Agust D

21+ Entertainment | Reading | Imagines She/They

[mintedagustd]

Prod. SUGA

MDNI ONESHOT

Warnings: smut, getting railed while AgustD plays, Studio fuck, rough sex, dom!yoongi x subby!y/n, hair tug kink, petname kinks, praise kink. (Pls judge me at all costs im new to this)

Summary; from listening to his beats to getting railed while listening to one of his signature track song AgustD.

Note to Readers :this story is made for the use of fiction and is in no intent of harming or damaging any characters involved in reality. You have been warned. Do not interact if you’re also not comfortable.

His solid black walls are filled with beats and agonizing thoughts on how he will be able to complete his 2nd solo album D-Day. He tried going back to his old released songs maybe he can mash up and recycle few of his unused beats before. He tried mustering up something but he was too burned out. Literally cussing out why he even participated in this misery. “This is fucking me up. Why did I even sign up for this fuckery.” He whines to himself throwing himself back at his couch with perfectly black bags under his eyes.

With beats continuously blowing up his speakers and headphones, he didn’t realize that his door was unlocked and unnoticeably, someone had already entered. “You’re either gonna get yourself a finished album, or a song for your funeral. You hadn’t eaten anything since morning yoongi.”

His great sunshine friend hoseok tried to give him a sarcastic joke about how he’s been having a not-so-healthy appetite lately and obsessively drinking whiskey and coffee from dusk til dawn. “Come on man. You need to atleast eat something..” hoseok scans the room seeing all the scattered plastic cups of coffee and empty bottles of Jack Daniels.

“Jesus..you’re a mess.” Hoseok deadpans gathering up the plastic cups and getting a black garbage bag to gather up the messy coffee table and desk.

“Thanks for the compliment…” yoongi replies in the most monotonous manner. He remained stoic, but he surely does feel warmth with his friends concern.

“You didn’t really had to bring anything.. but I appreciate the concern..” yoongi tries to crack up a smile despite his friend scolding him from letting himself get too miserable.

“You’re not a cat who has 9 lives min yoongi..you have feline eyes but no…okay? I told Y/n to bring your dinner later.. don’t let yourself get too worked up on it bro~” Hoseok flashes him his iconic sunshine smile—it honestly cheered yoongi up a bit after being caved in his studio for the past couple of weeks like he’s glued stuck in his chair. But the mention of y/n definitely made him feel a bit better too knowing that you two have a good bond with each other. He thinks maybe he can also ask for your opinion about what song he should make.

“Thanks for passing by man.. I appreciate it…I owe you one..” yoongi smiles giving his bro a big bear hug and bidding their farewells and Goodlucks.

shortly after hoseoks departure from yoongi’s sacred studio, yoongi didn’t realize that it was already dinner time already.

Thankfully he was busy adjusting the stretched beats and added rhythms so the studio was dead silent. A soft knock and a soft voice never fails yoongi to know who was already behind the frosted door. “Coming..hold on.”

He pauses what he was doing and unlocked the door from inside meeting his eyes with the familiar dark brown orbs that never fail to make him feel warm.

“Hiii…I brought you some cheesy tteokbokki, and some kimchi fried rice..JK was sending his best wishes to you producer-nim~” you flashed him a soft smile and placed the food down his desk.

“Food can’t wait yoongi, your computer can. Come on don’t make me eat this whole bowl of tteoks..plus hobi would scold me if he were to find out you’re skipping dinner.” You tried to tidy up his messy coffee table. You were definitely expecting yoongi to be this miserable after a back to back meeting with the agency on how deadlines are approaching him each month and each week. The man barely sleeps and eats on time.

“And deadlines aren’t gonna wait miss ma’am.” yoongi sarcastically replies. As he tries to ignore you, the studio was soon filled with the aroma of the food you had brought in—definitely triggering the hunger he’s been ignoring since afternoon.

“You’re not gonna leave that black hole of a chair.” She retorts popping up beside yoongi while holding a small bowl filled with the food. “Eat it quickly before it gets cold..” you let out a deep sigh feeling like you’re ought to take care a teenager.

“I was about to stand y’know.. thanks.” Yoongi takes the food from your hands noticing the freshly manicured nails you have “nice nails..” he bluntly says out of nowhere.

“Oh, uhm thanks.. I didn’t really plan on getting new sets of nails.. Jimin was enthusiastic and he kept on offering me that he’ll treat me and didn’t plan on listening to my declines.. so… yeah..the man who definitely can’t be moved.” You joked.

“Mhh always been his nature.” He chews on his food as he twists and turn gently on his leather working chair. “Knowing him? He’d be sad if you ever turn down his offer.” He adds as he grabs more food.

“I know…whatchu got here going on..” you crossed your arms scanning the two big screens infront of the two of you.

“jesus do you not get eye strains from these big screens…” you squint leaning forward seeing a bunch of folders and tabs opened—some are even unreadable because of how many tabs are up.

“I feel sorry for your monitor and your eyes min..” you chuckled as you shifted you body to face yoongi who’s having his 3rd set of tteoks.

“I paid everything in cold cash. They better work well..” he speaks between rice cakes on his cheeks “plus they’re all expensive equipment..so they’re most probably heavy duty too..” he adds with a sly smirk plastered on his face.

“Mhhh no comment..” you smile as you browse through his screen tabs and getting caught of guard with yoongi snatching the mouse and pressing Alt + Tab—switching the screen to a different application.

