SIGNAL LOST - JEON JUNGKOOK !IDOL AU
GENRE- jjk x reader (fem), text and written, slow burn (and i mean SLOW. he literally doesn’t like her for a long time lol.), strangers to something?, idol au/2019 era-to now.), heavy angst, architecture student reader.
WARNINGS- strong language/ cursing (jk has a mouth on him😭), heavy making out, 2am tension, and jungkook being a literal menace.
A/N - hii guys i know i’ve been gone for a long time and im so sorryyy ive been going through a really harsh breakup and honestly it hit me so hard but im finally doing good again and back in my zone structure-wise lol. honestly you guys are the absolute best for supporting the story even though there's only a few parts right now and i haven't posted in forever... i love u guys sm for that thank u truly 😭 knowing u guys still read my story literally saved me while i was away.just a quick reminder that right now in the timeline we are still in 2019!!! please keep that in mind while reading so the dates make sense. i promise i’ll try updating more frequently now that im back to normal!and omgg shes finally connecting the dotsssss!! the tension is literally crazy right now and my poor minhoooo is acc mad 😭😭😭 he really doesn't deserve this omg. but yes i hope u guys love this chapter, thank u for hitting the goal last time! the goal for this one will be 25 likes 💕
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The sun is hitting the piles of fabric and mannequins on Sora’s side of the room, making the whole apartment smell like steam and polyester. You’re hunched over your desk, staring at a site plan that looks like gibberish. You haven't slept more than three hours, and the skin under your eyes feels like paper. Every time you close your eyes, you see those red crane lights blinking in your mind, keeping rhythm with a heart rate that hasn't slowed down since you stepped off that roof.
"Y/N, I'm being so for real right now—you look like a Victorian orphan," Sora says, wrapping a measuring tape around her neck. She’s a Fashion Merchandising major; she spends her mornings worrying about color theory and fabric drapes, while you worry about load-bearing walls. She’s currently trying to pin a sleeve onto a mannequin, but she keeps glancing at your reflection in her vanity mirror. "Are you even eating? I found a protein bar in the trash that was half-eaten from Tuesday. It was rock hard."
"I'm fine, Sora. It's just a heavy week," you mutter, not looking away from your screen. Your cursor is blinking at a drainage pipe you've moved six times.
"It’s not just a week. You’re vibrating. Like, literally vibrating with anxiety," she says, finally dropping the measuring tape and walking over to your desk. She leans over your shoulder, her sharp eyes scanning your blueprints. "And Minho called me last night. He didn't say much, which is how I know he's pissed. He sounded like a robot. What did you do to him? He’s the only reason you usually survive midterm season."
"I didn't do anything. We just had a disagreement about... data. Technical stuff," you lie. It’s the easiest thing to say to a Engineering major’s friend.
"Data. Right. Because you two usually fight over spreadsheets," she rolls her eyes, grabbing her bag. "Just... don't die. I don't want to have to find a new roommate who actually cleans the kitchen."
She stops at the door, scrolling through her phone with a sudden, sharp gasp. "Oh my god! I almost forgot the only thing that matters. The final BTS tour dates were just posted. They’re doing the massive send-off at the Olympic Stadium in exactly fourteen days before they head to the States. The city is going to be a nightmare, Y/N. Total gridlock. If I don't get a floor ticket to see Jungkook in those Dior outfits, I am actually going to jump off the Namsan Tower. Can you imagine being that close to him? I'd literally stop breathing."
You don't even look up. You're too tired for her fan theories. "Fourteen days, huh? Good luck with the tickets, Sora. Hope you see your... whatever his name is."
"His name is Jungkook, Y/N! Use his name! He’s the main reason I even have a personality," she groans and leaves, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes the room feel too quiet.
You reach into your bag and pull out the black Moleskine. It’s heavy and smooth. You find yourself tracing the spine, wondering why you're protecting a guy who is dismantling your life from the shadows.
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The Engineering Quad | 1:00 PM
You have to drop off a joint project file at the Engineering building, which is basically walking into the lion's den. The atmosphere here is different from the Architecture studio—it’s all cold glass, whiteboards covered in terrifying calculus, and the smell of industrial grease.
You find minho in the materials lab in the basement. It’s a cavernous room filled with heavy machinery designed to break things. He’s wearing heavy work gloves and a shop coat, his brow furrowed as he watches a concrete cylinder slowly crack under immense pressure from a hydraulic press. The machine is letting out a low, mechanical groan that vibrates in the floorboards.
"Minho," you say, standing by the heavy metal door.
He doesn't look up. He waits until the machine hisses and the concrete finally shatters with a sharp crack that echoes through the lab before he turns off the monitor. He starts recording the PSI data into a tablet, his movements efficient and cold.
"The file is on the server, Y/N," he says finally, his voice flat. "You didn't need to come here."
