs over the slit, collecting the precum, and then you move your fist down the shaft, up again. You’re basking in this, he’s sure; in the way he throws his head against the trunk, eyes closing, a low timbre vibrating in his throat.
The call of your name is so feeble, so enticing that your hand twists more, a little faster, your pinky delivering the lightest touch to his balls.
“Mmmh—god—” Jungkook proclaims, shoving your hand off of him, “I will… lose it before I can even–even start.”
He thinks you’re about to argue with him, but he pushes your body back gently, forcing your palms behind you to press against his shins and keep yourself from falling back.
For a moment, he only takes your beauty in. You straddling him, your legs spread, your pussy lips apart. Wet, so close to the head of his cock — he could just… just glide into you like nothing—
No.
Instead, he brings a hand to your stomach, caressing his way down until the pad of his forefinger carefully dips between your folds and runs along the slit. His breath hitches at the drenched sensation; he can’t help but laugh.
“Yes?” you only whimper.
“Not a single dry spot,” Jungkook lets you know, demonstrating it by pushing in the middle finger as if you didn’t know, “see? So easy.”
You whine, moaning out. Your voice is higher, more desperate when he pumps the digit into you, moving it, curling it, massaging a rough spot until your hips wind atop of him. And then another finger joins in, though he doesn’t think you need the help at all.
But god… fuck, those expressions of yours. The knitted eyebrows, the shivering lower lip, the hands holding onto his legs for dear life.
Fuck.
Jungkook gulps. Admits, “I’ve been dreaming of this.”
Your eyelids flutter open; you shake your head. “You… never needed to.”
“I did. I absolutely did.” He places a hand under your ear, too gentle for his mad endeavours, pulling you once again flush against him, though the fingers still inside. “Come here.”
The reminder to keep you in his grip tonight only resurfaces when you try to move away, attempting to slither down his body until you reach his chest, and he puts you back in place, face to face. The touch on your cheek suddenly shifts to your neck, your eyes a fraction wider.
He doesn’t push or press, but his pupils darken, telling enough as he matches the shade with his words, “I thought I was doing whatever I wanted to tonight?”
You swallow hard, nodding. But you’re not nervous or taken aback; in fact, you flash a satisfied smile, prepared for what he’s willing to provide. Your eyes roll down, attempting to catch a glance of where you see him waiting under you and you ask, “May I?”
You let go of his legs, urging your way through the tight space between your bodies to skim the skin above the V-line and draw lines on his stomach. He understands that you’re not yet again trying to dive down again — frankly, he’s too impatient for it, no matter how welcoming the thought of your luscious lips around his cock.
And he can’t finish the night already; and the sight of you eating him up would certainly lead to just that.
But no — you’re hinting at something else. You’ve had enough of sitting on a bulge, too. You’re craving nothing different than him. And while his feral desires grow, pictures of you pinned under him flashing and re-flashing, he permits you to handle this once.
He removes his fingers from you, wiping the juices along your thigh.
Then, he says, “Do it.”
His voice is rough, worn out. Aside from the conversation, if he could ever call it that, he’s so far had with you, he probably hasn’t spoken a word in days. Combining the silence with the hot feeling of your skin under his fingers, the strain in his words only grows.
Jungkook waits and watches, further leaning back against the fissured tree. His back will be thoroughly scratched and scarred, but the adrenaline won’t allow him to care just yet.
Heart racing a hundred miles a minute, he lifts his chest, keeping it in place for a second when you align his leaking tip with your pussy. You rub it between your folds, and he can clearly feel your readiness; there really is no need for further preparation. You’re teasing him.
A jerk of his hip signals you to hurry, and you throw a quick glance, a familiar smirk rendering him useless for the merest moments before he starts, “Enou—”
But you’re already a step ahead. With a deep breath in, you sink until more and more of him disappears, and soon, it’s all gone. Your pelvis hits his, your mouth open, jaw sharp as you clench it, much like him.
And then… then you stop moving.
“What?” Jungkook wonders, hands already on your waist to move you up himself.
But you catch his wrist in time, somewhat unstable as you sway, yet tell him, “Wait. Just for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Just to… to really feel each other,” you argue, licking your lips.
As your hazy eyes stare up to find his wanting glance, he swears your pupils emit a very brief and very sudden burst of light. Green. Soon gone. Made up, possibly.
“Why rush?” you wonder, another dangerous tilt of your head. “Just because I surrendered like that,” a sharp fingernail scratches across his sculpted chest, “it doesn’t mean we should just forget to truly take it all in.”
Jungkook draws in some air, urging for more but helpless in the wake of your touches. This isn’t what he intended. You told him to demolish you; yet, he can’t seem to move.
But you do. Even if just a little.
A tiny inch forward, slipping out minimally, and then back where you were; with him deep inside, his balls to your ass, your hands on his cheeks now.
“How do you feel?” you query. The amusement in your voice is unmistakable.
It’s the first thing in a while that has truly felt good, Jungkook thinks. The pain starts with you and it ends with you. You know that as much as him. And your question isn’t just this; you’re not solely interested in how he perceives your body and the sins committed with it.
You’re talking about your presence. About you eliminating a thought after another. The audacity is unmatched; you’re not really here to heal him at all.
“You don’t get to ask me,” Jungkook mutters quietly, his words one with the breeze, “you don’t fucking get to ask me after doing this to me.”
“Doing this to you…”
“Don’t play stupid. Really.”
You quiet down for a moment, tugging at the hair behind his ear. You follow a strand of it down to where it ends at his shoulder. You draw circles there then, so close that he could capture your lips with ease. But he needs you to talk sense into this situation, even if it might go over his head with you wrapped around him like this.
You speak as gently as him when you answer, “It wasn’t my intention. I just knew fighting would do… nothing.”
Jungkook hisses and grunts when you roll your hips. A voice pleads for him to lift you and slam you back onto him, to jackhammer into you until you slur your words. But somehow, he’s still trapped.
He’s your slave entirely.
“Really?” he asks between gritted teeth. “Because you’re here now.”
“Because… I dream of you, too.”
“Did you not before?” The tone starts to slip into fragments of frustration, much to Jungkook’s misery, but he can’t help himself a bit. Instead, he gives into the emotion bubbling in his stomach, a large hand landing on the flesh of your ass again as he urges, “Tell me.”
You mewl at the sharpness, your skin burning. The slap forces your body into motion and Jungkook, using the moment, delivers one reckless thrust up. You whine.
“Tell me,” he forces again, his body coming back to life, “it was hard to care, wasn’t it?”
He holds your ass and you in place as he fucks into you once more. Harder this time, staying fully emerged a little longer and then backing out almost entirely again. Covered in a sheen, his cock remains like this for a moment, and when nothing but panting bursts out of you, he pushes back in, no mercy.
This time, he keeps a pace. Enough of your nonsense.
“I— I did,” you tell him, grabbing his face to seek his lips. You find his tongue soon after, but do not, cannot kiss him properly; nothing but licking and playing, a whisper against his mouth, “You know how I felt for you.”
You plant your feet in the grass as he impels you from below, your watery eyes closing when you moan and whimper against his face. His cheek, his jaw, his temple. Jungkook is out of breath, but not ready to give this discussion up yet.
Anger up there, revenge below.
He says, “I didn’t. I don’t.”
The pace slows. Pressure builds in his balls and cock; Jungkook cannot end it yet.
Slow down… slow down.
You let out huffs as if to thank him and complain at once. This was just what you wanted; and he so readily, so easily gave in. Not that he didn’t crave each part of you, not that it didn’t almost kill him to not touch you.
But… but what will this result in? Are you allowing just a touch, a taste? Or handing out your heart, too?
You hug him close, arms wrapping around him, your chest moving against his. You play with the mane at the back of his neck; when you speak, goosebumps appear on his skin again, “You do, Kook. If you think about it carefully… you’ll know.”
He shakes his head. He has thought about every word a million times. No conclusion. None that didn’t hurt.
“In my eyes,” he explains, an arm slinging around you, “you played with me. You came and left and— and gave me hope, and then you stopped fighting. And…” His mouth sinks to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin, digging in just lightly. “Now you… you’re back because it suits you. No?”
You lean back. Look at him. Intently, carefully — as if to confirm his theory. But then you move your head to a certain No. Assure that, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”
Your hands reach behind you, lower and lower until the tips of your digits brush his balls. A sound falls out of his chest. You upright yourself, shoving your chest in his face, nipples an inch from his mouth.
“I want you,” you repeat.
And though Jungkook understands the meaning behind your statement, he can’t fight but reciprocate your wants. He’s trying his best, but he’s not immune.
So it’s no wonder that the same thought repeats in his mind, blurted as he shifts on the spot, “I want you so bad. So fucking bad—”
The kiss is aggressive when he drives his hand into your hair, keeping your head in place. He lets your up-and-down-movements drive him crazy. For a minute, he lets you do, but soon, this level of control doesn’t suffice anymore.
Holding onto your ass, he leans in to kiss the flesh of your mounds, a light bite to your nipple; he prepares for a change in position, just when you admit, “I want to do this for you. Keep being here for you.”
“You need to,” Jungkook growls, “you owe me that.”
“Sure… sure, right—”
Jungkook doesn’t care how he sounds. What his words might convey. He just needs to—
You keen and shriek when he suddenly throws the two of you to your sides, his arm wrapping around your chest to pull you flush against him. His tongue explores your neck, licking up to your earlobe, a strong hand throwing your right leg back over his.
You’re open and bare for him, but he doesn’t shove himself back into you again just yet. Instead, he pushes two fingers into your mouth; you react right away. Hollowing your cheeks, you lick and suck, and his cock twitches between your ass.
Pulling out the fingers with a plop, he finds the desperate bundle of nerves just over your stretched pussy hole, circling the nub softly at first.
Your mouth falls agape before a sound can escape at all; the pleasure is stuck in your throat, but your body, the restless limbs, held by him over his hip, are revealing enough.
But then you let out sudden bursts of exhales, your hand flashing down to his, not forcing it off but rather moving with it. He kisses and bites your earlobe, and when he speaks again, his breath burns on your skin, spreading across your chest.
“Say something,” he orders, holding you tighter when your body winds and half twists, “anything I can remember later.”
Your eyebrows kiss, your arms, legs and voice restrained. You’re in a human cage made by him. Turning your head, you seek his lips, but he backs away, shakes his head, repeats, “Anything.”
“Nngh, you— won’t have to remember—”
“Wrong. I will. So give me something, too.”
You laugh under moans, rather at the pained certainty than out of amusement. And then, you say, “Just take it.”
And he obliges. The hand disappears to reach between your legs, but not to fumble further with what pleads for more of him — instead, Jungkook grants you just that wish.
He pumps his veiny cock, moving the skin up and down to provide you with all he has. You feel the tip against your thigh, but it soon leaves your seething skin to push back into your pussy. He doesn’t let go of the shaft until it’s as buried into you as the position allows.
And then, he raises your leg higher, spreading you wider; and once you’re entirely open to him, sideways on the grass and defenseless, he pushes in deeper, rougher.
If he could reach your guts, he would. He wants more than this; he’s pushing you and, frankly, himself to the limit, but the absolute proximity does not seem to suffice. And with each of your whimpers resonating in his chest, echoing in his ears, he finds he won’t be able to let go at all.
“I just…” he starts, fingers pinching your nipples. He speaks close to the burning shell of your ear, your body a mess of sweat and exhilaration and beauty. “I needed you… to say this— so long ago.”
As he rams into you all the way, your body threatens to fall forwards, but you press a flat hand to the ground and he holds you to him; he freezes his hips, circling a little. Stays in place to give you a moment to feel the throb of his cock, and to feel the clenching of your walls himself.
His smile is instant, genuine. Do you feel like this… with that guy of yours? Does he ever make your insides expand and contract like this? Do you ever breathe his name, call for more, beg for eternity and salvation at once?
No. No, he’s certain you don’t.
Be it the ecstasy flooding his veins or the illusion he’s painted for himself — right now, different from mere minutes ago, he cannot be told otherwise: You are here, and no matter who you return to, you will never be theirs.
Lips pressed to your neck, he listens to your nonsensical words, his chest aching, his stomach tickling, his legs tired but his mind wide awake. All past trauma aside, he thinks he’d follow you to the end of the world.
He felt similar before you exited his life; the memory is nostalgic, yet a reminder for what came after.
But right now… he cannot bother to think about it. Cannot shatter just yet.
For now, his eyes and thoughts only fixate on the way your tits overflow between his fingers. The unheld side bounces each time he drives himself back into you, nearly breaking his stamina. So he shifts his focus, finding your clit again, repeating the soft oval shape from before.