“What the fuck are you doing..” he panics.

“What? I was just going through it.. it’s so bombarding to look at..” you rolled your eyes playfully as you leaned on his working table.

“A producer has his secrets you know..?” He places his food down wiping the sauce off his pink lips. “And besides. You shouldn’t be touching things that aren’t yours…you’re trespassing me..” he jokes squinting at her.

“Arrest me then.” You playfully grin shaking your head. Yoongi on the other hand felt something starting in the pit of his stomach when he heard that very unholy demand from you.

“Oh, don’t start with me little miss juno.” He smirks proud of his reply. Juno had a close meaning to his joke of asking to be cuffed, and he’s also been hooked with Sabrina Carpenters Short n’ Sweet album recently.

“Stop teasing…I need to ask for your opinion…” he changed the subject escaping the mild heat radiating between the two of them despite the distance between them. “I was thinking of getting a few beats from my oldest songs.. like here.” He leans back to his table as he taps away to his clicky keyboard. He then proceeds to play his song “Agust D.” The intro is filled with painfully hard and beautiful construction of beats.

“Oh fuck that intro is hot.” You smile as you listen to his blasting speakers. You then paused the song as you faced yoongi trying to act all relaxed and chill—wherein reality he’s been trying to control himself from pulling you to sit down on his lap because of you leaning too much on his table.

“What-“ yoongi retorts

“I know you’ll come up with something yoongi.. you’re a one hell of a producer after all..” you flashed him a smile while trying to shift the heat back on his studio.

“But…maybe you need to relax too..” you smiled softly brushing the locks covering his pretty feline eyes with your nails. His hair got longer since he’s been busy for a couple of months now. He didn’t have enough time to even put himself first for a bit.

“Producers don’t relax..” he sighs. Lounging himself back in his black leather chair.

The moment he signed up for making a new album, he knew that this would be far and different to what he usually does. Since, unlike before he will now only have himself to create masterpieces. I mean, sure he can still talk to his brothers and co-producers for some second opinions, but of course it’s just only him that would need to accomplish it by the end of the day.

“You can always ask for help yoongi.” You smile flashing him a comforting tone. You cherish yoongi at all costs, not only because of your hidden feelings towards him but also because the members also cherish each others well beings. It was very infectious whenever they show tenderness and care for each other in their most lowest times. And you were happy to provide the same kind of treatment to yoongi.

“Any help..?” He raises a brow clasping his hands together with his head slightly tilted. Trying to remain stoic and control a growing smirk in his face.

“Yeah..? Producers need help too. It’s not a big deal yoongi..” you flashed him a soft smile while running your pointy nails on his table where you’re leaning on.

“You promise me first that you’ll help me in every possible manner.” Yoongi raises his pinky waiting for you to hook on his pinky. “I promise.” You smile hooking your pinky on his awaiting pinky.

As soon as their pinkies hooked. Yoongi used it as a way to pull you closer to him. “No turning back now.” He whispers on your lips sliding his pinky off and pulling your hips towards him. You straddled down trying to hold on yourself but ending up getting tightly gripped on the waist.

“Wanna know a secret..?” He looks at you making you look back at his hypnotic eyes. “What…?” You utter under your stippling breath.

“I think I might’ve forgotten how to relax…mind helping me on that one first pretty..?” He runs his finger on her pale cheeks and takes a strand of her resting hair and twisting them around his slander finger. “Use that pretty mouth of yours to good use.” He runs his tongue on his lips hydrating them from dryness.

You stared for a moment and tried to ask him again to repeat. “What..?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself princess. Get on your knees.” He demands. Clearly making you snap back to your thoughts and making you realize that you’re not hearing things from him. You got up anxiously and excitedly at the same time.

“Here.. put these under your knees..” he grabs a tangerine shaped pillow on his black leather sofa handing it to you so that you don’t get your knees to hurt. Despite the big rug saying “KEEP OFF” he still wanted you to be comfortable.

“Take these off..” you lowly demanded tugging on his comfortable sweatpants strings. His gray sweatpants and crumpled white shirt is enough to express how he didn’t even care what he would look like since he would just stay pent up in his studio.

Soon after letting you lead, he was left in his black Calvin Klein boxers. “Can I touch it…?” You asked. Of course you would prefer verbally hearing him to consent you to move forward.

“Go on. It’s all yours.” He mumbles running his hands on his dark hair only the light from his screen as the source of light inside his dimmed studio. You soon took advance of his consent, gently pulling him out and free his length out from the tightness of his boxers.

With a light grip and a slow tease. You slowly moved your pace to a comfortable level of speed. It’s not quick, neither slow since you also don’t want him to rush and just enjoy his time.

He lets out rolls of husky throat grunts and grumbles already wanting you to pick up your speed—he doesn’t wanna rush you but it was painfully tightening around his stomach. He was enjoying it when you suddenly slipped his tip on your full lips.

He wanted so badly to have a taste of your lips but also enjoys what he’s having right now. “Yeah..fuck…keep it that way baby..” He lets out a low growls and grunts underneath his voice.

Yoongi was growing impatient and wanted to pick up his pace. He then brushes your hair back making a slicked back messy ponytail and thrusted his way forward meeting your throat. You gagged at the sudden change of pace and you tried your best to keep your tears from falling.

“Fuck. Yes. Thats it. Yes.” He moans hitting the back of your throat continuously. He hisses pulling out and standing up for a better position letting his sweatpants pool down his ankles.

