least favorite student | jjk
❯ pairing: student!jk x TA!reader
❯ genre: college au, enemies-to-lovers
❯ summary: life as a TA isn’t exactly glamorous when you're grading until midnight, (barely) surviving grad school, and praying your social life still exists. then jeon jungkook, your least favorite student, decides you are his latest fixation. he flirts. he sends ridiculous notes. he won’t go away. you’re determined to ignore him, but somewhere between the smirks and the shameless winks, your loathing just might be turning into something else.
❯ word count: 5.6k+
❯ warnings: 18+, cursing, suggestive language, light dom/sub dynamics (subby brat jungkook obvs), teasing, student/TA tension (consensual), some possessiveness, mentions of alcohol, kissing, yearning, mostly SFW honestly
❯ an: this is my first fic back in a while, but inspiration struck. hopefully you enjoy :)
© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.
If Jeon Jungkook has no haters, you’re dead.
You try to contain your ire as he loudly holds court across the small local cafe, his laugh echoing off the photo-adorned walls and drowning out the clinking mugs. Your eyes squeeze shut and then attempt to refocus on the catastrophe of a paper you’re grading. You would think a month into the semester these kids would have a grasp on the basics, but alas, you’re burdened with being a TA for the hopeless cases taking Psychology 101.
You read the next sentence of the paper: ‘Freud was really the GOAT.’
Fucking hell. Your sanity teeters on a knife’s edge. You press your red pen so hard into the paper that the tip threatens to punch through. In a different reality, you would shred the essay into confetti, toss it in the air, and walk out of the cafe to go scream into a void. Instead, you take a deep breath and abruptly stand, heading for the counter for a refill to avoid committing academic homicide.
“Another matcha, (y/n)?” Seokjin asks, his hand already gesturing towards the matcha whisk like a man who had read your mind.
Besides being the cafe’s head barista and the only thing between you and total despair, Kim Seokjin is also devastatingly gorgeous. And he very much knows it.
“Yes, please,” you mutter, tapping your card against the reader with just a little too much force.
Another loud round of laughter rings out behind you. Your shoulders tense so hard you swear you feel something pop, and Seokjin’s fingers pause over the receipt just long enough for you to notice.
“Not a fan?” he muses, full lips curving in a way that is entirely too knowing as he finally rips the receipt free.
“What?” you play it off with a thin smile, taking the receipt from his outstretched hand. “I just like when it’s quiet here. That’s all.”
Seokjin shoots you a side eye that you pretend not to see. “Ri-i-ight,” he says, drawing the word out as he pours your matcha with precision. He tops it with a face made of cold foam, complete with one arched eyebrow that feels like a direct attack.
“Why don’t you focus on being handsome instead of being a little shit,” you huff, though the corners of your mouth twitch.
He gasps, “How dare you assume I can’t be both!”
You roll your eyes and laugh before taking your drink. Heading back to your seat, you’re unaware that the second your laughter rang out, a certain someone’s attention flew right to you.
Settling back in your chair, you lift your pen, determined to survive the next abominable paragraph.
Well, that was the plan. Instead, a throat clears.
You glance up, and there he is: Jeon Jungkook, in all his irritating glory. His stupidly cute doe eyes framed by thick lashes, his annoyingly sexy piercings glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window.
You can’t really pinpoint the moment you decided you did not care for him. Perhaps it was the first time he strolled into the lecture hall ten minutes late, radiating indifference. Or maybe it was when he attended your office hours with a blank notebook, leaning on the doorframe with a pout that might have worked on someone with less self-respect. Or, most likely, it was when you turned into the psych section of the library only to find him with his tongue down some underclassman’s throat.
Regardless, your feelings stand.
You sigh, glaring up at him. “What is it, Jeon?”
He slides into the seat across from you, uninvited, unrepentant, and entirely too pleased with himself. “Hi, professor.”
You inhale sharply through your nose. “Jeon, how many times have I told you not to call me that? I am your TA, not your professor. Maybe you’d know that if you actually showed up to a lecture.”