You turn to look at him as much as you can, and your open mouth closes only once, for a second, when you trap your lower lip with your teeth and let go again. Plush, sweet, pillowy.
“So pretty,” he mutters. And, “Mine.”
You seem to indulge in this. Because a second later, something happens again.
Your expression changes for the tiniest moments, another such short hint that he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him again. It throws him off guard enough for him to forget his name, to forget the world around him.
His movements slow down, though not without results. Your hips move against him, your ass grinding against his pelvis, and you’re fucked out, moving your hand down to guide his, playing around the nub until you have ridden the waves of your high and calmed down.
Jungkook lets you. You still emanate an unbelievable glow; it makes him dizzy and warps reality somehow. Not a sentiment he’s able to explain; but nothing so out of the ordinary that he might deem it surreal.
He doesn’t know what it is. But he’s insane beyond measure.
Holding you almost leveraged before, you slip in his grip, his arm more loose around you now. And you use the moment to get yourself out of the much wished-for cage, distancing yourself from him.
He props himself up with an arm on the grass, watching you, his cock soaked and glinting, still a pillar.
But he’s not as manic as before. Only sees you crawl away; sees you drop on your bottom, your body slowly moving backwards on the grass and towards the shore.
But you aren’t done. At all, it seems.
Because, with unadulterated mischief in your voice, you urge him closer, “No need to stop.”
“I…” he only manages for a bit, swallowing, and when you raise an eyebrow in question, almost as if to allow him to speak, he says, “I didn’t intend to stop.”
“But you still did. Come here.”
“Why… don’t you come to me?”
“You want something, don’t you?” you push, chin higher as you start to turn around, almost as if your legs have given out. Creeping towards the water on all fours. “If you want to, you need to get it… Kook.”
And the encouragement seems to work.
Because he soon follows. At the same pace, with a similar hunger in his countenance as in yours. His brain is foggy, as if drunk from an irresponsible, passed night. The surface of the water appears twice.
But it doesn’t matter. His body is lingering for you. He’s not done with you.
And he proves the aggressive craving, the way he’s starving, when he suddenly pulls at your leg just inches from the water.
You shriek, your upper body gently falling, though the sound of surprise is instantly replaced by a satisfied moan when Jungkook holds you by your waist and leans down to attach his mouth to your pussy.
It’s a breathtaking, bewildering taste. Overflowing, your high still pools out of you, multiplying when he collects spit on his tongue and pushes it to your hole. Capturing your arms, he holds your wrists in one hand, pinned at the small of your back.
Ass up, upper body down, cheek against the sand; and his lips all diligent, tongue lapping you up.
It’s all he’s ever wanted. All he could live on.
As he French kisses you, you only repeat, “Yes… please— exactly what I— I meant.”
But he doesn’t continue for long. It’s difficult to when you’re already dripping like this, his cock dying for more.
And when he finally gets on his knees properly again, straightening his back, you find a moment to laugh.
You tease, “Just minutes ago you refused to want me the way you used to—” He straightens your legs until you’re flat on your stomach; straddles you. “And now… Sailor Jungkook...” Resolute fingers push your ass apart; more spit lands on your pussy. “Now you’re following me— like a pupp—”
The taunt is forgotten when he pushes all of himself into you in one fell swoop, leaving not a single inch untouched and pumps into you with persistence.
“Shut up,” he commands, coaxing another throaty laugh out of you. This is exactly what you want. What you have wanted from him. Never more, never less.
He leans into you, kissing your cheek for a second, but when the position proves too hard, he decides to bring you up to him instead. Palming your chin and jaw, he lifts your upper body off the ground, teeth nibbling at your shoulder.
You yell into the clearing, his name somewhere in the mix of jumbled words, and he pushes a finger into your mouth first. Then two. Then covers your lips with a hand, muffling your sounds.
Not long anymore. Almost done.
It’s clear to the both of you in the way he begins to slow down, his hips unsteady, air leaving his lungs. He’s harder inside you now, about to burst, just a second before—
He pulls out entirely, just to turn you on the spot again. This is ideal for you. Jungkook is a sucker for this — as shy as he used to be, he never feared your eyes. With the cold nonchalance you displayed sometimes, you understand why he didn’t.
He always tried to find an emotion he craved in those gazes of yours.
But…
Well.
It takes less than a minute from him flipping you around to holding your face between his fingers, wrapping your legs around his waist and kissing you like a madman — and to him coming undone.
He prays, “Don’t let this end.”
He promises, “I love you.”
He whispers, “I need to stay with you.”
No more begging for you to stay. Jungkook has switched to voicing his own wishes, no matter how fuzzy-brained, in hopes you might do it for him. But have you ever? Would you ever?
You’re the most important person to him, but you might be the most important person to you, too.
As he trembles and his legs quiver, water flows to the shore where you lay. It wets your hair anew, an art piece in his eyes. He keeps thrusting for a bit, spilling until empty — and not once in this time does his vision clear.
You’re grotesquely gorgeous. Mysterious, surrounded by a glow but also a… a darkness. A combination that does not exist in true reality. You are unreal.
And he doesn’t care about his failing brain. The moment you are gone, the images in front of him will clear. He will properly feel the moment, the regret, the wounds and bruises on his arm, the same blood on his skin as under your nails.
A burning sensation already spreads through him as he finishes, but he doesn’t know if it’s, in truth, the entirety of his skin or the roughness you held onto him with. He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that bit by bit, without him intending or wanting to, you will tumble out of reach. The adrenaline still courses his body as he calms down on top of you and then rolls off, head cooling from the ever-approaching water.
Fingertips still skim your sides, but he knows you’ll get up very soon and disappear. By then, the rush will be over and the lust will subside. You will leave nothing in your wake but wistful yearning.
The lake is quiet now.
Nothing but breathing, nothing but the light wind.
For a while, neither of you speak. The water keeps lapping softly against the shore, washing over your hair before retreating again. If this was any other day or any other reality, Jungkook would sit up, close his eyes, be content listening to the slow rhythm of the waves with you.
But that’s not what it is.
“I can’t part from this,” he mumbles in the silence.
He doesn’t hear you for a second. His eyes drag open; he looks over. You’re still here — his fingers aren’t grasping a ghost. And you’re staring at him, too. Only that you look more mature now, your face different.
Scarier.
Perhaps it’s the moment tinging the night in something… gloomy.
But you just keep looking. So he tries again, “I just… I cannot part from this.”
Then, you speak, a smile dancing around your mouth. “This?”
“From you.”
“Really, Jungkook?”
“You know. You have always known… please.”
His eyes fall shut again. Not due to comfort or pain or any real emotion at all. But in order to make his head stop spinning. As his other senses come alive, he hears you clearly, though you remind him of a faraway sound; a lullaby howling through the forest.
“If you think you are truly ready,” you say, “you need to tell me. We will not part.”
“I have told you. How many times do I need to—”
He stops. Takes a breath. His skin tingles.
Nobody speaks. You only laugh, only for a second. And there is something strange about the sound. Not strange enough to notice at first perhaps — just impossible to ignore. It blends with the water until he can no longer tell where you end and the lake begins.
He feels you move next to him, a sharp finger touching his neck and trailing down his chest and stomach. Then up again; down again.
“Come closer,” your sugary sweet, reverberating voice speaks, quiet. “Closer to me.”
He does. And for a moment, it feels like before. Not before he found the sand under him, but — before.
Before the stranger. Before the issues. Before you left.
It feels no different now. That’s the problem. It is a problem, right? He isn’t sure.
Because each second confuses him. The water slides around his legs. Odd, given the fact that the shore certainly seemed further away before. But he doesn’t find himself as concerned with this as he thinks he should be.
Instead, he remembers the woman he’s loved for so long. The one laughing with him besides campfires. The one he promised forever, too; the one who chose someone else.
Jungkook has tried it all. Attempted to convince himself that he hates you. And then, that he’d never stop loving you. But hate and love are easy — none of these ever bothered him. None of it fractured his soul.
No, what stabbed him over and over again was grief.
Love is stronger than grief.
Maybe he was wrong. And even if this was true, a lower intensity of the latter somehow still overshadows a high amount of the former. Love makes stronger; but grief is stronger. Ironically, renders you weak. That’s what you meant.
Your shoulder brushes his. He didn’t know when, but at some point, he must have stood up. You’re holding his hand.
They fulfill different purposes.
But to you, it’s not about intensity, but about the goal each emotion has. He never thought about it this way, though. Emotions having certain goals… purposes…
We break first and then love harder.
He’s knee-deep in the water. Soul cleanly splitting in half. No wound will ever scar over.
We can use that love.
How are you using his love?
He can’t say. You’re just leading him into the water. He can’t form a thought. Your lips are moving; you seem to be saying something. Singing? Eyes hooded. Your skin and hair are odd. Different…
Another step.
The water is colder a few steps farther in, colder than in the evening. But it doesn’t hurt. His body doesn’t react. He’s busy with what he’s hearing — he thinks you’re still talking, voice low and melodic, like a song one knows or remembers or soon forgets.
The dizzying feeling from before has fully turned into a paralysis almost — a dream. Nightmare? Something impossible to control. When…
The lake curls around his calves, then around his waist.
No.
Grief is stronger than love. Grief is stronger than love. Grief is stronger than love.
Not because one cannot love hard. But because the stronger the grief, the weaker one gets. There’s weakness in strength, isn’t there?
It’s where you needed him. He understands now. He surrenders.
“Do you trust me?” you seem to ask now.
Jungkook nods, no time to think about the question at all. Somehow he does.
The problem is, despite the touches he and you shared, the ache never disappeared, did it? Even at the height of it all, he knew you wouldn’t stay, no matter how intently he begged or how long he waited for you.
This pain was bound to consume him, and you knew. That’s how you’re using this love.
You appeared. Planted the affection in him. Fabricated a life for yourself, that, he now realises, you never truly lived. Made yourself somebody you never were. Who are you then? What are you?
You appeared only to break him over and over again, but never quite managing the final rip that you thirsted for. His adoration for you, and the hope that came with him, backed him up…
But hope is scarce these days. You entered this clearing not with the purpose to return to him. But to deliver that last blow. To finally splinter him enough to claim him. He was too strong before, wasn’t he? Too conscious.
He knew. He has always known: You do not obsess over others.
This is why.
And you never found him by coincidence. The hand-built cottage atop the damn lake signed his death sentence the moment he moved in. There were always creatures in the waters.
Your head turns to him; the glow fades from your eyes. Everything feels distant. Unimportant somehow. You have stopped singing, only muttering words now, and soon, the ground vanishes.
Jungkook floats in the water, his legs remembering to swim until — they don’t.
You deliver a nod, as if to ready him; as if to remind him of every smile, every touch, every broken promise one last time. Granting him mercy. Devilishly thanking him for dropping his guard.
You have always adored his soul. Wanted it.
Love gave him something to live for, to hold onto; he couldn’t resist who you were for him, but he became resistant to your nature. Funny.
One last tilt of your head. And a moment later — he’s drowning.
His lungs don’t burn right away. The feeling creeps up on him. There is no panic, however; he is hollowed out. Filled with empty spaces. And sirens always know to fill empty spaces.
He forces his eyes open underwater. A faint glow of green eyes visible, he follows them. They lure him in, dragging further than he knew the lake could go.
And once the ground comes to sight, they appear. Multiple faces, multiple levels of hunger.
And underneath, somewhere in the dark, just as consciousness starts to fade, the ground reveals skeletons of a near and distant past.
happy festa '26!! lol alright, yes, this is a dream i had and i had to write it out lmao. i promise i do usually stick with happy endings, but men have been outrageous these days, so a piece underlining a woman's power was needed. this one's for the gals. and sometimes it's also just fun to try new genres and stuff.
thanks for reading!! i know i left the story quite open to interpretation at times, esp their backstories and similar. if you have any question, ask away. i have a lot in my head that i couldn't put in the fic, but would love to talk to y'all about. and you know, interaction makes the world go round and all that hahaha so feel free to talk to me, even if you're usually a silent reader. would make my day. see you and love you <3
Summary: After sparking a sinful conversation on a dating app, you vow to yourself that you won’t give in to more the notorious college fuckboy Jeon Jungkook might have to offer. That is, until he rings your doorbell just one night later – and it’s truly not your fault that he’s so damn hard to resist.
➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader
➵ rating: 18+
➵ genre:classmates to lovers, college!au; fluff, smut
➵ warnings: sexual tension, flirting/teasing/provoking, banter, a dating app :’), she has a crush on him but won’t admit it, grumpy roommate joon, crack dialogue, fuckboy!jk who wears glasses in class, idk that much about pharmacy i apologise; explicit sexual content: sexting, he makes her horny in public, petnames !!, fingering, edging, oral (f. & m. rec.), dom and big cawk jk wbk, he’s SO cocky, spanks (ass & clit ones), some choking, praising, messy but protected sex, she swallows his load <3, jk rlly loves her ass <3
➵ word count: 12.6k
➵ a/n: been itching to write a lighthearted college au for so long and here we gooo !! @missgeniality thank you for enduring me and making this better and for not k*lling me yet, love thou, kitty <33 enjoy y’all – feedback is always appreciated !! <3
MASTERLIST | WIPS
“What’s with the constant yelling on this goddamn campus?”
gorgeous and breathtaking banner by @kth1 <3
Summary: No matter how crowded or busy the world around you gets, your thoughts keep drifting back to him until they begin longing for more than just his virtual presence – and when you finally do meet him, he erases all of your thoughts entirely.
⤞ pairing: Taehyung x reader
⤞ rating: GA
⤞ genre: s2f2l; lots of fluff, some crack
⤞ warnings: (online) banter, lots of teasing / flirting, lots of talk about sunrises and stuff, physical intimacy indicated but not described, movie references (you don’t need to understand them), alcohol consumption, kissing; not much, it’s honestly just tooth-rotting fluff y’all </3
⤞ word count: 12.6k
⤞ a/n: i wish there were words to describe what this man means to me and how much love i hold for him. but since this is an impossible task, i hope that this little love letter suffices too <3 happy birthday to the gentlest, loveliest, prettiest winter bear ever 🥺 a big thank you to @missgeniality for beta’ing this !!! this is also my contribution to @dailydaegu‘s taehyung birthday event !! hope you guys like it <3
➳ listen to: sweet night X heather mash up & willow by Taylor Swift
MASTERLIST | WIPs
Sometimes, when the sunrise drenches the sky in unknown and colourful hues, it looks like it’s a representation of a familiar stranger. Sure, the natural phenomenon occurs in the same tender way every single dawn, but the intensity of it still feels new each time.
Taehyung knows that if worldly things truly resembled a person, he’d be able to recognise it with a brief, careful glance. Would be able to see a sunrise and a sunset, decipher the night sky or fog or supernova written in their eyes. It’s a strange way to think that he can’t put into words or explain to curious friends who try to pull him down from the seventh cloud he constantly floats on.
Of course he doesn’t think of these things when he soaks in the warmth of the sun in the summer, or when he takes in the scent of wet grass after a pleasant drizzle. And the poetic and optimistic aspect of his philosophy surely does not cross his dreaming mind when he finds himself in front of his computer one October night.
Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.
➳ pairing: Yoongi x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: s2l/est. rel.; angst, fluff, smut
➳ warnings: this one's heavy :') pov switches, switching between past and present, reference to the d-day documentary, mental health issues, therapy, depression and anxiety, mentioned unaliving attempt, mentions of fainting, slight mention of SA, implied panic attack, lots of trauma, lots of sadness, healing journey/healing with yoongi, feelings of loneliness, feeling unworthy, oc is very unsure and thinks she's a burden, tears and crying; explicit sexual content: (brief) protected sex, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, kissing/making out. please heed the warnings <3
➳ word count: 11.5k
➳ a/n: hi hi. not the average taegularities fic, i think. once again, please do note the warnings before reading. it's okay if it's too heavy and you need breaks – take care of yourself. it's a very very personal piece that i just needed to get out of my system. yoongi's snooze inspired it; i still cry when i listen to it – i'm thankful it saved me in so many ways, and i hope you feel the same way about this fic. i love you all; here's to healing and living 💕
➳ listen to: snooze by agust d ft. ryuichi sakamoto & woosung 🤍
TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
The weather changes at warp speed these days.
When you left just this morning, it was raining buckets. The shower barely allowed a glimpse at the sky, grey as smoke; ominous clouds were bursting, fast cars and busy passengers on the sidewalk rushing through the world.
You were one of them, not necessarily impressed by the downpour. But you smiled when someone halted, stretching an arm to force the doors of the bus open until you were inside.
The tender gesture lit up your gloomy morning, a proof of how the world isn’t all misery and ruin. For a couple minutes and hours, that stranger’s smile lifted the weight off your leather jacket clad shoulders. You were burdened by nothing but the bag hanging on your side.
But now, the same jacket is draped over your arm and feels much heavier than before; stripped off when the sun broke through the clouds around the afternoon. The additional weight gives you grief; you’re relieved when you hang it onto a rack, step out of your shoes and drag yourself to the bathroom.
God, all actions seem so passive these days.
Passive and automatic, just half-conscious. You’re fatigued and lost in your head. Frankly, you need your bed. You hate that you still need to shower. You wish you could skip that part and still keep your body healthy and clean.
And as you stand under the water, shifting your balance to the right leg and back, you realise that another work day is over and another one is coming. Interactions, productivity, the craving your bed. You need the weightlessness.
So much so that you soon feel the knot in your chest, intensifying, and the heat of the water combines with an uncomfortable breathlessness until your knees bend a little. Immediately, you plant your palms against the bathroom tiles, taking a seat on the shower floor.
You cross your legs; the thought of your father is immediate because he always taught you to take a seat wherever once you start feeling dizzy. Since that one adolescence day when you passed out and hurt your chin, you have followed this advice and prevented worse.
Your head spins for a moment, your chest tight; and you hear a dull thump. There’s an odd rustle in your ears, mixed with the sound of the dripping water; so you don’t notice the call of your name right away.
Keeping your answer absent for another moment, you only wrap your arms around your chest, just to keep yourself whole. You feel like your body might fracture into a dozen pieces.
The shampoo bottle that presumably caused the thump before rolls against you, and you gasp in uncomfortable surprise; immediately hear another slurred, “Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on?”
It's him; he’s always worried. Maybe that’s what you’ve been struggling with so much lately. The fact that you never suffer alone whenever the weight on your shoulder and brain drags you down too far.
A worried voice chimes again, breaking the sound of the shower jet, and you suddenly become hyper aware of his concern, rushing to finally get out. You exclaim a reassuring, “All good!” before the silence can prolong or betray you.
His calls stop, probably relieved when you add another, “Coming.”
You envelop your body in your towel; just a moment later, he knocks. You would’ve opened even if he hadn't.
Yoongi stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and breathes in the sauna-esque air. His mouth turns into a surprised circle, and he blinks before he blows out a breath and states, “You showered hot today, huh?”
“Mhh,” you hum, “the sun never keeps me from doing so. Feels good.”
He smiles, watches your lotioned hands hydrate your skin, very slowly and very delicately. When you sigh in something he interprets as fatigue, he asks, “Do you need help?”
Four simple words, but they soothe something in your wrinkly, grey brain. The knot of stress loosens just a little, and you sigh deeply, telling him, “Yes, please.”
He doesn’t hesitate to step behind you, picking up the pink, wooden brush lying on the laundry basket next to you to release the knots in your wet hair. For a couple of minutes, you indulge in the massage; and then wallow in the feeling of his hands on your face, taking over to do your skincare.
And then, gentle as he is, he helps you into your clothes. You feel somewhat pathetic, but most of all, thankful — anything to get through the night.
“You all set?” he asks once he’s done, palms on your shoulders. You touch the digits of his left hand, leading them to your lips to kiss them softly before you nod.
You follow him into the living room, detecting the still present sunrays protruding through the spots that the sheer curtains don’t filter. It’s not dark yet, but the light is slowly fading. The star is preparing to drown behind the horizon, dusk in motion.
The pretty hues give you a brief yet strange burst of motivation; often, you fear the night more despite its serene reputation. Too dark, too haunting.
Yoongi has already set the table; he starts to ladle the sundubu-jjigae into your bowl, rice in another smaller dish next to it. You sit; you feel endlessly indebted and silently terrified at once. The food looks amazing, so the taste isn’t the problem.
Your boyfriend is a good cook, and you thank the deities every day for his existence. It was much harder to get by and assemble a meal when you lived alone.
But your expression is still the opposite of what it’s supposed to be, and when he sees it, he asks, “You good? Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Then eat a little, okay? As much as you can.”
You gulp, oblige. You know your body calls for it, so you listen to it, chewing a couple bites, even though it feels impossible to actually swallow. God; you need to stop your chest and stomach from trying to convince you that everything is heavy.
Your clothes, your heart, your thoughts.
You know it isn’t true. It drives you mad when your own brain proves this treacherous, attempting to lie to you like this.
Then again, energy dwindles faster these days. Your body knows; maybe that’s why you feel tired. You need to sleep — maybe that could help you feel a bit more feathery.
But shit, you wish there was a more efficient charger for human beings than sleep, so you could be productive. Your mind won’t let you sleep properly anyway.
“Is it good?” Yoongi asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s always the first to notice when you’re overexerting yourself, even just at dinner.
“It’s very good,” you respond truthfully, even raising your voice to make yourself sound livelier, “as I’d expect from you.”
“Then I’m glad. Thought I’d make you something good, since you worked longer.”
“Always attentive, aren’t you?”
“I try to be.” His spoon drops in his bowl, and he reaches out, touching your cheek just long enough for your heart to stir. “How was work?”
Hm…
You don’t remember too well. You know you went there at least, and you know you did whatever you had to — but you can’t recall details. So all you say without dousing the atmosphere in negativity is, “As always.”
“Was Nayeon at work today?”
“Nope,” you tell him, sending wordless, good vibes towards your best work buddy. “Still sick. A stomach bug, I think. I really hope she feels better soon.”
“Sana again then?”
“Yeah, spent most of the day with her. She’s always so sweet, though… I should talk to her more often.”
You dig into your rice again, trying it with a bigger bite this time. Then, you shake your head in apology, looking back at Yoongi as you ask, “Ah, I’m sorry, baby… how was work for you?”
“As always,” he echoes, “thought of you a lot.”
“Mhm… obsessed much?” you jest, trying a little beam.
“You know me.”
That’s it. You nod; you understand the weakness of your smile, so you lower your head altogether. He sees; of course he does. Yet, he waits and watches you toy with your food. You know the question is approaching before it lands, “Another low?”
Another low…
You could cry. You could burst into tears immediately if you didn’t feel so… empty. A vacant soul, pieces coloured by nothing but him. Yoongi sparks the magic most of the time, even drilling through the numbness.
“Yeah,” you whisper, not crying yet, but the corners of your mouth drop. “It’s been a while.”
“Months, yes? Which is great, my love.” His voice is so mellow, deep, like an antidote. “You’re doing really well.”
“Yeah.”
You are. Because at one point in your life, you used to feel this way all the time. Ever since you found somebody to rely on, someone who listens, you’ve gotten a bit better. He puts you together as if he’s resolving a dispersed puzzle.
But certain phases at certain times still hit you unexpectedly, like a revved up truck.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi offers.
“There’s nothing really to talk about…”
“Okay. Do it if you need to, though, okay? Eat a little more?”
You do. Fuck, you feel so babied sometimes; you wonder if he discerns things like this, too. That he isn’t really taking care of and loving his girlfriend, but rather babysitting a broken child.
You whoosh the thought away with a blink, finishing more than half of your meal before you set the cutlery aside. You down the last bite with cold water, sauntering to the bathroom, and then meet Yoongi on your bed.
He probably already put the food in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher; he must’ve operated rapidly to be here already, awaiting you. The laptop is open and its screen bright, and you know without stepping onto the mattress that he’s opened YouTube.
Less for him, more for you.
If he wanted to spend the remaining minutes of the night scrolling through reels, he could easily do so on his phone. But no… this feels more like an invitation. A quick, sweet date before sleep, just to watch a few animal videos that rarely ever fail to make you smile.
As you crawl into him, watching cats protecting newborn babies or dogs jumping their owners affectionately, you do smile. You laugh, even. You feel somewhat at ease here with him, but you know you’ll go back to ground zero in the morning.
When you’ve left and he’s gone to work.
And you hate it. You hate that you’re dependent on him like this… Yoongi calls it finding comfort in somebody you love, and you don’t disagree. But adding to this, you think you’re limiting his options by shackling yourself to him.
By demanding that comfort.
You sigh in his arms, breathing calmer than before, but not enough to sleep. Yet, he asks, “Hey… sweetheart. Are you awake?”
“I am.”
“I’m just thinking… Do you want me to call the therapist tomorrow?”
Shit… why does the ball of guilt keep growing? How does he think of this and you don’t? Have you really sunk this deep again? You’re stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I… I should do it myself,” you mumble.
“I don’t mind.”
“No, I’ll just do it in the morning. I think I should… do things for myself, too, right?”
He pauses. Ponders your words; or at least, that’s what you surmise from the way he breathes and sighs and hums. And you’re proven right when he inquires, “Do you feel like I mind doing things for you?”