He then accidentally plays the song that was paused earlier making the speakers blast his song Agust D as he gets worked up in fucking up that pretty face of yours.

“Oh look at that. Hmnhg.. you don’t know how fucking pretty you look right now with my dick stuck on your mouth like that.” He talks between thrusts chasing his breath in every push and pull. You were incoherently moaning along with his steady pace. “Mnhh! Mnhhgghh!” You rolled your eyes back tugging on his shirt and swatting his full ass as you feel your jaw growing tired. He then pulls out and pulls your wrist up to make you stand.

You struggled to stand quickly with his sudden pull, then the next thing you knew you were turned around and bent over his work table. “Yoongi-“ you were already too late when he covers your mouth with his palm and a loud slap on your ass was made. “Don’t touch my ass like that. You got me. ?” He gutters in gritted teeth as he pulls down your black shorts swatting your ass bare.

“Mnhg!” You tearfully nodded feeling a sting on your left buttcheek. You surely can tell that it would leave a palm mark on your ass. He then proceeds to grab something on his left side drawer. You were surprised with the whole box of condoms on his cabinet making you shot him a question. “Do you fuck that often?” You threw your head back watching as he tears the foil open and placing it to his length. “To answer that question. No. And to add up to that, namjoon gave me that whole box of condoms…I have no idea that it would even get used…” he deadpans while he stretched the elastic to his size.

You tried to act convinced and just nodded your head, he was sure you weren’t convinced but he had no time to explain further because of his situation. His song played repeatedly as he pumps himself and spat on his palms to lubricate you before he stretches you open. “You seem tight.” He whispers as he gently tugs your left thigh to rest on his table spreading you suddenly. He didn’t even care to take off your laced underwear and just set it aside. “D-do you think it would fit…?” You anxiously ask since this was your actual first intercourse. You had some few kisses, and touches back then but never this far.

“I’ll make it fit doll.” He whispers as he gently guides his tip on your tight folds. He kisses your shoulders trying to ease down your anxious thoughts and take a fee strokes to make you feel comfortable.

He then holds on your waist firmly as he slips his tip letting it rest for a moment. “Fuck. This was better than I imagined.” He hisses as he gently slips halfway watching your reflection on his screen igniting his hips to thrust forward making you feel yourself stretch out completely.

“AH!” You covered your mouth even if you knew that the studio would most likely be soundproof. “I wanna hear you princess.” He leans behind you pressing himself against your back pulling your palms down. He tapped something on his keyboard while you stir back to reality.

“F-fuck yoongi..” you furrow your brows as you run your nails on his hair beside you. “You’re making it harder for me to not move doll.” He pulls out and thrusts back in jolting you forward. He was also attentively listening to his speakers blasting and already picked his pace thrusting harder and faster. He moved fiercely catching up with his fast paced song listening carefully to the moans you’re producing. You were too busy and distracted to even realize that he was syncing with his song—making him able to hit on your sweetest g-spot.

“That- thaaaat!” You tenses up letting a few more squirms and squeals as he tries to reach for your edge. “Yoongi I’m- I’m—“ you spilled over him quickly and tried to look for something to hold on. Yoongi kept going not stopping after your awaited release. “Yoongi- yoongi- oh my fucking- ah!” Your body shook continuously feeling another knot tying up your stomach. Overstimulation was what he was chasing for.

“Fuck I’m gonna fucking cum.” Yoongi moans between breathes and he stills as he picks up faster shaking up his table against the walls.

“F-fuuuckkkk…” you let out a long moan digging your acrylic nails on his biceps.

He then reaches his edging point and releases on the elastic. “Fuck I need a more firm table…” he catches his breathe holding on your weak figure.

“Oh doll, you okay..?” He leans on your ears, his dick still nestled inside you. He soon pulls it out and sits you comfortably on his desk. “You okay princess..?” He presses his keyboard stopping the recording and placing his attention back on you.

“You were recording me moaning weren’t you..?” You smiled resting your arms on his shoulders pulling him to a soft kiss. He was shocked considering that he was still surprised despite how he literally just rocked you up and made you cum against his working desk.

“I always thought your lips tasted sweet.” He tries changing the subject. “But to answer your question…I was thinking of playing with that recording a little..just a fun way to relax you know..?” He teasingly leans forward catching your lips again as he wraps your legs around him.

“Aren’t you a little minx mr. AgustD..?” You chuckled resting yourself on his shoulders. He grabbed some left wet wipes package lying around and cleaned you up doing a little aftercare.

“By the way…Happy Valentines Day.” He leans back in kissing you softly, filling your lips with tenderness and care.