Instead of showing an inkling of remorse, Jungkook looks delighted, giving you a smile that is both infuriating and unfairly attractive. “Ah, professor, always so serious. Does graduate school suck all the fun out of you? Or…,” He cocks his head, “…Do you just have no one to suck on, and you’re horribly repressed?”
Your brain bluescreens. You blink once. Twice. Because he did not just say that.
“That is completely inappropriate,” you hiss.
He grins, eyes crinkling in wicked amusement. “Inappropriate? Professor, I’m merely forming hypotheses. Isn’t that what psychology’s all about?”
Your eye twitches. “Jeon Jungkook, I will say this once. Lectures are Mondays; my office hours are Tuesdays. Any other day of the week, I do not exist to you. Got it?”
He leans back in his chair and drawls, “Right. Because you’re just so easy to ignore with all your…” He trails off; his gaze sweeps up and down your body, slowly, deliberately.
You fight the treacherous bloom of heat rising in your body and stab your pen toward his table, where his friends are openly gawking. “Get. Back. Over. There.”
Instead, Jungkook leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a purr. “Come on, professor. Don’t you like it when we fight? I know I do.” His shifts in his seat pointedly.
A growl rips from your throat before you can stop it, and the sound only amuses him, his grin spreading. He opens his mouth to add yet another shameless comment, but you move first.
Your hand snaps up to cover his mouth, and you lean in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t start something you can’t handle, little boy.”
Jungkook freezes, pupils blown wide. It’s your turn to smirk.
On impulse, you nip his earlobe, just enough to leave him breathless.
A muffled whine vibrates against your palm.
You pull back, savoring the rare sight of him wrecked and wordless. His cheeks are bright, his knuckles white where they grip the chair, his tongue darting across his lips like he’s chasing the briefest taste of your touch.
Shoving your things into your bag, you stand and pat his head as you strut past, the bell above the cafe door chiming as you push it open and exit.
Hopefully now, Jeon Jungkook will finally understand that you are not someone to toy with.
When Monday finally rolls around, you enter the lecture hall with dread and excitement twisting in your gut.
The hall is comfortably dim, the steady hum of the air conditioning a familiar backdrop as you get situated at the front. Bleary-eyed undergrads shuffle in, clutching coffees like lifelines, and the low murmurs of early morning chatter fill the air.
You are halfway through uploading the lecture slides when the room dips into brief silence. You stifle a sigh, because that hush only ever means one thing.
Jeon Jungkook strolls in with that maddening mix of swagger and effortless charm. He doesn’t spare a glance at Professor Kim; no, his gaze zeroes in on you like a heat-seeking missile.
Your grip tightens around the computer mouse, determined not to watch his approach, yet painfully aware of every step. The projector whirs behind you, flickering to life as your slides finally fill the wall with soft light. You try to focus on reviewing the bullet points about Freud and Jung, but the back of your neck prickles.
“Morning, professor,” he murmurs when he’s close enough, voice pitched low so it’s just for you. That voice is velvet, brushing against the edges of your self-control.
You take a breath and don’t look at him. “Jeon. Take a seat. Quietly.”
Of course, he doesn’t. He lingers just long enough for the edge of his leather jacket to brush the lectern as he leans in slightly, his scent blooming in your space.
A student in the second row coughs, and the spell is broken. Jungkook finally drops into a seat in the front row, sprawling like the lecture hall is his living room, one arm draped over the chair beside him. He drags his pen absently across the (still) blank page of his notebook, legs spread, utterly unbothered.
Your jaw tightens as you return your gaze to the lecture slides. “Good morning, everyone,” you begin, voice steady but clipped. “Today we’re covering the fundamentals of Freudian theory—”
“GOAT,” someone coughs under their breath, and a few students snicker. You don’t have to look to know that Jungkook’s smirk is already in place.
You continue, clicking to the next slide. The hall dims further as the projector shifts to a diagram of the psyche. Jungkook leans back in his chair, gaze fixed entirely on you, his attention a tangible weight.
You ignore him for as long as you can, pushing through the lecture with professional precision. But the moment your eyes flick to his, he winks, and it’s all you can do not to choke on your next sentence.