Yes. No.
No, you do not think so. But you sure as hell waste his time. Occupy it with this nonsense when he could be happier somewhere else, living his life, making plans for the future and rambling about the job he loves.
But no…
Fucking calling the therapist for you.
You break.
It always happens in the worst moments; you don’t know what it is, how it happens, but you break. Hard. Your motions stop, maybe even your breathing. But then you do sigh, so deeply that it burns, trying to keep your voice from shaking, to keep the tears at bay.
But this time, it doesn’t work. Emotions heightened when Yoongi utters something he’s provided as a reminder over the years, “Don’t hold back.”
So you don’t.
There were days when this lesson was necessary, a gentle nudge to release the weight, and today is one of them. You weep, starting with soft whimpers that grow louder steadily, and you press into his chest until you're suddenly sobbing.
You sniffle with an aching head, holding onto him for dear life, barely noticing when your sobs, once again, morph into absolute wailing.
He embraces you, tighter with each inhale and exhale. You’re so impossibly close to him, garbling something that he doesn’t understand. His voice is pain-struck and trembling when he encourages, “Come again, baby? Talk to me.”
It takes a while; it doesn’t work. And then, he chants, “God, baby. My baby… it’s okay. It’s okay.”
“No!” you cry out, slurring your words, “No… am a burden. Am fucking burdening you…”
This is a clear thought, isn’t it? Even in a moment like this, you think it’s true. And that maybe…
Maybe you should’ve never agreed to the lunch he offered you all those years ago. You would miss everything good in your life, lose the one thing you so cherish, but you’d at least rid him of you.
Those long six years ago, you should have just told him you were fine.
As a student, Yoongi always trod the same path from the second floor down to the entrance of the college, living into a routine — never really noticing much of significance. He’d see other students who’d be eating; talking; rushing to class.
And as a TA, Yoongi was used to another, different journey throughout the building, too; climbing down the same spiral staircase, hurrying through the scary, empty mezzanine, passing the same few rooms on the ground floor.
He’d prepare to go home or to the library after attending his favourite psychology professor’s classes, assisting him to his best abilities. But this was different from all the other familiar routes he’d grown accustomed to.
These Wednesday afternoons did offer something of significance. Someone of significance.
Because every time he reached those rooms on the ground floor, you’d be there.
At first, he reckoned you always waited for your class to start, just at the time when his ended. But you were alone each time. The doors to the classrooms and lecture halls were all closed, and then there was you, a sole soul waiting for whatever miracle to appear.
It took a couple weeks for him to gather that you might not have been supposed to be there. He noticed it when he saw your eyes fixated on a spot, pupils never moving an inch, even when he walked past. At some point, he’d memorised just this expression on your face.
And then, bit by bit, he realised that your stance didn’t seem quite normal. Your eyes were dead, hands never flinching. You emanated a sense of loneliness and stupefaction that he couldn’t express in words.
Today, something in him stirred. Perhaps because he’d just covered social behaviour as a topic or perhaps because any proper human would recognise that something was wrong with you.
Your hands were holding a lidless cup that day, barely steaming anymore. You were blinking slowly, if at all. This time, he approached you with care, as if nearing a wounded deer; as if trying to keep it there and not frighten it away.
But when he leaned into you, a hand scarcely touching your shoulder, your head moved up to look at him slowly but surely. And your first reaction to him ever was a smile.
You remember that when you first looked at him, like really looked at him, his face seemed familiar to you. You were sure you’d seen him before, even if just in passing. He had this long, pretty, dark hair, covering his neck, a couple inches above his shoulders.
A kind face. A calm demeanour.
He stood there with pure relaxation between his eyebrows; one you hadn’t felt in a while despite your falling face. Flawless porcelain skin, free of dark circles, free of exhaustion. When did you last look like this?
You smiled at him instinctively, a curious expression; you couldn’t guess at all what he wanted or needed, but you were ready to listen. You’d always listen to people — listen, listen, listen. Perhaps that was the exact problem.
This very attention towards him, coming this easily, made your shoulders sink in new dejection; everything did. Every thought was intrusive, unwelcome, too stretched for your liking.
Whenever you had a normal thought or a bad one that’d at least pass immediately, you considered it a good day.
But you felt a tension around your temples by now; your head never felt at ease.
Yet, you asked, “Yes?”
And he wondered in return, “Are you okay? You looked distracted and I thought I might ask.”
“Oh… that’s nice,” you commented, your voice a bit too quiet yet surprised; you cleared your throat, spoke up, “but I’m okay. I just sit here sometimes after my classes.”
“You do?”
“Mhm. To take a little break after all the information dump, yeah. I’ll go home soon, though, no worries.”
“Hm… yeah. I just,” Yoongi started, hesitant — you now know he was trying to reveal something without appearing creepy. “I noticed you here a few times, so I wanted to ask just to be sure.”
He saw you here? You? And he came up to talk to you, just because he’d noticed you before? Baffling. You didn’t think you were visible to anybody. You thought you faded in front of others’ eyes.
“You’re honestly so nice,” is all you said, hoping your eyes didn’t reveal too much. How much his words affected you, and how they made you think you were just a little, a tiny bit perceptible.
“Sure,” he responded, nodding. And when you failed to come up with more appreciative words, he prepared to move, bidding you goodbye with a single, “Okay…”
Then, he was walking away; as grateful as you were, your energy-lacking body forced your eyes shut. You drew a deep breath. These few words you’d exchanged with him took everything out of you — that was the worst part of all this.
Interaction drained you. Loneliness drained you. The world and life were all draining, and you couldn’t figure out anymore how to feel… awake. Sober without ever drinking.
When your eyes closed, you felt your surroundings starting to spin. Or maybe, it was you; as if someone had gripped your shoulders and was turning you in circles. There were so many weird particles behind your eyelids.
The rotation was insane, but nothing new. Shut down most of your other senses and people’s voices; like the one that returned a second later, the same as before. Shit. Had he seen you struggle? Was he seeing something nobody else ever would?
You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger with the familiar face asked, concern in his voice. “You don’t look like it.”
What was it? What was it about his gentle, low voice that lured you in? What was it about his attentive tone that made you want to tear up? Maybe because you’d bottled things up for so long.
But you held the liquid locked in your eyes. Proudly, barely.
“I’m…”
You considered lying. You considered pulling a lame excuse out of your ass. But something in you snapped, snapped hard, and the truth spilled just before you could think twice—
“If I’m being honest… I’m feeling pretty faint… I often do? I usually just need to sit down a bit or I’ll pass out.”
You hated using the word usually. As though your condition had become irreparable, like a chronic illness; and you were stating its treatment, only temporary.
“Hmm…” he hummed. “Have you eaten?”
“Not much…”
“Then that might be it,” he concluded, content with the deduction. In hindsight, you think he was hoping it was only that, nothing more. “Do you have something with you?” You shook your head. “Are you getting something?”
You shrugged.
You could’ve easily told the truth and said no; that the appetite was absent, that you were going to go home and hardly remember how you got there. That you’d throw your bag on the couch, take off all your clothes, not really bother for a shower and jump into your bed.
Then, you’d breathe. Survive.
You didn’t have the energy to eat, to shower, and right now, somehow not even to lie. The remainder of it had been used in today’s class and in this conversation.
He knew you couldn’t come up with any bad justification, so he offered, “Listen… I still have this sandwich with me that I was going to eat after class. You can have it if you want.”
What? That was…
“Oh, no,” you blurted, raising a hand to reject, “you should eat if you haven’t yet.”
“Look, I totally get being selfless, but you don’t look good and…” He sighed, tilting his head. Eyebrows raised and expression suddenly stricter. “If I can help anyhow, I’d rather have that than anyone else finding you unconscious here later. Please?”
How could you’ve resisted such a plea?
He was taking care of you and he didn’t even know you. And your body understood; your body heard him. Because your stomach grumbled at the mention of the meal; it didn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to your hungry, craving body.
It often did that. Wishing to eat; then, not letting you swallow a bite.
You grabbed your bag and warily, carefully got to your feet. The man lifted a hand in caution, as if expecting for you to lose your balance. You did, just a little, swaying until you’d grounded yourself.
Goddamn it.
You nodded with a deep exhale and followed him as he suggested, “Let’s go to the courtyard. Get some fresh air. We can eat there and talk… or not talk if that's what you want.”
You kept moving your head up and down, fine with whatever. The fronts of it hurt due to the lack of nutrition; it was past four pm and you’d only eaten a damn banana.
He found you a shadowy spot away from the sun; it was late spring, the summer steadily approaching. The shade protected your tired eyes, guarded you from further headaches.
As you plumped onto the grass next to him, your fingers grazed it for a moment — and it felt good against your skin. A pleasant combination, the wind and the scent of grass; nearly freed your chest of the stuffy pain.
You watched his soft fingers fish out the sandwich, and then some salted peanuts for himself. Urged you to eat before spilling a handful of the nuts into his palm. God, you felt horribly guilty, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to convince him to share the meal.
He… didn’t even seem to mind a bit.
Wiping his hand on his pants, he finally introduced, “I’m Min Yoongi. Psychology student and TA. Judging from your spot every single Wednesday afternoon, you take psychology classes, too?”
“I do… yeah.”
You took a bite enough for mouses, but then proceeded with a larger, human-appropriate one. Your stomach felt odd; Min Yoongi’s small talk helped you eat, but the nervous feeling in your chest that never really went away weighed heavily on your tummy.
You added, “Thinking of dropping it, though…”
“Why?”
“Because I might be failing anyway. Haven’t done much, and I still have a presentation on my paper left but have prepared nothing for it yet, either.”
“Have you asked the professor about a potential extension?”
Of course you’d thought about it. You always did. Which is why you despised having to answer, “No…”
No. Of course not. To most professors, mental health didn’t matter as an excuse.
You understood, though. They graded every paper they received, surrendering their free time, their summer and their winter breaks. To grant you special treatment was something you regarded as unnecessary; you didn’t think you were worth it.
“Do you feel like you could do better next term?” Yoongi asked.
“I don’t know.”
Your sandwich was done and gone. You were still hungry; you felt the appetite all of a sudden. You knew it often came and went in waves, but somehow, the sandwich left you more pining than anything these days.
Yoongi saw as you licked your fingers clean of the mayonnaise; offered you some peanuts that you politely declined, greedy for something proper. Maybe you’d eat an actual dinner tonight.
After a while, Yoongi spoke, “Okay, I know I’m a stranger to you and everything, but if you want, I could try to help you.”
Shit, but… that would’ve meant putting in the effort. To get up, to meet him, to focus and to study. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do all that. You didn’t know how to—
But his eyes were so sincere; a pure dark brown, sparkling in hope, for whatever noble reason. And you thought… you thought…
If there was any chance to pass this class and get over with it, wouldn’t you feel a gigantic wave of relief wash over you? After so damn long? Wouldn’t it be worth it? Maybe a spark of hope ignited in your chest after all… maybe you could turn things around.
“Yeah…” you finally obliged. “Yeah, that’s really nice.”
“Great. Are you free this Friday afternoon?”
After that, it became part of your routine to meet up with Yoongi every Thursday or Friday, depending on his own schedule. A couple weeks passed like a breeze; or at least, compared to the days you were used to.
Some time later, those meetings increased, and you found a profound liking in them. You still often struggled with leaving your apartment at all, sometimes deeming getting out of bed or brushing your teeth an impossible task.
But whenever Yoongi called, offering a nearby café — always a nearby café — you’d place all your energy into moving, throwing on clothes, leaving. You felt unworried with him; at least for a couple hours.
He wasn’t just smart to an admirable degree; he was humorous, too. Motivating. Praised you for your ideas and your sharp mind. You’d forgotten you still had it in you — you thought time had altered your brain chemistry, killed too many of its cells to still let your mind operate.
Today, he didn’t suggest a café but a place you hadn't been to before. Yoongi had never invited you anywhere that wasn’t a public space, careful with your feelings without ever mentioning the obvious issues you had.
He only really crawled out of his shell and gave you the address to this new spot once you’d invited him over, too — he couldn’t make it, helping out the professor he assisted. But you reckon it was telling enough for him to understand how comfortable you’d grown with him.
So you went where he told you to go, and once you arrived, you recognised it as an office. A small one, but elegantly decorated, furniture sparse. And it wasn’t just any office. A therapist’s office.
“This is my mom’s,” Yoongi explained as you inspected the books on the shelf and the overall soothing and fitting atmosphere, “she’s out of town, so I thought we could study here today.
“Oh…”
He had to have heard your hesitancy, your uncertainty. This is the place they usually suggest in guidance books and in conversation to people like you. You didn’t know how to feel; the emotions washing over you were an odd sensation. Not good, not bad.