[gukcnt]

silent reader here but i’m curious so i’m speaking up, who are your girls? I see the tag on specific asks and i was just wondering they all seem nice

that specific tag is for my lovelies who have claimed a special place in my heart and they'll always have that spot!! they're not only kind but absolute angels who deserve the entire world so pls make sure to show them all the love they deserve too :

𐔌 ᰔ @kskskskskskskskss @gukdemonic @jmscaffeine @jeonette @furioustrashlover @multimxa @jmscaffeine @decalcomvnia @mintedagustd @perfectlyoongi @goldenjjksworld @beaniestrash @littleblue-pickle @cupidsbling @lohikook @coldfuzzylava @imjustcrabby @polaroidrebel @httpjk7 @elmarimochi9513 @tarathetic @hainwhatever @raceme2hell @divakoo @bethanyyuy @pinklemonsstuff @yoongix7 @sunkissedcheekss ᰔ ꒱

[mintedagustd]

Oh my god I feel so loved ):

Love this author so much I can never get married and love her for the rest of my life🫶🏻 READ HER STORIES SHE A HUNDRED 10000000000000% GOAAAATTTTTTTTT

[gukcnt]

【 01 】 RUN, LITTLE BUNNY ✘ MYG

min yoongi had never spared a soul. he was heartless and showed no mercy, his hands always stained with blood. born to hunt, killing was natural to him ≠ until you. a shy bunny hybrid with wide eyes and so innocent it made his chest hurt. you awakened something forbidden inside him… a craving that left him torn between being a predator and becoming your protector.

pairing 𓂃 hybrid hunter!yoongi x bunny hybrid!femreader

genre 𓂃 dark romance, hyrbid au, enemies to lovers, forbidden romance, hunter x prey, yandere!yoongi, haegum!yoongi, obsession, power imbalance, pining and yearning, love/hate relationship, contrast of worlds, crime, smut, fluff, angst

warnings/tags 𓂃 18+, explicit smut (hints of it), angry!yoongi, smoking, descriptions of both the characters past, insecurity and trauma, mentions of blood, mild degradation, dirty talk, size difference, restraint, crying and begging, mix of praise and threat, fear play and power play, mention of gun (not used), he chases her, bunny ear play, sensitivity, slight overstimulation, forced proximity, manhandling, finger sucking, slight pain, reader gets wet from fear, mild touches here and there, sexual promises

wc 𓂃 7.6k

a/n 𓂃 hello babes! hope y’all enjoy the first chapter of RLB so i wanted to reveal that originally this first part was supposed to be very huge (over 20k as i mentioned earlier) but i decided to separate the first chapter into two parts, i thought i’d give y’all the smut in chap 2 instead of the whole thing in chap 1 for a little more slow burn and to leave y’all on a cliffhanger ehehe! but i promise chapter 2 as in the smut part (which is very huge itself) will be uploaded within a week too because i’m almost done writing it, i hope y’all enjoy the first chapter and let me know your thoughts because your feedback always motivates me mwahh! i love y’all, also stay tuned for chap 2 <33

「 masterlist | character moodboard 」

hunting and killing.

those were the two things yoongi lived for or so he believed from a young age when he'd first picked up a knife in order to survive, yoongi had dedicated his life to this profession.

becoming a hybrid hunter whose name alone sent people shivers.

his hand was always stained with blood, mercy was like a joke to him. in fact, the mere thought of weakness annoyed him hence why he despised hybrids, they were weak creatures and he couldn’t stand them.

he made it his mission to erase it whenever he found it.

he believed the world had no place for weakness and he was simply eliminating them for the good.

this was his livelihood after all: hunt, kill, collect the money and move on.

that’s how the cycle went.

but apart from the financial gain, he also loved the adrenaline of hunting, of catching those miserable little things and sometimes even of dragging out the torture if the hybrids dared to resist or fight back.

he was addicted to this darkness.

he loved the power and strength he held though he himself didn’t believe in love, that was also another topic he believed was a weakness.

he never took any companion with him during his hunts, he was an expert and fully skilled in what he did.

his presence alone was enough to scare.

he believed love turned people into fools, it ruined them and there was no place for it in his heart especially after the harsh life he'd led.

the few people who knew him feared him immensely and knew better than to piss him off.

his body held the scars of his doing, on the right side of his face there was a slashed scar across his cheekbone, a deep ugly gash that he got years ago from a wolf hybrid who had clawed at him in an attempt to survive.

it escaped his eye successfully or else he'd probably be blind in one eye, adding more to his even more monstrous and terrifying look because of the dangers he faced daily.

yet he wore his scars proudly like they were a symbol of who he was.

yoongi's soul was empty maybe because of the isolation.

he felt no remorse for the lives he took, only a fleeting high that faded too quickly leaving him craving the next hunt.

tonight yoongi had ventured out for yet another haunt.

he always preferred this late hour.

he thought it was the perfect time when the world slept and the hybrids roamed more freely.

the weaklings thought they were safe in the darkness, a sick grin plastered on yoongi's face.

who would save them from his darkness?

he was standing in yet another forest—this one he hadn't explored much and he'd finished exploring the other forests in the city in the past couple of years.

he leaned against a tree, pulling out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it with a flick of his lighter before he inhaled and exhaled the smoke out slowly.

his sleek black gun already loaded with bullets was already hoisted at his hip, while his knife also rested in a sheath on his belt.

both the weapons were his babies and he didn’t go anywhere without them.

they accompanied him and supported him when no one else did.

he smoked lazily as his eyes scanned the forest with patience hoping to stumble upon a good one tonight, perhaps a strong hybrid that would put up a fight with him.

he didn’t like the fragile ones who were too easy to kill.

the nicotine calmed his nerves, his shoulders relaxing slightly though his mind remained alert sensing the environment around him for the prey.

you, on the other hand,l were completely different compared to him in every way—a bunny hybrid with soft white ears and a cute fluffy tail.

you’ve been sheltered your entire life, you’ve constantly heard stories about predators, both animals and humans.

you’ve also heard several stories of your other hybrid kinds who just vanished and no one got a trace of them.

there has been a rumor going on about a hybrid hunter though no one lived long enough to talk about how he looked.