The rest of the room might be half-asleep, but you are locked in a silent, simmering battle of wills with the boy in the front row.
And he’s enjoying every second of it. Brat.
By the time Professor Kim takes over to lead the discussion portion of the class, you are envisioning wrapping both hands around a certain someone’s throat and doing all sorts of unspeakable things.
Instead, you slip into a seat on the opposite side of the lecture hall while the professor fields questions. Pulling out your red pen to grade the next essay, you try to focus on anything besides Jungkook. But the universe has no mercy.
A folded piece of paper lands on your desk. You follow the trail back to its source… Jeon Jungkook’s outstretched fingers. He’s not even pretending to take notes, just leaning on one elbow, eyes locked on you like he’s watching a private show.
You hesitate, then unfold the note.
‘Do you like me, professor?’ Two checkboxes—both labeled ‘yes’—are hastily drawn under the question.
You crumple the paper and shove it into your bag before anyone can see the fire climbing your neck. But he’s already mouthing silently, ‘Yes or yes?’
You don’t dignify his inane question with an answer, and return your attention to the paper in front of you.
Your pen scratches across the essay, though every nerve is still attuned to Jungkook’s presence. He’s a constant buzz under your skin, a live wire daring you to touch it.
Minutes crawl by. Finally, Professor Kim announces a short break, and students shuffle out to grab another coffee or to stretch their legs. You stay seated, but Jungkook does not.
He ambles across the room toward you, feigning innocence. “Professor,” he drawls, “I was thinking about your office hours.”
You don’t look up, saying flatly, “Jeon, my office hours are tomorrow.”
“Mmm. But what if I need… extra help?” He murmurs and places a tattooed hand over the paper you’re attempting to grade.
You lift your gaze slowly, taking in the sight of him looming over your desk with that insufferable half-smile. “Then you wait like everyone else,” you say, voice tight.
He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “But I’m not like everyone else, am I?”
You huff, exasperated. “Jeon.”
He leans closer, his palm still splayed on the desk. The faint smell of leather and amber surrounds you, distracting and intimate. “Say my first name,” he all but pleas.
You abruptly set down your pen, fingers curling into your lap to resist gripping him by the hair. “I am in the middle of grading. Go take a walk.”
He pretends to consider this, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Or you could give me a private lesson. I’m a very hands-on learner.”
You clench your jaw, scanning the room to ensure no stray student—or, god forbid, Professor Kim—witnesses this. You shove back your chair and stand, closing the distance between you and Jungkook in a single step. His eyes widen a fraction as you grip his collar and haul him an inch closer.
“You think this is a game?” you hiss.
His lips part, and he seems at a loss for words. He swallows hard, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth. “Maybe,” he says finally, voice rougher than before. “But I really like playing with you, professor.”
You release him abruptly, stepping back to reclaim your composure. “Then you’ll follow the rules. My rules. Or you don’t play at all.”
Jungkook falters, blinking like he’s rebooting. Then, slowly, a small grin unfurls across his face, softer this time and almost reverent. “Yes, professor,” he says, and it’s the first time it doesn’t sound like a taunt.
You lower yourself back into your chair, pointedly resuming your grading. “Go back to your seat, Jeon.”
He obeys with a lazy saunter, and though he takes his place in the front row again, the energy between you has shifted. The teasing edge remains, but beneath it lurks something darker, sharper. The threads between you have been pulled taut, just waiting to snap.
As students trickle back in, you catch a glimpse of him leaning back in his chair, hands tucked behind his head, a small, knowing smile curving his lips. He’s quiet for the rest of class, but that doesn’t fool you.
The rest of the lecture passes in a haze of forced composure. By the time Professor Kim dismisses the class, your nerves are frayed to threads.
Students file out, gathering backpacks and murmuring about the next assignment. You stay seated, letting the room empty before you pack up your things. The sound of the projector fades as it powers down, leaving the room strangely quiet.
When Professor Kim finally leaves, you exhale, tension unwinding from your shoulders… until the soft click of the lecture hall door echoes. You glance up to find Jungkook leaning casually against the frame, blocking the exit.