But scary, somehow.
Yoongi put a soft hand on your shoulder, making you turn, and asked, “Is that okay for you?”
“Yeah… it’s just… I’ve only really thought and read about therapy, but never quite seen an actual room like this.” You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “It’s crazy. How have I never been in one despite studying psychology for so long?”
“Hmm, many students haven’t been.”
“Yeah.”
You stripped your bag off of you, taking a seat on the cosy patient’s couch. Pulled out your laptop and placed it on the table between you and where he seated himself on the therapist’s chair.
Swallowing a strange lump, you cleared your throat, starting the study session with, “Okay, so… I was thinking about what you said about the research question last time.”
“Right…”
At this point, you couldn’t really fathom why, but he seemed reserved today, a little distracted. Still providing as much information and intellect as he could; but his thoughts were slower and his eyes gentler.
You think you studied barely forty-five minutes when Yoongi called for a break — unusual, because it was mostly you to announce a pause in thoughts, when your brain would demand a couple minutes of peace.
He sighed, hands touching his thighs and then got up to bring you something to drink. Came back with two cups of tea. You thought he’d be returning with a glass of water, but upon seeing the beverage, your eyes widened; you told him, “This is super nice of you, thanks.”
“Of course.” Pause. You slurped; then he did. A second later, he inquired, “Can I ask you something?”
“Mhm.”
You waited. Nothing came. You took another sip of the fruity winter tea in the middle of summer, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat under your nose that the heat caused. Then you looked up, big eyes staring into his just in time to see his mouth open.
“You always seem so surprised when I’m nice to you.”
Ah…
He’d said he’d had a question, but the indication of an inquiry, the one lifting in tone at the end never came. His statement was his question. And you thought it wasn’t the first time you heard it; you just never noticed you were doing it again.
Yoongi left the conclusion there, and the question mark hung somewhere between the two of you. Unspoken, containing a silent, ”Why?”
So you answered, “I just… uhm. People don’t just do something like this for me without me asking. It’s new to me how attentive you are.”
Sad. Just sad. You hated having to actually echo your innermost thoughts; you knew this wasn’t normal.
He knew, too, because he said, “This… is not how things should be.”
“But this is how they ended up being. I mean it’s just tea. But I don’t think anybody else sees me sitting there and goes like, Okay, I’ll do this lil something for her, you know?”
“Which is insane. You deserve it all so much. More than anyone I know.”
If you’d still been drinking, you would’ve choked. Those words were rare, not often uttered to you; how were you supposed to respond to them? You’d long forgotten how to react to things at all — it didn’t come too naturally to you anymore.
So all you did was laugh a little, as if replying to a joke. Genuinely, you wondered, “How can you say something like that?”
“Why not?”
“I mean, you probably know so many people.”
Yoongi blinked at you, as if waiting for your argument to proceed; but when it didn’t, he lifted a shoulder, steadfast with his opinion as he answered, “So? What do you think? That you feeling that way about yourself makes everyone else feel that way about you, too?”
You shrugged your shoulders just an inch, imitating his motions. Your gaze fell, as though catching yourself spewing pure gibberish. He continued, “You have a pure heart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being mean. And you’re strong, careful, and endure a shit ton.”
You looked up at him instantly. Let the last words reverberate in your mind, pushing them to the forefront between all your other messy thoughts. “Of course you knew,” you said.
“Of course. You’re so obviously hurt and I hate that you are.”
Well, you hated it, too. But…
Your desperation came out in a whisper, “I don’t know what to do about it…”
You put the cup back onto the saucer; your fingers were warm when you pushed them into your hair, pressing your palms against your forehead, holding onto your mane. Elbows on your thighs. The world spun again until you felt his hand on your arm once more.
“Hey.” He sounded softer again. “Do you want to take a longer break? We could stop for today and talk?”
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t have to. But it feels to me like you’ve never done that before… people don’t want to listen.” His words hit you like bricks. Like heavy cement bricks. The pain was excruciating. “Is that it?”
You were still staring at your lap when he posed the question; your head whirred, so you didn’t know where to start. Which is why you held onto the first complaint — you knew they were valid worries, but you always called them complaints, like you were a burden — and said,
“I just… I listen to everyone. I let people vent, I let them feel hurt, and I try to be there and lend a shoulder and just,” the words cascaded out of you like a wild waterfall; your throat clogged up again, “to be a good person and a good friend.”
You exhaled a shaky breath, the pressure back in your chest. “But why do I not get any of it back? Why is it that everyone goes silent when I’m hurting? Do I deserve this somehow?”
You felt tears pricking and burning in your waterline, and you blinked them away. Took another quick sip just to help your dry throat. Then, “I hate that I sound selfish? Like I only do things for people to get love back, but… that’s not it. I just want to feel worthy of something, too.”
“You don’t sound selfish. It’s never wrong or inhumane to demand affection and care, and if it is, then… every person’s selfish. Whatever.”
Up until that point, you hadn’t known that someone could be this tender and direct at once. Yoongi lived in a reality that wasn’t sugarcoated, but he understood empathy and heartbreak, knew to dip his words in an ointment alleviating enough.
You wondered what he’d endured to become this type of person; sympathy and a mind this sage often stem from grief once encountered, and you so hoped he was an exception to this belief of yours.
You looked at him with delicate fondness, mixed with some lasting trouble. He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t know what came over you when you leaned into his palm, kept his gaze, and stayed in place when he moved in.
Kissed you.
And you didn’t know why, but the moment opened your heart as if it’d been locked before; he was the key, undoing the lock so easily. That was when the first tear rolled down your cheek, meeting his skin, and you started trembling as he moved his mouth against yours.
You couldn’t grasp why he was doing it; even if parts of you knew. Did he not care that you were broken? That you were still breaking? That the ache always consumed you, that you felt whatever your brain inflicted on you throughout your entire body?
Maybe not. He always said you were funny, sweet, never humorous at anybody’s expense.
It was different from the things you’d heard before.
Nobody will love you like this.
Stop acting like you’re traumatised.
I didn’t love you — I kept you because you were attractive. Because you let me.
You had always asked yourself: why had your feelings always been shoved aside when you voiced your opinion? Whenever it differed from the one in your family or your friend’s circle?
Why were you told to never open up about your childhood memories? When you were caged in; when somebody three times your age indulged in impudence when they shouldn’t have, long ago when you were a child; when you fell in love at a later age and were forced to let go?
Why were you told you were tainted, that you couldn’t get any affection like this, to keep your pain to yourself and forget about your past? And why was this sequence of nightmares plaguing you right now, like you were dying, just when he was kissing you…
Because you were scared. So scared.
If you told Yoongi any of this, would he bolt? Would you hurt yet another person? Would he see you as a shattered porcelain doll, distance himself from you? Because honestly, why would he stay at all; with someone who hasn’t healed, who’d pulled him underwater, too?
Yet, you didn’t say any of this. You sighed; leaned into him. Took residency in his heart, cried into him.
He kissed you for another second, and then backed away. Wiped your tears. You broke and broke until your voice broke, too, giving way to quiet sobs.
You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.
And somehow, the realisation hurt anew, deep in your core and beyond.
Your tears had mostly dried when he resumed his position, sitting in front of you. His fingers were entangled and he waited.
Yoongi knew you’d cry again, though. The patient’s couch had some magic to it, his mother always said. They’d always cry, but they’d heal at the same time. Recognise hidden parts of themselves.
He was uncomplaining and composed, and kept looking at you until you said, “It just feels… like I’ll never be enough. I can do as much as possible, but none of it is ever seen because I’m taken for granted.”
“Who takes you for granted?”
“Everyone. I’ve spent many nights awake for people, and they abandoned me. In a crowd, others will always be praised for one thing and I’ll be ignored for the same. It’s made me bitter.”
He nodded in true therapist fashion, but his expression wasn’t as neutral as one; he looked pain-struck for you. Said, “You’ve been hurt… I see that…”
“I’m… hurting,” you corrected, “and I don’t know what to do.”
Yoongi attempted a different approach; you were in a hopeless spiral, and the strategy he needed to try wasn’t just to dig out your trauma, but to make you familiar with the good parts of your life, too.
So he asked, sincerely hoping you had an answer to his question, “Who could you trust as you grew up?”
“I don’t know…” Yoongi’s chest deflated, motivation dropping — that is, until you muttered, “My brother.”
“Parents?”
“Part of the problem.”
Okay; your answers came more rapidly now. He took it as a good sign; as readiness to talk.
“Where’s your brother?” he wondered.
“In this town,” you answered, and Yoongi sighed in relief. “But I can’t bother him with all of my shit.”
Your symptoms were as typical as they could be; you regarded your self-worth as buried deep under the ground, never wanting to disturb those who still deemed you close and loved. You’d established this distance between you and the others; he didn’t blame you.
The symptoms were typical.
“Why do you think so?” Yoongi prodded, whispering your name when you didn’t answer.
“I’ve bothered them all enough…”
“How so?”
Maybe he was doing too much. But it seemed you were on board with it; you weren’t complaining, not sighing, not withdrawing. You were listening and talking. Nobody let you talk, and now that you were, you looked like you needed to let it out.
You spat, “Because they never seemed to want to hear anything.”
God…
It hurt to see you like this. Damp eyes, a heavily rising chest, as if you were close to panicking again, but desperately holding back. He knew it; he saw it in the way you drew your breaths and in the things you said.
He knew you’d braved multiple nights and many, many sleepless hours before, spending these dark moments clutching your chest, trying to get rid of the unbearably tight feeling in your chest.
He knew that torturous pressure. He’d been there before. The persistent feeling of fear and unease — like somebody had dropped a weight onto his ribcage and tied up his stomach. The shallow breathing and thumping heart would strip him off focus.
Thoughts circling and circling, around each other; absolute bullshit most of the time.
He couldn’t imagine how overwhelmed you felt, but then again, he could. Was the world louder to you, too? The way it used to be for him. Did you hear that constant screaming in your head?
Vulnerable, senses heightened, sensitive to the slightest change.
He hated the thought of a wall between you and your peace. Hated hearing the words you narrated; of your home, of your childhood, of the people you met. The disrespect you suffered and the dirt you were treated as.
You deserved none of it.
Maybe he felt that way because nobody ever deserved it; or maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you. Not because he needed to save you, or because he felt like falling for someone who he’d have to fix could be a welcoming challenge.
He knew people who treated depression like this; saviour complex in full effect, they needed to be the hero or heroine to stitch a broken heart.
No — he fell for you because you were you. Despite everything and every pain you endured, you were still you; and most of the you that you were before you got hurt this badly was still there, under the surface.
He saw those joyful parts of you reemerge sometimes, breaking through the waves. Sometimes, right before your head would fall again; your body weightless; drowning — he saw those parts on those days for a split moment.
But not right now.
In fact, the true parts of you that knew to feel happiness were absent now, and he knew — in that sense, he was prepared for you to utter what you said next. Was ready to hear it, no matter how little he actually wanted to hear it.
“And sometimes, when it got too much…” You gulped. Yoongi knew what you’d say; he knew. But— “I didn’t feel like being here anymore. It seems that was the only and last time I opened my family’s eyes.”
But when you still said it, it stabbed his heart like a dagger.
“Only, after that… it soon became irrelevant again,” you continued, “they told me I should be thankful for being alive and regret the mistake I made… what I tried.”
And you spoke on. Spoke on and on. He leaned back, allowing himself a better position to breathe. His heart felt like a sewing pin cushion, riddled with tiny holes. His eyebrows furrowed in agony, but he saw worse pain in your eyes.
Tears slowly reappeared.
“And when I was judged for this, too… I realised I didn’t regret ever trying to leave the world. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.”
Maybe he felt that way because nobody deserved it; maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you.
But your words split him in a million tiny shards, like glass, until his pieces became tiny enough to resemble dust.
”Am a burden… Am fucking burdening you…”
Yoongi’s voice defeats the others in your head just barely; as if you’re separated by a glass wall and hearing him from afar, only clearing when you hammer through it and break the surface. He’s quiet compared to your cries, a hand firmly on your back.
His grip around you wants to glue you together so desperately; he’s not letting go, even though you get restless soon, quivering and ruining his shirt.
“Hey, baby…” you hear him say, but you interrupt, obstinately shaking your head.
“No… I’m— I never should’ve let you this close and—”
“No.” It’s his turn to interject. And he does it with determination; tone suddenly so low, cold, so you silence. “Stop.”
You do, only now noticing that he’s imprisoning your wrists in his grasp. Not painfully, but still solidly enough for you to understand what he means. You confirm it for yourself when you look up.