you knew the importance of staying indoors after dusk and you usually obeyed, content in staying in your own shell reading in your home.

but tonight you felt restless and you couldn’t stay holed up in your room, wanting to go out for a little adventure which prompted you to slip out.

you’ve always been an introvert, preferring to keep distance from everyone also from where hybrids mingled and formed bonds.

this solitude affected your romantic life as well, leaving you without a mate while your friends already found one a long time ago.

you tried to escape that feeling that sadness etched deep inside you. you were aware your kind was weak, bunny hybrids were usually looked down on so you didn’t try either.

the fear of getting attacked has always been in you too, only because you were a bunny… it broke your heart that you had to spend life like this.

it left you to ponder in quiet moments if you'd ever find someone.

tonight you just couldn’t stay at home.

all your thoughts seemed to get to you all at once and it felt suffocating in your home.

you just wanted peace and freedom.

you wanted to live a little… be reckless so you don't overthink much about the whole hybrid hunter thing.

what worse could happen? right?

it was just you.

and you'd be back soon.

you wandered deeper into the forest, busy picking wildflowers under the only source of light coming from the moonlight as you placed them into your basket.

the flowers made your heart happy so you loved collecting them, sometimes putting the unique and extra beautiful ones between the books you read.

you hummed, picking up a pink petaled flower when a sudden crunch of leaves made you freeze—your eyes perked up at the crunch of leaves.

you gasped as instinct took over your bunny senses, alerting you far earlier than any human could detect.

your long ears always can pick up even the tiniest noise even if it's of the distant wind, even the smallest sound felt loud.

your heart raced as you didn’t waste time and dropped behind a thick bush hiding immediately before whatever or whoever made that noise could spot you, your body curling into itself, ears flattening against your head in fear.

you knew better than to assume that the noise was from an animal of sorts because it obviously didn’t sound like that.

you remained completely still, your ears on alert and heard a few more steps, you covered your mouth to hide the whimper.

there's no way… there's no way this was happening.

your worst fears came true and you didn’t even know who it was.

maybe just another hybrid? you closed your eyes, praying that was it.

you hoped it wasn’t the hunter from the stories you’ve heard as you clutched your skirt and hid even further in the bushes.

yoongi, on the other hand who was ever the expert, sensed you immediately even though he didn’t hear anything.

he understood the shift—he was like a shark sensing blood in water as a smirk curled on his lips, understanding he'd already got a prey far sooner than expected this time.

you were trembling uncontrollably.

the more minutes that passed, the more the little basket you'd been carrying slipped from your grasp and tumbled to the ground with a thud and your eyes widened at the sound it made.

the flowers spilled on the forest floor but you remained hidden behind the bush, still biting your lower lip to stifle any sound.

you looked around helplessly, there was no way you could run because your home was quite far and your short legs wouldn’t take you anywhere safer soon so all you could do was remain hidden, hoping whoever it was would go away.

but it was a little too late.

yoongi caught sight of the basket, his eyes narrowing with interest even though he hadn’t seen you yet.

it fueled his predatory excitement.

it was all your fault.

all your fault.

you regretted coming out so much, you wished desperately to be back home safe in your bed but there was no way now.

you tried your best not to make noises, holding your breath when you could but the approaching sounds of footsteps hit your sensitive ears anyways.

you switched positions subtly moving behind a larger rock, feeling that whoever that was was scooting closer, even though you didn’t dare look behind you to see who it was.

you sensed the huge, intimidating presence.

“please... please.”

you let out a quiet sob inside your hand as your heart pounded so loudly in your ears you feared that it might give you away, that he might be able to hear.

yoongi's face turned into something even more menacing though he hadn’t pinpointed your exact spot yet.

enjoying the hide and seek game.

he took one last blow from his cigarette and crushed it beneath his boot.

“come out come out, wherever you are… i can smell your fear from here.”

a little frightening noise left your lips at his mocking tone that you failed to conceal.

he was a man and his deep manly voice did nothing but make you fear more as you started trembling violently.

already images of you being dragged away, hurt or worse are flashing through your mind about how some of your hybrid kinds were killed mercilessly by the same hunter.

“you think hiding will save you? i've got all night little thing.” he chuckles lowly.

you curled tighter into yourself, tears welling in your eyes, your mind screaming to run but your body remained frozen in place.

then he got a better glimpse of you through the trees and he hadn’t realized you were a bunny hybrid until now from the way your long white ears were twitching though the majority of your form was hidden in the dark and he smirked even more.

because bunnies were extra weak creatures that made the hunt almost disappointingly easy yet perfect for toying before the kill.

he can see you shaking from the distance and it makes him want to drag this out just for fun.

he'd step slowly and pause where he'd feign walking away, only to circle back humming an almost bored tune as your fear increases the more as time goes by that he'd kill you any second.

you still believed that he didn’t find out where you were hidden.

his hand tightened on his gun though he didn’t draw it yet.

savoring the moment.

“oh what's this? a little bunny huh? so weak, so easy to kill…” he snickers.

“don't worry, i'll make it quick.. or not depending on my mood.”

you let out a sob quietly, closing your eyes thinking that your life will be ending in this dark forest.

your luck bad just like the other hybrids who died the same way.

at other times he would get bored and would just start shooting blindly but your innocence intrigued him as he let you believe you'd successfully hidden from him.

he could clearly see the tip of your bunny ears visible above the bush and he wanted to draw out your torment.

your ears betrayed you, snapping upright at every noise and smell before you could force them flat against your skull.