Your stomach flips.
“Forgot something?” you ask, voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline.
He nods, hands in his pockets, eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah,” he says, low and smooth. “I forgot to ask again if you checked a box.”
You blink. “A box?”
He points at your opened bag where the crumpled note still resides. “Yes or yes?”
You stand, gathering your things. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”
“Persistent,” he counters. “Because I think you like me more than you want to admit.”
You stalk towards the exit—and him. “What makes you think I actually like you?”
The quiet of the empty lecture hall amplifies the sound of your shoes on the floor. Jungkook’s eyes track you with a focus that makes you almost miss a step.
Finally getting to the door, you pause in front of him. “I didn’t check a box,” you murmur, voice just above a whisper. His brows twitch upward, and he swallows hard, but you continue before he can speak. “And I won’t.”
You gently push him aside and reach for the door, pausing with your hand on the handle, glancing over at him just in time to catch the way he’s staring, lips parted slightly.
Then you leave, letting the door swing shut behind you with a quiet click and cutting off the last thread of his presence.
And yet, you can still feel it: the weight of his gaze, the echo of his voice, and the vivid certainty that this game is far from over.
Tomorrow, he will try again.
And you’ll have to be ready.
As you arrive at your small office space for office hours the next day, you can’t help but feel like you’re steeling yourself for battle.
Opening the door, you enter and immediately ground to a halt. Jungkook is already there, perched on the edge of your desk like he has the right. His leather jacket is nowhere to be seen, and his tattoos are on full display. His curly black hair is a delicious mess, wind-tousled, and that damn cocky grin drives up your pulse and your annoyance.
You round the desk deliberately, aware of the way his gaze drags over you. The clock says there are still five minutes until office hours begin, but clearly he doesn’t care.
“Professor,” he drawls, arms folded and emphasizing his biceps.
You meet his eyes, and the air feels thick. “Jeon. You’re early. Should I be worried hell has frozen over?” You point to the armchair across from your desk. “Sit there. My desk is not a couch.”
Surprisingly, Jungkook listens. Sitting in the chair across from you, he leans forward, shoulders broad, thighs spread, elbows braced on his knees. “So, about those extra lessons,” he murmurs, each word sliding over your skin.
You fold your hands, pretending to be calm. “What is it you need help with?”
He tilts his head, dark hair spilling into his eyes. “Focus. Every time I try to study, I get distracted.”
You hum. “Distracted? By what?”
He looks at you with no pretense. “You.”
Heat coils low in your stomach. “That’s not an academic problem,” you manage, voice not as steady as you would like. “That’s a self-control issue.”
“Then maybe…,” he murmurs, leaning in until he’s all you can see, “You could teach me control.”
You scoff. “I told you yesterday; there are rules. And I very much doubt you’d follow them.”
His gaze darkens, sharpening into something hungrier. “Try me. Teach me the rules,” he says, voice a quiet challenge.
You stand slowly, feeling his eyes trace every inch of the movement. Crossing the small space feels like crossing a line. When you step between his open thighs and lean close, his breath stutters, and the tension snaps taut.
“Rule one,” you whisper, lips mere inches from his, “You never speak to me like that in class. Ever.”
He swallows, nodding once.
“Rule two,” your finger drags along the collar of his shirt, just barely brushing skin, “You wait until I’m not working to ask for my attention. No notes. No winks.”
Another nod, slower, pupils blown wide, hands flexing against his jeans like he’s holding himself back.
“Rule three,” you pause. “Rule three is the most important rule. You need to be a very good boy for me.”
As the words leave your lips, the room seems to stand still. You aren’t even sure Jungkook is breathing.
After a minute, he finally replies. “Yes, professor,” he says, softer than you expect, reverent and starved all at once.
You step back, reclaiming your chair like it’s a throne, heart pounding and skin tingling. “Good. Now, do you actually have a psychology question or are you just here to bother me?”
He fumbles for his notebook, revealing mostly blank pages and a few teasing doodles. You arch a brow, letting the silence speak.