You already know your eyes are bloodshot, cheeks thoroughly wet; but you still recognise the heavy breaths he draws. See something entirely different in his eyes than yours.
Pain.
You hurt him. And this time, you could once again lament your destructive behaviour, argue how you keep inflicting these shit ass feelings on him. But…
The ache in his expressions says something else entirely. Fills you with hope, fills you with guilt.
Shows you that he despises the thought of you possibly regretting this relationship. His gaze proves that he doesn’t. That if he could go back in time and meet you again, talk to you again, fall in love with you again — he would.
You know it because he’s said it before. You know.
But your brain is half melting, hurting, spitting all negative assumptions at you like nobody’s business.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” you stammer, pierced by the sorrow in his eyes.
“What?”
“I… shouldn’t have said that,” you start, gulping. Your crying ebbs down for a second as you register the growing agony in his heart, and you explain, “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I can’t stop thinking that…”
Break in conversation.
Then him again, “…That?”
“That you’d be better off without me. That you’re here so I stay alive and that you’d be less burdened with someone else…”
Another pause.
He stares at you, as if pondering his answer. Bites into his lower lip softly and releases it right away. Blinks, looks to your wrists, lets go of them and then whispers, “Do you want to know? What I’m thinking, do you want to know that, too?”
“…What are you thinking?”
“That it’s true that I’m burdened.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
The pain is searing, a burning arrow shooting through your heart. It’s what you expected and what you feared and what still hurts so much upon hearing and—
Are you crying again? Are you tearing up? You don’t know.
You’re not sure, but it does seem like you’re breaking once more when he shushes you carefully, touching your cheek. He calms you, and then speaks again—
“Of course I’m burdened, too. Yeah, of course. I’d be lying if I said seeing you like this doesn’t make me feel helpless… but do you know what it means that I’m still here?”
Your voice trembles when you speak, “Because you’re scared of leaving me in this condition.”
“No. I learned early enough to prioritise myself when I need to. No, I’m not leaving because I don’t want to — simple. Because I’ll share your, mine and the world’s damn pain along with my heart. ‘Kay?”
Retrospectively, his words sound logical. He said it’s simple, and in some way, it is. If you didn’t have the brain that you have, it would be. If you weren’t so neck-deep in the quicksand pulling you into doubts, you’d be less surprised at the finality in his tone.
“Baby—” you start, but he squeezes your hand, eyes glistening.
“We have enough enemies in this world. Don’t regard me as one, too. Okay? Please…”
“No, you’re not,” you defend, moving your head and the palm on your cheek along with it, “you’re anything but that.”
He nods, sniffling; you know he’s holding back the same salty, pouring liquid as you. He’s always done that, providing a sense of strength and safety to make you feel just that.
“We’ll be okay one day, love. The world hurts us a shit ton, and life is difficult, but…” His voice cracks here, and he waits to regain control, sighing. “We only get one of it and… it’d be so unfair if we were destined to stay like this, right?”
You don’t believe in divine beliefs that seemingly predetermine how your life plays out. Fate or destiny or whatever synonyms to notions that Jung or Freud believed in. You’ve heard of this stuff plenty in your studies, but it never affected your curiosity much.
You know Yoongi isn’t necessarily a representative of it either; not one to dive too deep into things that suggest the potential absence of a free will.
But the thought provides hope when nothing else does. You know. The fact that you can’t leave this world without fixing things; that you’re here to contribute to much larger and more important things.
You cannot have been born to spend your days here without the joy you deserve.
You’ve felt much of it thanks to Yoongi, but you’ve had too many setbacks to call this a proper life. You don’t want to end it like this. You don’t want to grow old like this.
And you want to gift him the life he deserves, too.
Fuck…
You need to get better. You need to get better. You need to get better.
You need to help yourself. Even if it takes time; even if the non-linear process of healing irks you, stealing hope and leaving anguish in turn. And it’s as if Yoongi reads your mind when he says—
“It’s okay, you know? To feel that way. It takes time. It doesn’t matter how much, but it’s okay to fall back and have ups and downs, as long as you don’t give up. Yes?”
“I can’t, I know… I— I won’t give up. I just… need you to be here.” Your voice is unsteady, and your heart is, too; fickle as can be. But you’d rather hang onto the aspiration right now… nothing else. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I’ll fix this for us, I will.”
“For yourself first. I’ll be here, no matter what.”
“…I love you.” Your breathing is staggered, leftover pain still keeping the anxiety in your chest. It’ll take a while. But there’s power in your admissions when you repeat, “I love you so much.”
You lean in carefully, and he mimes the movement, bending into your kiss. It’s a peck, soft and gentle and encouraging, and you murmur through your sniffles, “So, so much.”
And then you climb up, using all your strength. Half your body comes to a rest on his; the immediate proximity and warm touch evoke motivation and longing in your heart. For not only him, but every second of a possible serene future, too.
This very hope is often born and reborn at the end of your lowest lows. It’s what pulls you up again, keeps you going each time before the next valley can swallow you. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes not.
But you so desperately want this. Want it to work now.
You want to be okay. Want to travel and soak in the sun. Want to dance in the rain and scream from the peak of a mountain; want to snorkel in clear, blue seas.
The life you picture for yourself, the one you follow in those healing vlogs on social media — it’s what you yearn for. It’s what you want to feel. With him on your side.
Sometime in the future, you see yourself beaming in genuine happiness, see yourself smiling. And you want to work towards it. You’ve always wanted to.
Ever since Yoongi first showed you what love, contentment and merriment felt like, you’ve craved this. Ever since that night he told you he loved you, despite everything.
Despite, despite, despite.
He was there to catch your fall when you couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. When your knees weakened and the ground turned into clouds, and you plunged through them and towards the cemented earth that’d shatter you.
He aided you in staying whole. Let you lean against his shoulder, nodding off into a slumber there, allowing you to dream because until then, you didn’t dare to.
You thought dreaming was pointless; just a fabrication of the unconscious mind to distract you from the horrors of the world. To keep you occupied, to torture you even when asleep. As time passed, you started making these horrors your life, and the line between reality and fantasy thinned.
Until…
Until he turned those nightmares into daydreams. Blossoming, vibrant colours appeared where you’d perceived greys before. Somehow, you fell apart a lot less when Yoongi spent his time with you, taught you to love again.
You became less terrified by dreams then, because the content changed. And whenever you weren’t dreaming, away from sleep, you experienced the utopia you’d always sought.
The day Yoongi first told you he loved you, you’d long defeated the semester you’d so worried about; started and survived the one after; and were now already tackling your very last one.
Even after all these months, you never let him forget how grateful you were for passing the last summer semester eventually, and in return, he never let you forget that he’d stay even after.
You didn’t study all the time anymore either; now, your afternoons and nights were filled with gentle words, promising embraces, lips against lips. It took some time to truly open up. To stop feeling like you were making a mistake.
“Doing yourself to him,” you called it, as if you were about to hurl him into his very own mistake.
Even then, you wanted to get better for him; you knew it hadn’t and wouldn’t happen overnight. All of it was much easier said than done; healing sounds so doable for those who attempt to support those who need it, yet they cannot grasp the meaning of a broken heart and scared mind.
But there was something so wonderful about the simplicity between Yoongi and you. So simple that it called forth feelings so complex.
They were tough to navigate, but never tough to admit.
That March night, the sentiments roamed your body the clearest, even though the skies were anything but that. The thunder sounded like the universe had cracked; the white and silver of the striking lightning illuminated your room.
It was the night you felt hope in all its glory, for the very first time in years.
“You keep hiding from me,” Yoongi said, legs crossed like yours, sitting vis-a-vis.
He was close enough for your knees to collide, and when they did for the umpteenth time, he put a careful hand on your fingers resting on your thigh. You didn’t protest, so he didn’t withdraw.
“I’m not hiding from you. I just…” you stalled, “I just want you to be sure.”
“About you?”
If it had been this easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Because you knew the answer to this. Yoongi didn’t need to explain it to you; he was already certain about you to an indisputable degree.
You shook your head. Elaborated, “About everything. I don’t just come with the few good times we had the last couple of weeks. I come with… everything I’ve ever experienced and that shaped me into this.” You gestured over yourself. “You’d notice soon.”
“I already do.”
His answers and arguments came promptly, as if he knew the script to this talk and had already thought out every response he’d be giving. This was so effortless to him; thinking about it today, you wouldn’t even have needed to say a word.
But it was important to you. You couldn’t permit him to grow this attached without making sure.
“You just take it, do you? All that I am,” you concluded delicately; wanting to inform him, but so terrified of scaring him away. “But if you fall for me, then you’re committing. And I want you to think about it because I don’t— I don’t want to ruin your life.”
When he spoke again, he seemed to finally deviate from the script he knew; because confused, he asked, “If?”
“What?”
“What do you mean, if I fall for you?”
Oh… oh.
You understood. It didn’t take the tiniest of nanoseconds for you to fathom what he meant. And you could’ve sobbed right there and then, but the storm distracted you a little; the thunder was growling, threatening to explode again.
Somehow, the chaos outside kept you at bay. But only for so long.
“…Yoongi.”
His fingers moved from yours to your entire palm, taking it in his with a whisper of your name. Then, he clarified, “The possibility of something happening is redundant if it’s already happened, you know? And I’m…”
You held your breath, but at the same time, you were nearly panting. Maybe one first, then the other? You can’t remember anymore. You felt dizzy. Teary-eyed and joyful at once when you saw him at a loss of words.
“You’re?” you encouraged.
“I’m just so… feet deep underwater and in love with you that you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”
“I—”
“I love you. You know I do.”
Fuck… fuck, you knew.
Of course you knew.
Your heart was vile at times, cooperating with this demon of a brain and feeding you wrong information. But this, you knew. You fought through the congested mess of thoughts and admitted this to yourself every day.
Isn’t this why you were having this conversation in the first place?
But to hear him say it…
I love you.
You know I do.
“Even if you try to deny it,” he continued, “you know I love you and that I’ll keep doing it.”
This is when your waterline gave up; lined with the liquid you’d always held back. But why? There was no reason to. You felt at peace; Yoongi knew your heart. There was no use in keeping you closed off anymore.
So you cried. Let the first tear roll that he caught with his hand, holding your face so firmly that you thought it was the only thing keeping your head upright. Optimistic.
“There’s… there’s a chance that I start doubting you,” you contended for whatever stupid reason, sniffling, “that I doubt myself and then regret pulling you down with me and— there’s a chance I forget that you’ll keep loving me, no matter what, you know—”
“I’ll keep reminding you.”
“I’m a handful.”
“My hands are big enough, baby.”
The endearment didn’t slip past you, but instead made your beating organ swell. You don’t think you’d ever heard your pulse pounding in your eardrums this loudly. And he kept inching closer; his forehead nearly touched yours until it did.
“Can you love me even if I fall, Yoongi?”
“I’ll pick you up. You know that.”
“…What if you feel like you’re not good enough?”
Stop asking questions. Stop stop stop.
But he kept answering.
“Remember what you told me a couple days ago?” Yoongi asked, his voice quiet, drowning in the storm. “That it’d been long since you’d felt happy like this.”
“I do right now… I just…”
“Yeah, and I— I think. If I’m able to stay by your side and make you smile anyhow? Then I think this… we… are good enough.”
That’s it. Your throat was dry, your mind out of questions. You could renounce doubts if he didn’t have any either. He seemed convinced enough; so you admitted your own convictions to him, too.
“I’m… I love you, too. I love you, I fucking do.”
Your last word was cut, merely a breath. Swallowed when you leaned in and kissed him, pulling him back with you onto the bed. Yoongi landed on top of you, draping the two of you under the thin, floral blanket.
The early spring rain tapped your window softly before the gentle noise turned into more aggressive knocking and hammering. This very storm they’d announced was the reason Yoongi had stayed tonight.
That’s what he’d told you at least; in truth, it was an excuse.
Before today, you rarely spent your nights together.
Whenever you did, he allowed you your space in order to not overwhelm you. He knew you were cautious, slow, took your time to trust. He’d sleep on the couch or crawl back to you when you approached him in the dead of the night.
Touching his elbow gently, shaking him awake, telling him so sweetly that it drove him insane, “I don’t want to be alone.”
So he’d cuddle in when you sought out his arms, dozing so peacefully. It delighted him because whenever he didn’t slumber next to you, he’d hear you from the other room. Woefully moaning in your sleep, as if crying, turning.
He never saw or heard any of that when you leaned into his embrace, held onto his shirt. Never did anything more than sleep; he was content with that.
But tonight was different, less chaste than that — and he was content with that, too.
You said you’d wanted to talk. And you had. You’d trembled through the conversation, heart combusting in your chest like it wasn’t part of you anymore, that treacherous thing with its own, stupid will.