“hmm.. i wonder where you are.”

yoongi continued to draw out the game, it makes him wonder how long you'll last before you break.

he knew prey gives up eventually.

several minutes pass like that.

and your chest tightened further as you felt more overwhelmed, tears silently falling down your cheeks as you hugged yourself.

you gripped the silver chain around your throat that held a tiny cross tightly—you'd worn it since you were a kid, given by your parents for purity and protection and you’ve never taken it off.

when he detects that you haven’t moved again anymore, he tilts his head to the side.

“you know most hybrids at least try to fight back, but you? just hiding like a scared little thing. it's cute.”

his anticipation growing as his boot crunches into a twig intentionally to make you flinch so you understood that he's closer than ever.

and your time was running out.

you let out tiny ragged gasps, pressing your back hard against the rock as the scent of his cigarette and his male scent were enveloping your senses too.

the forest itself was quiet as if enjoying it too and wanting to out you to him.

you were making it too easy but where's the fun in that?

“tell you what little one, make a sound and i'll end it quick. stay silent then you've got to face the consequences.”

he rumbles out a laugh, pausing for a second to see if you'd come out yourself or try something.

but you didn't.

your survival instincts were that low huh?

finally after what felt like an eternity of yoongi's threats and footsteps, he suddenly went so very still which made it so much worse because you couldn’t detect where he was.

it made you freeze as well in fear.

a droplet of sweat streamed down the side of your face as more minutes passed by.

some part of you maybe the delusional part, thought that maybe just maybe he'd grown bored after not finding you and left, thinking that you weren’t worth the effort.

that you’ve successfully hidden from him and you release a slight breath.

but then he appeared so suddenly without warning.

lunging from the side so abruptly it caught you off guard as you fell back on your butt with a cry as you stared up at him in horror.

the impact put pressure on your tail and butt, sending a jolt of pain.

“ahh! noo please.”

your voice breaks as tears stream down your cheeks, truly seeing the face of your hunter now.

he looked so terrifying and dangerous yet so handsome it made your stomach twist in a confusing knot of fear and something else.

his features were sharp with a strong jawline and pale skin but it was his scar that dominated his face.

the deep slash running down the right side, which started just above his eyebrow and ended just below his cheekbone, looked like it barely escaped his eye.

maybe he closed his eye just during the strike or else he'd be a one-eyed monster.

he looked like he walked straight out of your nightmare.

like a nightmare where you couldn’t wake up from no matter how much you tried.

oh those eyes…

you on the other hand couldn’t even breathe, your body shaking uncontrollably as you realized this was no ordinary man especially after seeing the gun tucked on his waist.

he was the kind of man your parents had warned you about and the scar, along with more that’s probably hidden under his clothes told about his story.

yet beneath everything there was a flicker of fascination, maybe it was the way his beauty clashed with horror or the way he made you feel vulnerable in ways you'd never experienced before.

you knew you were not in the right mind to think of all these now because he might kill you any moment but you just couldn’t help it… you've never seen a male human so close before because you've never come out of your hybrid community.

your breasts rose and fell with your pants.

from his perspective, yoongi also finally got a proper look at you and his brows furrowed.

you were more innocent than he'd anticipated, almost too fragile in the way you stared at him with doe like wide eyes.

your cheeks flushed from fear and those soft bunny ears twitched erratically atop your head.

you were so pretty and doll like pretty in his eyes…

like an untouched sweetness.

the sight hits him because of the hesitation in him because his hands immediately didn’t grab the gun to end you.

he shrugged himself out of his thoughts, thinking he was just not in the correct mindset because he didn’t ever have such soft thoughts for his prey.

instead he diverted his mind to the satisfaction he got from your fear.

“well well, look what we have here.” he drawled, amused.

“you really thought you could hide from me, little one?”

he chuckled lowly as his eyes never left yours.

“p—please don’t hurt me.” you begged.

you choked on your sobs as he stepped closer slowly, he brought out his gun and held it loosely in one hand though he didn’t aim it at you.

not yet.

you scrambled back immediately scraping your palms on the leaves and stones on the ground, the movement causing your skirt to ride up slightly as your vision blurred with your tears.

“i—i didn’t do anything… j—just let me go home please…”

yoongi's face remained cold as he quirked his head, maybe in confusion or to study you.

“why?” he asked.

as if the question intrigued him more than it should.

“you're out here all alone little bun… one shot with this gun and it's over or maybe i'll make it slow. you hybrids always squirm so nicely.”

he added with a smirk, calling you “little bun” in a way that sounded both mocking and oddly affectionate as he watched your bottom lip quiver in fear.

even that small tremble captivated him more than anything ever had.

“no..” you whimpered.

he enjoyed the sound of your voice laced in fear but he didn’t understand why he was dragging this out.

why he hadn’t raised his gun or lunged to capture you yet.

he never thought twice before killing a hybrid but here he was with his gaze fixed on the way your lips parted rather than focusing on ending you.

he wanted to hear more of your voice instead of silencing it forever.

“what are you doing in my own damn woods?” he continued.