“Um,” he says, a slight flush on his cheeks. “I didn’t hear a word of yesterday’s lecture because you wore that red lipstick, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would look like on my skin.”
Your pen stills in your hand, the quiet of your cramped office suddenly thick with the weight of his words. Jungkook is watching you with those dark eyes, the flush creeping up the column of his throat, and for once, he seems genuinely unsure of your reaction.
You lean back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other, letting the silence stretch. The corner of your mouth curves into a slow smile. “You didn’t hear a word of the lecture because of my lipstick?”
He swallows audibly, nodding once. “Yes, professor.”
You tap the pen against your knee, considering him. “Then maybe,” you say after a beat, “You need to learn how to focus under pressure.”
His breath hitches. “How- how do I do that?”
Your smile widens. “By following instructions. Exactly. Without question.”
He straightens a little, like a soldier coming to attention. “Yes, professor.”
You rise from your seat once more and circle the desk until you’re standing between the desk and his chair again. Your fingers brush the leather backrest, and you can almost feel the tension in his shoulders radiating through it. He doesn’t move, but you see the way his jaw tightens.
“Close your eyes,” you command softly.
He hesitates only a moment before obeying. His lashes fan across his cheeks, his posture stiff with anticipation.
“Now, repeat after me. ‘I will listen.’”
“I- I will listen,” he murmurs.
“I will focus.”
“I will focus.” He repeats.
“I will not let myself get distracted.”
A slight pause—he swallows again—then, “I will not let myself get distracted.”
You lean forward, letting your breath ghost along the shell of his ear. “That’s a good boy,” you purr.
He shudders, hands gripping his knees hard enough that you hear the faint rustle of denim. You straighten and move around the desk again, leaning against it casually as if you hadn’t just turned him into a puddle.
“Open your eyes,” you say.
He obeys, blinking up at you, pupils wide and hungry. There’s a rough edge to his voice when he finally speaks. “Was that… the first lesson?”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “It was a test,” you say. “To see if you could handle following orders.”
“And did I pass?” he asks, voice low, almost hoarse.
“For now,” you reply, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “But the semester’s long. You’re going to need a lot more discipline if you want to keep up with me.”
He nods, eyes wide. “I can handle it,” he says. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
You arch a brow, standing to gather a stack of papers from the corner of your desk. “We’ll see.”
As you shuffle the papers into a neat pile, you catch the way he leans back in the chair, watching you with a kind of shameless awe. It sends a thrill down your spine that you refuse to acknowledge out loud.
“Now,” you say briskly, as if the air isn’t still thick with unspoken tension, “If you actually want help with psychology, I suggest you come prepared next time. With notes. Or questions. Actual questions.”
He nods quickly, almost eagerly. “Yes, professor.”
You glance up and catch his eye, holding his gaze until he squirms just a little. “And Jungkook?”
“Yes?”
“No more comments about my lipstick.”
A beat of silence. Then, softly, almost to himself, “I’ll try.”
Your lips twitch. “Try harder.”
He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, and the sound is infuriatingly charming. You turn back to your papers before he can see the traitorous heat climbing your cheeks.
“Office hours are over in thirty minutes,” you say. “If you’re not here for actual academic help, you can go.”
He stands slowly, stretching to his full height, and for a moment, the small office feels even smaller. “I’ll be back for office hours next week,” he says, tone a promise rather than a threat.
“Come prepared,” you repeat, sitting once more behind your desk like you’re reclaiming your fortress.
He hesitates at the door, hand on the knob, eyes flicking back to you. “Professor?”
“Yes, Jeon?”
His lips curve into that infuriating half-smile. “I like your lipstick today, too.”
Your pen freezes in midair, but by the time you glance up to chastise him, he’s already slipping out the door, the soft click echoing in the quiet room.
You exhale slowly, setting the pen down. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears, and your thoughts a tangle of irritation and unwilling anticipation.
This boy is going to be the death of you.
Or, you think with a reluctant smirk, maybe just the end of your own self-control.
Surprisingly, you don’t see Jungkook for the rest of the school week. You attend your grad classes, trying in vain to not let your thoughts stray back to the infuriatingly cute boy.