But it thumped differently now when he kissed you like this. You felt the change so clearly when he held you, pushing you into the mattress; stripping you naked bit by bit; asking over and over again if you were okay, if he should stop.
You lived differently, too, when he pecked your bare skin, up and down, from head to toe, to and fro. His tongue explored your waist and your thighs and the wetness between your quivering legs.
And you loved differently when he immersed himself in you. Sighing and moaning against you as his tongue lapped you up. You felt the chills everywhere. Felt your shoulders rise, your hand in his long hair, the oxygen running out.
You’d nearly forgotten how such a moment felt — then again, you’d never experienced it like this before. You could barely breathe, and for the first time, you loved it. For the first time, it wasn’t your usual reason.
But the picture of the man over you pumping himself, covering his cock in the condom you’d bought weeks ago, just in case. Back when he started hanging around at your place. He was surprised about your preparation; was delighted about it, too.
And God… God, when he kissed you, sheathing himself in you, every inch connected with every piece of you. Souls and hearts and bodies merging. Moving in and out slowly, then a little quicker, cradling your face and kissing your neck.
Between all that, he kept asking if you were doing okay, and you said you’d never felt better. And the best part was that you fucking meant it and that’s when you knew—
That Yoongi warmed your coldest, most frigid spots. Helped you find a sense of heat that you’d long forgotten, that not even summer could ever bring back. The spring was right inside you, in the middle of your chest despite the rain.
But at the same time, somewhere next to it, he was there, too, becoming the storm that raged outside.
All at once, you remembered again. Even if you might forget in your worst times; even if he’d really need to remind you again.
You remembered that you could be loved, and that you were deserving of love.
You remembered that love towards somebody is often subjective and it’s not entirely up to you who feels it for you, and that only because somebody else was unable to give it to you the right way… it doesn’t mean everyone would act the same.
Yoongi was the spring and the storm; the rainbow you saw the next morning as the sky cleared.
Your mother used to struggle with migraines. Back then, you’d see her tied to the bed for half a day, struggling to get up, sleeping for a couple hours after swallowing her sumatriptan.
The evening or the morning after, you’d ask her how she was doing, and she’d say the headache was gone, but that some of the pressure still lingered. She’d feel it in the heaviness of her head, like it was falling against her clavicles.
Back then, you were too young to understand; you still don’t suffer migraines, knock on wood. But you somehow get what she meant — you guess the same applies to any other part of your body.
Like the soul.
They say a body becomes lighter after death since the soul leaves; and the morning after bawling in Yoongi’s arms, you feel the opposite. Like your grief makes you weigh more than during your good days.
Like you’re heavier than a month ago, without gaining a single kilogram.
But at least that means you’re alive. A soul intact.
And, just like your mother’s medicine, the night alleviated at least some of your pain. Maybe it was the conversation with Yoongi. Maybe the reassurance that he didn’t perceive you as the task you thought you might be.
Many years ago, you refused to seek help in others; be it loved ones, a partner or a therapist. Yoongi taught you to own who you were and to admit the problems you faced; that they were as valid as anything else.
Living with him and loving him this profoundly showed you that it’s okay to confide in someone. That someone will care. But it also taught you that ultimately, nobody is responsible for your well-being as much as you are.
That to heal, you need to accept yourself. That to accept yourself, you need to acknowledge the issues you face.
And for that, you need to be ready to combat your demons, understand that they can be fought.
You’ve always known that. In that sense, it isn’t true that you’re fully dependent on Yoongi. You know deep down that you’ll be the one pulling you out of this.
But…
It’s never bad for someone to initiate that thought process, is it? Even when it’s you emerging from the grave you dug for yourself; it’s okay to grab the hand as the earth breaks, pulling you out of the dirt and darkness.
Yoongi is the rope helping you out; but you’re the one to walk on once the endless well ends and you spot the daylight. You can rely on him. You can rely on yourself.
You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay.
“Ready?” Yoongi asks as you slip into your shoes. You look up, and nod, your smile soft. “Just a few more days, right?”
Right.
You’ll live day by day. Survive the hours, strive towards a better future. Count your blessings, find things to look forward to. It’s alright to fall sometimes, and whenever you do, you’ll remember you’re not alone.
That you’ll get up eventually. You hold onto this.
And onto those few last days until vacation calls. You booked it so long ago; it can be that one thing to grasp, to look forward to, right?
And… you laugh. Because you remember Yoongi telling you to get your nails done, that he’d even go with you. “But do not forget, because blue suits Greece and I’d love to see the colour on you.”
You act like you don’t know what his plea means. You act like you don’t know how much he loves you. How this very approaching plan of his proves that he couldn’t even let go of you if you gave him another reason to.
Isn’t this enough to understand that he never feels guilty of loving you?
Why are you so afraid…
Because.
Yoongi never viewed your pain as something you had control over or something you caused; whoever hurt you is at fault, not you. And Yoongi knows that; knows that you matter, with your past and present and future, however cruel they might be.
But despite the fact that your past made you who you are, and that your future will determine how you’ll further turn out to be, Yoongi always preaches to focus on the controllable.
We won’t ever be able to manage the future entirely; maybe you won’t even ever be faced with the fears you harbour, you know? The past is the past, the present is the present and the future is the future. They will torment us if we put too much meaning in them.
I know it’s hard. But it’ll be alright. One day, it will be — you’re okay.
It has to be…
You’ll be okay. You’re okay.
The weather might change at warp speed — but soon, it’ll be sunny again.
i know i said it's okay if you skip this one, but if you're reading this, you might not have, and i'm thankful for that <3 i needed these feelings out of my system, so it felt very cathartic to me. maybe it helped you a little, too? i hope so, at least – things will be okay 🤍
what do you think? since you're here, i'd love to know how you feel about this piece 💕
right, sorry for not mentioning things earlier 😅 so a fluff drabble for soaring high with tae, oc and jae? a day out! where jae misses oc and tries to call her with tae's phone or something lmaoo
anonymous said:
bae i rlly need a drabble to see what souring high!tae is like when they’re finally alone 😮💨😮💨❤️ u could literally do anything that u want !!
fic: soaring high
pairing: dilf!taehyung x reader
warnings: a cute son, a cute dad, a cute relationship between said son and oc; tae loves to watch them play. he really is into oc, he just doesn’t say it smh. super sweet dilf!tae <3, explicit sexual content: fingering implied, he bends her over, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it), manhandling, multiple rounds of sex implied, he’s so hungry and a beast, dom!tae, degradation; a whole lotta fluff too <3
wc: 1.5k (damn??)
a/n: i thought i could merge those two requests into one !! hope that's okay and that u guys like it 🥰 if u’d like to indulge in the fluff parts only, u can totally stop reading after they drop off jae at his friend’s place. and do lmk what u think! <333 also totally unedited again, i apologise 😭
ask my character! (no more drabble requests, please!) <3
––
The sun shines onto the park pleasantly, the sky an azure blue and busy voices sounding all around. Children are busy exploring every corner of the place; one has been chasing a squirrel for over twenty minutes, Taehyung is sure.
Except his own spawn.
Immersed in the wonders of technology, he taps around Taehyung’s phone; most of the apps don’t interest him much, too adult-y, and too colourless.
His eyes dart between various symbols, not quite sure what to settle on. He sighs, somehow focused on both exploring and rambling. Taehyung has been nodding and humming for half an hour, listening to his son’s stories about kindergarten and teasing girls.
And when the narration ends, Taehyung waits for a moment. Reckons the tale is over, that his son has vented his chest off once and for all – but when he glances over to him, looking down at his wiggling legs and content smile, he realises why silence has descended upon them.
“What... wait, what are you doing?”
The phone rings. And then, your voice chimes through. Jae knows the functions enough to apparently not just recognise the picture Taehyung set for you on his phone, but to put a call on loudspeaker, too.
“Where are you?” Jae yells, and you make a sound that indicates you’re taken aback.
Then, a giggle sounds through the phone, and you fall back into your toddler voice as you ask, “Heyyyy, Jae, how are we doing? I’m at home.”
“Can you come to the park?”
Taehyung watches with furrowed eyebrows, close to snatching the phone from his son before he sees the delight in his boy’s eyes.
“Which park, baby?” you ask, still laughing.
“Uhm... near my kindergarten.”
“Right now?”
“Please?”
“You don’t have to,” Taehyung’s voice interrupts, and Jae looks at him as though he’s noticing just now that his father is right next to him, watching him.
There’s a small pause, a chiming of keys, a hum; then, you say, “It’s okay. I’m not doing anything today anyway.”
Because who are you to deny any request the little man might have? You can’t remember ever saying no – Taehyung says you spoil him too much. You call it “making his kid love me”.
And as he wished, you find yourself in the park around twenty-five minutes later; Jae’s eyes light up – genuinely delighted. Stars in his eyes that resemble the ones in his father’s gaze.
Previously busy with digging holes in the sandbox, he gasps; runs towards you with his little yet fast feet, clinging onto you as if he didn’t see you just last weekend.
Taehyung never says much when Jae and you play around. He enjoys the scene, enjoys the way you whisper secrets into each other’s ears; or how you let him win every game of rock, paper, scissors.
How he chuckles and falls back onto the couch when you crack a stupid joke or tell him a story from work.
“I forgot the shovel,” he tells you loudly, looking at you wide wide, shocked eyes. “We can’t make a sandcastle!”
“Oh no!” you exclaim; both your gazes drift to Taehyung’s, seeking help.
“Daddy, can I go and get it?”
But his beloved father kills both your hopes with one shake of his head, wiggling a finger as he says, “You’re invited at Chae’s. Maybe she has a shovel and you can play in her garden.”
“But–”
Jae looks between you and his dad, pleading and innocent.
“You can’t let a friend wait, Jae,” Taehyung scolds, standing from the bench. The beige slacks are smooth, hugging his waist where he tucked his white shirt in. The shape of his body is so alluring – the curves, edges and bulges leave nothing to imagination.
As always.
And your insides keep buzzing. Keep twirling as you look at him. Watch him talk to Jae, smiling softly, talking to him, reprimanding him. Telling him that he’d pick him up around eight, and that he needs to behave if he wants to eat his favourite pasta dish tonight.
Before you know it, you’re left alone with the man who asked for your number after a flight months ago. The man who rearranged your insides, anything but shy, a demon and lovely father at once.
But now that you look at him, his eyes are tender. Sweet and soft, housing care for not just his son and his relationship to you, but for you as a person, too.
Taehyung’s two-story-flat isn’t too far from little Chae’s house, so you decide to walk the small distance to his place.
Being alone with Taehyung never really comes with awkwardness. It has become your own personal source of comfort; one you cherish. One you think back to when the moments are over.
“What were you doing all day?” he asks, thumbs in the pockets of his pants.
“Was just rewatching my favourite show. I’m glad you guys called.”
“Well... Jae called.”
“Yeah, technically,” you say, smiling, your steps slow and relaxed.”
“Gilmore Girls, was it?” Taehyung then guesses, squinting one eye shut in concentration.
“You remember my favourite show? That’s flattering.”
“I uh,” he starts, swallowing, “I remember your favourite dessert, too. And your favourite drink. If you want, we could...”
You wait, looking at him in anticipation; he looks sweet when he’s shy. Utterly different from when he batters your body. He licks his plush lips, and you wait some more before you ask, “Yeah?”
“If you want, we could go to my place, and... eat some dessert?”
You laugh.
You know what that means.
First he eats his favourite dessert – pretty much swallows it whole. Then he lets you eat yours.
And then, he finally opens his fridge and takes out the actual delicacy.
“You know my dearest pastime,” you tell him, and he laughs.
“Jae was missing you.”
“Although we met last week?”
“Mmmh, honestly, he can’t ever stop talking about you anyway.”
And Taehyung enjoys it. Loves to hear your name, basks in the pictures of you that his son calls forth.
“And,” he hesitates, licking his lips again, “I talk about you a lot, too.”
You almost halt in your steps; your heart falls down deep and lands in front of his feet. It does the same whenever he mumbles things like these – you might never get used to it.
“What is it that you talk about?” you ask.
“Just... I ask him what he thinks of you. Then I tell him what I think of you.”
“And what you think of me is...”
“Is for me to know and for you to find out.”
“Unfair.”
You hit his shoulder playfully right when you arrive in front of his entrance door. One hand of his holds his keys – but the other grabs your softly violent wrist, tugging your body close before he whispers, “Gonna treat you fairly to make it all good... ‘kay?”
Here he is. The beast you know.
The beast you still haven’t grown used to. The beast who pulls you inside his apartment, pushes you against the door. Growls against your skin, holding your arms over your head.