"I wanted to say sorry. For the 7-Eleven thing. I was stressed and I... I got confused."
Minho pulls off his gloves, and for the first time, you see the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s a Civil Engineer. He deals in loads and truths.
"You didn't get confused," he says, stepping closer. The smell of concrete dust and sharp ozone is thick on him. "You lied. And you’re still lying. I don't know who you're talking to or what’s in that black book you keep hiding, but don't insult me by pretending it's 'confusion.' If you don't trust me enough to tell me you're in trouble, then I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome in your life."
"It’s not that, Minho, it's just... it's complicated."
"I have to finish these samples, Y/N," he interrupts, turning his back to you. "I'll see you at the midterm review."
You walk out of the lab feeling like you've just watched a support beam snap. You head to the back corner of the library—Level 4—and pull out your phone. You’re done being the victim.
The Library Stacks | 3:30 PM
The library is silent. You’re tucked away in a corner, surrounded by the smell of old paper and the hum of the HVAC system. You open the Ghostgram app, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
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[ GHOSTGRAM: ENCRYPTED SESSION START ]
y/n: i don't care about ur "cage" or your lyrics.
y/n: i just lost my best friend because i’m lying for u. he’s an engineer. he knows when things don't add up. he knows i'm lying.
J0901_X: im busy. rehearsals are running over. my manager is literally at the door. I don't have time to listen to you vent about your social life.
y/n: i don't care about ur schedule!
y/n: ur the one who started all of this. ur the one who tracked ME down. u threw a fit to get your notebook back, but now that i’m trying to give it to u, ur stalling.
y/n: and why did you have to rip pages out of my notebook? do u have any idea how much work went into those sketches?
y/n: if u wanted to return my property, u should have given it back FULLY. tearing my pages out like a thief is just petty. it makes no sense. why couldn't u just hand over the book intact?
J0901_X: you won't leave it. you know exactly what would happen if that book was found. you're protecting me, remember? even if you hate me for it.
J0901_X: and I’m not stalling. i just don't have a "safe" place to meet right now. the stadium is crawling with staff and my building's garage has paparazzi outside.
J0901_X: as for your pages, consider it a deposit. I needed a reason to make sure you'd stay quiet until I could get the rest back.
y/n: how do u even know so much about architecture anyway? ur an idol. u should be practicing dancing, not commenting on my drafting. why do u know about 2mm margins and drainage slopes? who are you??
J0901_X: my father is a developer. I grew up on sites. I know a structural failure when I see one.
J0901_X: and right now, your life looks like it’s about to collapse.
J0901_X: I'm leaving for tour in fourteen days. the planes are booked. The stadium is the last stop.
y/n: so ur just going to leave the country with my book? are u serious?
y/n: there is no way ur actually that big of a star that ur acting like this much of a nonchalant asshole. u literally have my sketches, j. give them back.
J0901_X: "nonchalant asshole"?
J0901_X: careful, architect.
J0901_X: im not acting. im just tired. and I'm not leaving until I'm ready.
J0901_X: by the way, I was looking at that site plan you drew on page 42 the one with the north-facing glass? your drainage slopes are off. If it rains, your building is a swimming pool.
y/n: ur still looking at my notebook??
y/n: give. it. back. and stop critiquing my work!
[ J0901_X HAS LEFT THE SESSION. ]
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You stare at the screen, your heart hammering with pure irritation. He isn't watching you; he’s sitting in his dressing room or up in his high-rise flat, flipping through your personal thoughts and your hard work like it’s a morning newspaper. And worst of all, he deliberately damaged your book just to keep you on a leash.
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The studio is empty now. You’re back at your desk, but you aren't working. You’re looking at the black Moleskine. You flip through the pages, staring at the lyrics.
Sora's voice from this morning starts to play on a loop in your head. The city is going to be a nightmare... BTS is leaving for the tour in exactly fourteen days... Olympic Stadium... Jungkook.
You stare at the "J" on your phone. You only even know that name because Sora screams it every time a commercial comes on.
"J," you whisper. "Jungkook?"
You feel a wave of annoyance hit you. It’s so absurd it’s almost funny. You think about the "nonchalant asshole" on the other side of the phone. You think about him memorizing your page numbers and tearing out your sketches while allegedly being the most famous person in the country.
"No way," you mutter, rubbing your temples. "Absolutely no way. He's probably just some trainee or a backup dancer who thinks he's a big deal. Why would a member of the biggest group in the world be obsessed with an architecture student's notebook?"
But the timeline. Fourteen days. The stadium. The "manager at the door."
Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Minho.
Minho: I left your favorite tea in your locker. Don't stay up too late. I’m still mad, but I don't want you to fail.
The guilt hits you again, sharp and cold. You’re lying to your best friend for a guy who might be a global superstar or might just be a very talented ego-maniac living a few floors up. You look out the window toward the stadium in the distance, the city lights blurring.