When your friends ask you to go out with them to a local bar, you jump at the chance for some distraction.
The bar is warm and vibrating with the low thrum of bass, neon lights casting soft colors around the room. You sit at a high-top table near the back, your friends laughing around you as the server drops off another round of drinks. Your glass is cool against your fingers, condensation sliding under your palm.
“You always work too hard,” your friend Mina teases, nudging your shoulder. “Tonight, you’re not a TA or a grad student. So relax, okay?”
You laugh and raise your glass in a small toast. “To relaxing.”
It’s barely five minutes later when a tall, broad-shouldered stranger drifts over, a confident smile in place. His hair is a little messy in a deliberate way, and he leans against the edge of your table like he belongs there.
“Hey,” he says smoothly, eyes scanning the group before settling on you. “Haven’t seen you here before. Can I buy your next drink?”
Mina’s brows lift, and your other friends exchange amused glances. You tilt your head, assessing him. “I already have a drink.”
“Then I’ll wait ‘til you need another,” he says without missing a beat, voice warm, flirtatious. You can feel his gaze trail over you.
You open your mouth to respond when the air shifts.
“Funny,” comes a familiar low voice from behind, “I didn’t think she needed a babysitter.”
Your head snaps around, and there’s Jungkook, in all his maddening glory, wearing a tight black t-shirt and dark baggy jeans. His hair is brushed back just enough to show more of his piercings glinting in the warm bar light. His eyes are dark, locked on the stranger, his posture loose but radiating a quiet, possessive energy.
The stranger straightens instinctively, sensing the tension. “Hey, man. We were just talking.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook says, stepping into your space with infuriating ease, one hand resting on the back of your chair. “Well, now she’s busy.”
You arch a brow, trying to keep your voice even. “Jeon.”
“Professor,” he counters smoothly, leaning down just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”
Your pulse spikes, though you shoot him a look.
The stranger lingers a moment longer, clearly debating whether to challenge the situation. Your friends are silently eating up the drama, not even pretending not to eavesdrop. The music from the speakers seems to dim in your ears, all your focus pinned on the smug boy inserting himself into your life yet again.
“Thanks for the chat,” the stranger finally mutters to you, tipping his head and slinking away. Jungkook doesn’t bother to watch him go; his attention zeroes in on you like a spotlight.
“You’re insufferable,” you hiss, your voice low enough to avoid your friends’ ears. “What are you doing here?”
He grins, leaning down so his words curl against the shell of your ear. “Checking on my favorite professor. Making sure she’s… safe.”
You inhale sharply, turning in your seat to face him. “I don’t need a babysitter or a bodyguard. And I definitely don’t need you scaring off people I want to talk to.”
“You wanted to talk to him?” Jungkook tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Didn’t look like you wanted to. I can tell when you want something.”
Your pulse jumps, but you force your expression to remain cool. “You can’t just—”
“(y/n), tell your white knight to sit,” Mina interrupts, gesturing at the empty stool beside you with a mischievous smile. “Or is he going to hover all night?”
Jungkook slides onto the stool without hesitation, his knee brushing yours under the table. Too close. Far too close. The heat of him presses into you like a trap. Your friends are whispering, but you barely register their voices over the thud of your own heartbeat.
“So, what’s everyone drinking?” he asks casually, as if this isn’t a social hostage situation.
You glare at him, but Mina, ever the instigator, answers, “Tequila sodas. Want one?”
“Sure,” he says, flashing that unfair smile at the group. Mina waves down the server, and in minutes a glass appears in front of Jungkook. He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Delicious,” he says lowly, and there’s a heat in his tone that almost makes you shift in your seat.
You try to focus on your friends’ conversation, but every brush of his shoulder feels like deliberate interference. He doesn’t touch you aside from that casual knee press, but the air between you is saturated with him.
Then, Mina pipes up again, kicking you under the table. “So, (y/n), who’s this anyway?”
“A student,” you say, shooting her a look that screams shut up.
But Jungkook’s smirk only deepens. “Her favorite student.”
You nearly choke on your drink. “You are barely passing the class,” you hiss.