Mumbling curses against your flesh, eyes closed, groaning and lost.
He licks a trail along your neck. Tugs at your panties, shifting up your dress.
Taehyung’s slender fingers explore your shivering body, digging deep where you want him most.
“Pretty little cum dumpster,” he murmurs in between his actions; words so sore, actions so raw. “Prettiest woman in this neighbourhood.”
“Just this neighbourhood, huh?” you moan, laughing, eliciting a chuckle out of him as well.
“Just scared to use the word universe, ‘cause... you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
You want to remark something, but words die in your throat once he bends you over his desk, pushing away his books and stationery.
His cock is throbbing, hard, slick with his own spit when he enters you caringly. A hand rests on the small of your back, the other holding your wrists under your shoulder blades.
He caresses your skin, pumps into you harshly, harder, a deep baritone assuring, “You’re the fucking best pussy I’ve ever fucked. God, I wanna... wanna–”
“Wha– what?”
“I don’t want you to be able to walk for fucking days, baby.”
He says that every time. And he keeps the promise every time.
His hand comes down to clutch the flesh of your ass tightly, slapping against it, pushing it up; and then, he repeats. Until your bottom feels bruised, aching and tingling.
Just how you like it best – he knows.
And when his thumb circles your clit, feeling your cunt clench around his veiny, thick cock, he lets go the moment you do. Synchronised, crazed, loud.
“Fuck, fuck, yeah, I–”
“Taehyung, I can’t feel... my limbs.”
Of course you can’t. His grip cuts off the bloodstream in your arms, and your legs jiggle like pudding, close to giving out.
But his arms are strong and steady. Keep you afloat, his body pressed against yours.
He keeps you close, panting against your ears, ready for another round after your beloved dessert.
He wonders, “What do you think how many rounds we can go before I need to pick up Jae again?”
Cheeks pressed against the cold desk, you smile, readying your body for an evening of exhaustion and pleasure. Digging your nails into your palm, you wet your dry lips, open your eyes and say, “Let’s find out.”
DAMN THIS WAS........ longer than expected holy. please do let me know what u think !! <333
hiiiiii
i need to! (you sent me here)
hi, can i get a drabble for soaring high?? the only request i have is that they're in the same room together. post coital? pre? during? i don't care... i just need them.
thank you!
luv u
<3 harrow
hehe anything for you, my love !! @sugalaritae AHH ALSO, writing this made me so nostalgic for them. and he's so sexy. so thank you !! <3 –– can be read as a stand-alone!
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floating
pairing: Taehyung x reader
fic: soaring high
wc: 1.2k (oh wow)
warnings: smut – rough sex, some degradation, dirty talk, finger sucking, dom!tae, big dick!tae, biting, praising... usual stuff, squirting, fingering, cum eating i guess, unprotected sex, they're actually so cute too, aftercare, feelings? maybe. and. yeah.
–––
Taehyung gave you one single rule, and to his pleasure, you keep breaking it.
As the curve of his cock penetrates your dripping walls with the familiar force for the umpteenth time, you nearly yell his name into the room. The hand pushing you face-down on his couch vanishes, the hammering of his hips growing more merciless than before.
It’s as though he wants you to scream, so he can punish you accordingly.
The large palm settles over your mouth, pressing into your face as he leans in and whispers, “Shh… I told you Jae’s sleeping… and what I’ll do… should he wake up because of you.”
Yes.
You remember what he said.
A shudder takes over your body, and you dig your fingers into the material of his couch further. When he continues his journey, your eyes roll back in their sockets, your moans muffled and your body burning from his utterly merciless thrusts.
It’s safe to say that Taehyung has become comfortable with you since he first met you on a plane weeks ago. You didn’t think you’d ever see him again; much less, that you’d find yourself kneeling on his carpet, your knees bruising, because he was too impatient to even get you on his sofa.
The fling crowning you a member of the mile high club has long advanced to a silent affair – and here you are now, bent over his furniture, a drop of sweat trailing down your face as you let him wreck you inside out.
“Pretty little slut for me, aren’t you?” he whispers, snapping his hips against yours nearly aggressively.
With whatever strength you’ve left, you nod, tears blurring your vision before you squint and let them escape slowly, one by one. Taehyung watches your dark make-up taint your cheek, black tears colouring his nimble, long fingers that still press into your face.
He loosens his grip around your cheeks, pushing your torso into the couch further as his fingers sneak their way to your aching clit and draw torturously slow circles around it. You attempt to press your legs together, but his thighs split you apart, his cock spearing your poor battered pussy.
The sensation is too much; too mind-numbing. You want to scream, want to call his name, let him pin your arms behind your back and fuck you dumb and stupid all night. But forced to keep the silence in his house, you remain as quiet as you can, losing your mind when he presses his chest against your back and states, “This must be my favourite pussy ever. I fucking swear.”
His praises never fail to fog your mind enough for you to forget your name; but despite the haziness, you still part your lips, somehow managing to utter, “‘M gonna come… more, please–”
“More, baby?”
“Please, Tae, I can’t stay qui– god, god, fuck.”
“One day,” he begins, massaging your clit harder, watching you come undone, “Jae will be… with Jimin and… I’ll make sure you can’t walk after I’m done with you, shit.”
You can barely imagine a behaviour more demonic than this, but you can’t deny that the idea lights your nerves on fire immediately. His effect on you might never falter; and if you told him, he’d never let you crawl out of his bed ever again.
Biting your lower lip, you let go finally, soaking his cock in a generous amount of your juices; you can’t see him, but you’re certain the sight must be driving him insane.
Taehyung lets out a breathy chuckle, fucking you through your orgasm, pushing your high back into your cunt as he feels your walls clench and pulsate around him. The upper half of your body sinks into the couch some more, your knees nearly buckling before he grips your hips tight.
It takes mere seconds until his movements stutter, too, and he bites into your shoulder hard, immediately trying to soothe the sting to suppress your whimper. And when he spills inside you eventually, lewd curses fall from his mouth, his body falling lazily onto yours as you hear him whisper, “Fuck… really don’t wanna fill any other cunt anymore. Princess takes me so well every single time, doesn’t she?
“You’re a demon.”
“Sorry,” he apologises, clear mock and ingenuity in his words, “I’ll be more gentle next time.”
“No, you won’t be.” Your fingers shift on the couch, tapping blindly until you reach his hands and place your palm on his wrist. “And I don’t want you to be.”
“Thought so.”
Taehyung pulls out of you without a warning, and the emptiness he leaves you with feels unfamiliar, cold. You don’t realise how wound he’s fucked you until he slides two fingers inside your cunt, toying with your nerves before he brings his digits to your mouth and says, “You’ll keep the rest inside for now, yeah?”
You nod, obliging to his silent request to open your mouth as you lick his fingers clean of your mixed orgasms. Patting your ass, he declares once more, “good girl,” before pulling you to your feet carefully.
With your eyes drooping and your body aching, you let him guide you to god knows where, your brain and limbs so exhausted that you don’t notice where you are until you hear the sudden, pleasant sound of running water. Your eyelids flutter open fully when he places his hands on your cheeks, lips touching yours for a moment before he asks, “All good, baby?”
“Mmmhm,” you mumble, chasing his mouth some more, hands wandering to his bare chest.
“Are you still with me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” Taehyung’s deep, reassuring voice whispers, taking your hand in his before he steps into the bathtub with you. He settles behind you, arms wrapping around your body as he kisses your hair and adds, “We’ll go to bed soon, okay? You deserve some rest.”
“Thank you… you monster.”
“Hey now,” Taehyung says, his laugh vibrating against your back as he grabs a shampoo bottle, “don’t act like you don’t like it.”
You move your head sideways, staring at his sharp features and flawless profile as you admit, “I love it. You’re insane, but so fucking hot.”
“Says you, gorgeous lady.”
He massages the shampoo into your hair and washes it off, cleaning your body carefully and gently; his touch builds a stark contrast to what he did to you in his living room. Soothing, comforting, fond.
As he plants occasional kisses on your shoulder and neck, you nearly fall into a slumber. He wipes your face clean, getting rid of any remnants of your smudged make-up before he informs you, “All done. Let’s get you to bed now, yeah?”
You yawn as he helps you get dressed, your fingers combing through your wet hair before you walk to his bedroom, your hand holding his and pulling him forward from behind you quietly. Taehyung doesn’t know what it is about you that draws him in every single time. What it is that makes him want to come back to you every day.
But when you cuddle into him in bed, pulling the blanket to your chin, he doesn’t bother figuring out what you ignite in him. Instead, he wishes you a good night, rubbing smooth circles on your back before he hugs you close and falls asleep with a smile plastered on his face.
Summary: A twelve-hour flight passes fast when a scorching hot, single parent is there to entertain you all throughout the day – with his words… as much as with his fingers.
pairing: dilf / single dad!Taehyung x reader
genre: s2l (?); fluff, smut, some crack?
rating: 18+
warnings: talk about a past divorce & a toxic ex, flirting, teasing, oc’s and my voice kink 😵💫, slight age gap, tae’s kid and jimin are the sweetest pair of dorks everrrr; explicit sexual content: (hard) dom!tae, public sex (they do it in the plane restroom), unprotected sex (don’t do it, pls & thank u), handjob, groping, fingering, oral (m. receiving), throat fucking, cum swallowing, rough sex, dirty talk, manhandling, breast play, crying (cos taeconda too good), light choking, slight degrading (he calls her his cumslut grr), mention of some spit, my mirror kink i guess, aftercare (or as much as possible in a plane); literally, tae keeps smirking cockily… that ass, like 1 sweater weather reference, pls spot <3
word count: 8.5k
a/n: i needed to write this to get the idea out of my system, i’m sorry for all the content that’s still coming this week LMAO; thank @kth1 along with single-dad-tae-anon for encouraging me, and again, maggie, CANNOT THANK U ENOUGH FOR THIS HAWT BANNER AND COMING UP WITH THE AMAZING FIC TITLE !!! another thank u to @jimilter for hyping me up and making this brainfart SO much better, it was a mess honestly; ily guys T_T hope u guys enjoy !!
MASTERLIST | WIPs
You thoroughly dislike flying alone.
The fact that you won’t be able to set foot onto firm cement for the next eleven hours irks you. If you were in someone’s pleasant company, you’d probably stare at the line in front of you less grimly. The tempo in which the staff here operates does nothing to ease your mind, either.
That’s why airports are your least favourite place in the world; yes, you get to travel the world, but at what damn cost? At the cost of going through the infinitely long boarding process, just to sit in a vehicle that might or might not serve cold food and offer horrible movies?
Science needs to take it up a notch. You want teleportation to be a thing already.
Summary: “Burn yourself into my memory until I can’t escape you.”
When the gorgeous student from your literature class starts showing interest in you, you discover that there’s much more to him than his know-it-all facade. But is this realization enough to get through your insecurities and secrets?
pairing: Taehyung x female reader
rating: 18+
genre: college!au, romance, e2f2l, angst, a lot of fluff, smut
warnings: past minor character death, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of unhealthy coping mechanisms, kissing/making out, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), vaginal fingering, kinda handjob, breast play, unprotected sex (the reader is on the pill - use protection, people), vaginal sex, sexual tension, ass grabbing, lots of flirting, pining, light swearing, taehyung is a book nerd!!
word count: 10.5k
a/n: HELLO! this fic is part of the “Golden Gift Event” (hosted by @btsgoldnetwork) - and is a gift for my lovely valentine @sunkissedjk! HAPPY LOVE DAY! you were so sweet all the time we “talked” and i’m kinda happy you gave me so much freedom :’D and i hope you like the end product! also, a huge thank you to my awesome beta readers @taetaesbaebaepsae, @unoriginal-username15432 & @voiceswithoutlips (who also made this BEAUTIFUL banner for me, i loooove you!!!) - oh and: i listened to “Sea” on repeat while writing this - spot the reference ;) - OKAY, THEN LET’S DIVE IN!
MASTERLIST | WIPS
You wondered where all your impressive motivation that you’d harboured had suddenly vanished, leaving nothing in its wake but the lingering feelings of sorrow.
It felt like a pressing eternity since you’d been able to focus on one thing for longer than two endless minutes. All you were yearning for was your warm bed, for hiding yourself under your comforting sheets, your shelter that felt miles away as you sat on your seat.
You were looking out the window, zoned out as always, as you gazed into the grey sky, the approaching rain clearly evident in the way the world growled outside. Last night had tired you; after a recurring fight between your mother and you, you had decided to grab the still full box of chocolate ice cream that you’d bought a day before and withdraw to your room. It was exhausting. You always visited for one weekend a month and each time made you regret it, not long after your arrival.