“you know what happens to bunnies who wander too far? they get caught, eaten or worse.”

his teeth bare sickeningly as shivers go down your spine and you curl into yourself instinctively trying to protect yourself from his presence, your ears falling down.

while he memorizes all of you against his will.

yoongi didn’t lunge at you.

he didn't have to.

and he knew your heart thumped so loud as he took another step closer then another.

his nostrils flared at the sweet smell of yours he could get even if he wasn’t very close to you and it made his mouth water just thinking about sinking his teeth in.

it was almost as if he were murmuring endearments instead of threats while you kept scrambling back wanting to escape him while he took one step at a time, the more you backed off with all your might until your back met the rough bark of a tree.

a squeak left you as you realized there was no way you could back away anymore and he stood directly in front of you.

you pressed against the tree as if you could merge yourself into it and disappear as if it could protect you from the monster in front of you.

both of your hands flew up to clamp over your long ears, fingers digging into the fur in an attempt to block out his voice but it was useless.

it was like his voice snaked through you like slow poison ready to kill you oh so slowly.

your thighs squeezed together instinctively, a heat unfurling low in your belly despite the fear that was heavy on your chest.

wrong.

this was so fucking wrong and your mind screamed it but your stupid hybrid body didn’t care about logic or survival.

it reacted to the predator's voice as your tail quivered against the back of your skirt, slickness gathered between your legs that only made the shame hotter.

you bit down on your lower lip to stifle the whine.

he crouched in front of you slowly when he realized you had nowhere to escape as he eyed you, his lips curving in lazy amusement that never reached those eyes.

“hm... you’ve nowhere to escape now.” he said simply.

a mortified sob left you before you could stop it and you squirmed against the tree causing your bare thighs to sting from the rough forest floor.

tears streamed down your cheeks almost constantly as you felt so small and exposed in front of him.

it was as if you couldn’t form words to speak back all of a sudden.

his head cocked to one side like a cat deciding whether the mouse was worth batting around before the final pounce.

that’s what you both were right now.

cat and mouse.

and he wouldn’t let you go until he had his fill.

“fuck you're tiny.”

he said almost fondly and it made your stomach flutter almost.

his gaze roamed over you slowly, taking in the way your skirt had ridden up to expose your scratched thighs and the rapid rise and fall of your breasts under your tight top.

you shook your head frantically even though he hadn’t asked a real question as your tears kept coming soaking the collar.

“please—”

“p-please don't—”

“don't what?” he questions.

“don't kill you? don't rip those pretty little ears off and take them home to hang on my wall?”

“or should i make you scream my name first huh?”

each option rolled off his tongue as if he were discussing the weather or what to eat for lunch.

like it was that normal.

but the images that came to your head from his words made you shake hard as you let out quiet pathetic hiccupping noises.

he exhaled in exasperation at your cries.

“stop crying.” he mutters under his breath.

“it's making me hard as fuck.”

he barked out a rough laugh as he saw your eyes turn glassy and widen comically.

“kidding.” he mutters.

he remains silent for a few seconds.

“mostly.”

that’s when he straightened to his full height, towering over you and he looked almost patient yet so utterly in control.

you stared up at him, heart lodged somewhere in your mouth as you realized that he was a bit distant and you shouldn’t let this chance go.

you couldn’t just give up no… you can try as your legs remain frozen despite the urge to move.

all of your muscles locked in place by terror and something else, something that made your legs squeeze together harder even as tears streamed freely.

when he decided to take one step closer, something inside you snapped suddenly as you scrambled upright on shaky legs.

you didn’t think twice and bolted.

you ran blindly, panting harshly and behind you—there was nothing, no noise that he was chasing after you.

no familiar noise of his boots or his laughter.

just silence.

too quiet. far too quiet.

you risked one terrified glance over your shoulder.

he stood exactly where you'd left him, motionless as he watched your retreating form.

not moving a single inch.

then he smiled slowly and all it was was all teeth.

and suddenly he vanished like that between the trees.

you ran harder after that fear and the energy of your run making your body burn because you had never run this fast in your life and the fact that he suddenly disappeared only heightened your feelings.

you were maybe just fifty paces away from the small clearing where you'd planned to sit and stare at the stars before going home.

you could do it. you could do it.

one second passed or so you believed because the next thing you knew, massive arms grabbed your waist so quickly that a startled scream left you as your back slammed into something hard.

the impact stole every bit of your air.

“gotcha.”

he grumbled against your ear as you thrashed hard, knees jerking, palms slapping against him so he'd let you go.

but he didn’t even flinch, instead a laugh vibrated against your back from where his stomach pressed against you.

the vibration was so deep it made your insides quiver.

your fluffy white tail, once something you had secretly been proud of was now crushed painfully between the small of your back and the hardness of his leather clad thigh.

you sobbed as your ears and tail trembled in time with your harsh heartbeats and one of his hands covered your mouth to muffle your scream.

“mmph!”

but it wasn’t necessary anyways because no one could hear you in this deep forest. none of the hybrids would dare visit the forest this late due to the fear of being attacked or eaten.

which you’ve been exactly foolish enough to do so.

everything was too fast, too loud.

he lets you go so suddenly that you lose your balance and fall straight to the grass with a cry.

the ground was covered in dried leaves so it didn’t hurt you much, it was as if he intentionally let you go in this place so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.

but the rational part just found that laughable.

he came here to kill you… why would he not want to hurt you?

the impact still sent a bit of pain radiating on your back but none of it mattered.

none of it could compare to the man in front of you.

yoongi settled over your knees, sinking into the ground on either side of your hips until the outsides of your thighs were bracketed by his legs.

he was so much larger than you had realized in the dark as his broad shoulders blocked out most of the light and the view until all you could see was him.