He leans even closer, close enough that your hair brushes his jaw. “Then maybe I need more private lessons.”
Your breath catches, and you force yourself to lean back, putting a sliver of space between you. “We are in public,” you remind him, voice strained.
“Mmm,” he hums, unbothered. “But you didn’t tell me to go away. That counts for something.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. He’s right; you could tell him to leave. But, you don’t, because you’re a fucking idiot for him.
“Why are you even here?” you mutter.
“Maybe I like this bar,” he says, leaning one elbow on the table. “Or maybe my friend texted me you were here.” His eyes dip to your mouth.
Your eyes narrow. “Who’s your friend?”
He smirks and tilts his head toward the corner, where a familiar face from the cafe is trying—and failing—to act like they aren’t watching the drama unfold. You groan and rub your temples. “Seokjin? Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Jungkook says, voice low and smooth. “Jin knows I like to keep tabs on where my professor’s at.”
“Jungkook—”
“Say my name again,” he interrupts softly, leaning closer. His knee presses more firmly against yours under the high-top table, and the bar suddenly feels about fifty degrees warmer.
You grit your teeth, knowing your friends are watching with interest. “Jeon.”
The way his eyes darken sends a thrill down your spine that you refuse to acknowledge. “You know that’s not what I wanted,” he says roughly.
Your friends give up on trying to figure the two of you out and eventually migrate to the dance floor, leaving you at the table with your glass and one very focused undergrad.
“You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” you finally murmur, swirling the condensation on your glass with your fingertips.
He tilts his head, eyes locked on your mouth. “Worth it.”
You exhale slowly, glancing away, trying to find an anchor in the neon wash of the bar. “Why, Jungkook?” you ask finally. “Why chase me like this?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you make me feel alive. Because I can’t stop thinking about you in that lecture hall, pretending you don’t see me. Because the way you look at me when you’re angry…” He leans in, voice dropping, “…It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Your throat goes dry. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
“Persistent,” he corrects again, and the soft brush of his hand against your knee is enough to snap your gaze to his. His eyes glint with heat and mischief. “Dance with me.”
You blink. “What?”
“Dance with me,” he repeats, sliding off his seat and extending a tattooed hand. “Or are you scared?”
You glare at him, but your heart is already betraying you, hammering against your ribs. Slowly, you place your hand in his.
He grins like he’s already won, tugging you gently toward the dance floor. The crush of bodies and the swirl of colored lights swallow you both. Jungkook spins you into the rhythm, surprisingly smooth, his hands sliding to your hips with a confidence that makes your breath catch.
“You’re trouble,” you murmur, staring up at him over your shoulder.
He leans down, mouth near your ear. “Then why are you still here?”
The music swells, the bass pulses around you. Your body answers before your mind can catch up, moving in sync with his. His grip is firm but not forceful, guiding you through the beat, and the heat of him radiates through your thin dress.
Time blurs. At some point, his hands have slipped lower on your hips, pressing you harder against him. His lips brush against your neck as he whispers, “Professor.”
You snap yourself back to reality with effort, stepping away enough to break the spell. “I need a break,” you say, your voice trembling ever so slightly. You stalk towards the exit, desperate for air.
Jungkook follows you without a word as you push open the back exit door, the cool night air washing over your flushed skin. The alley behind the bar is quiet, a dim light casting long shadows.
As soon as the door closes behind him, you whirl around, shoving a finger into his chest. “I hate you so much.”
He smirks, though it’s softer now. “No, you really don’t.”
Before you can check yourself, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. He goes still for a heartbeat, then melts into it, hands gripping your waist like he’s been starving for this.
He kisses you over and over. His hands glide across your body, like he just can't get enough of the feel of you.
You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging slightly.
The moan he lets out sends a burst of heat right through you, and when you pull back, his eyes are blown wide, dark and hungry.
“Check a box yet?” he pants, looking absolutely ruined.
You just roll your eyes before kissing him again.
You’re not sure when the game became something else entirely, but you know one thing with absolute clarity.
Jeon Jungkook has no haters.
And yet, you’re still very much alive.
© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.