up close his big scar on the side of his face was even more obscene as the corner of his mouth curled into a snarl as he saw you taking him in.

his black hair hung forward in messy sweaty strands, one lock fell over his left eye.

his eyes held nothing but darkness, no emotion there… it was so cold.

his left hand locks around both your wrists, fingers holding both your wrists together as his right hand still remains sealed over your mouth.

the heel of his hand pressed against your lower lip, forcing your teeth apart just enough that you tasted his skin.

cigarette clean male and also underneath everything something almost like blood that had long since dried but never really washed away.

maybe the blood of those he'd taken the life of and his sins never truly left any part of him and he was now covering you with it as well.

when he finally peeled that hand away, you took in a deep breath that ended more in a sob as your lips tingled where his palm had pressed.

your chest heaved causing your top to ride up and reveal a bit of the skin of your stomach.

yoongi watched it all as if you were some interesting creature that needed to be studied, while his body still remained a respectful distance away even though he had you pinned to the ground.

“found you little bun.”

his thumb still resting on the corner of your mouth, dragged over your cheeks smearing your tears almost gently as he leaned closer, close enough for you to feel the heat off his skin despite the night's chill.

“you're not very good at this game are you?”

your whole body convulsed as your legs jerked uselessly. your tail twitched one against his thigh, that only made his lips curl higher.

“please—”

you pleaded once again as your voice sounded childish.

“please don't—don't kill me p-please. i'll go, i swear i won't come back, i-i'll leave the forest, i'll never—”

your sputtered words didn’t even make sense, most of them getting interrupted by your cries as his grip on your wrists flexed and you wondered if he'd snap them.

he didn’t interrupt you, didn’t laugh, he just watched as he saw you struggling.

you intrigued him.

confused him.

you wondered if he'd kill you anytime now, maybe by getting annoyed of your pleas but he didn’t touch his gun.

your flattened ears still shook as you felt like your heart might just bust out of your chest.

yoongi spoke up but never took his eyes off you as if he couldn’t get enough as if he'd never seen one like you.

“why shouldn’t i?”

the question was asked tenderly as if he were genuinely curious, as if he were asking the question to himself.

because he didn’t wanna kill you.

his free hand traced your cheek before pressing right against your pulse on your throat so he could feel how hard your heart raced.

“give me one good reason, little one.”

his thumb settled beneath your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet those dead eyes.

“come on, tell me.”

“i'm not a patient man.”

your mouth opened and closed frantically as you couldn’t speak at first, only the noises of your wet sobs coming out while he still kept your hands pinned high above your head.

your nails scraped against his knuckles hoping he'd let go but he didn’t budge, he didn’t even tighten his hold because he knew you couldn’t escape his hold.

the pain was nothing to him.

you saw your own reflection staring back at you in his eyes, his thumb absently traced the inside of your wrist

it was as if he himself didn’t seem to notice that he was doing it as though his own body had decided to learn you and your fears on their own.

the gentle motion seemed to make your stomach feel all sorts of funny things that were so far from fear and close to… comfort.

“i-i don’t—i've never hurt anyone.”

you finally managed to answer his question.

“i'm n—not… i just came here to just pick flowers..” you choked out.

the little basket that lay abandoned a few feet away was the proof, with flowers scattered as a humorless sound left him.

“flowers.” he repeated.

with his free hand, he grabbed one of the fallen flowers that was nearby which must have fallen from the basket while you were picking them.

it was a white daisy and he held it between your faces.

“a pretty little thing just like you huh?” he murmurs.

then without warning his fist closed around the flower crushing it, making the petals crumble as he opened his hand again and let the remains flutter down causing them to fall on your body as you watched in terror.

“that's how easy it would be to end you.” he husks out.

“one squeeze and poof, gone just like that.”

you stared at the ruined petals on your skin before your gaze dragged upwards until it locked with his once again.

you gasped as your voice couldn’t find its way out as you bit down hard on your bottom lip to stop your begs and cries.

this caused your teeth to break skin as yoongi's eyes dropped immediately on your mouth, fixating on the tiny bead of blood and the way your lips became swelled.

something twisted deep in his chest.

he didn’t like it, he didn’t like how the sight of your pain pulled something possessive and angry from him.

he didn’t like you in pain not one bit.

he leaned down slowly until his face was inches away from yours, both of you breathing the same air as his breath hit your lips and wet cheeks.

“what's your name bun?” he questioned.

you flinched at the question but you knew very well you had no choice but to answer.

“y-y/n…” you stammered out.

he repeated your name slowly as if tasting it and also committing it to memory as his gaze drifted downward again, lingering on your breasts beneath the thin top.

he especially focused on the silver cross chain that had slipped out as his jaw clenched hard at the sight of it.

“you're so fragile… don’t you know the dangers in this forest? why did you come out here all alone?” he questions.

“you wanted to be caught didn’t you? that's why you were wandering around in the dark.”

your breath hitched as a whimper left you.

you didn’t know how to answer, didn’t know if an answer even existed.

without warning, his hand lifted and he couldn’t help himself after seeing your long ears up close and he brushed the very tip of one bunny ear.

the touch was barely there, yet it felt so intense that you shivered hard as a sharp squeak left your mouth.

“ahh!”

your hips jerked upward without permission chasing the contact.

“sensitive.” he observed.

“i've heard stories about bunnies. never believed they were this bad.”

his fingers slid down the delicate shell of your ear, tracing it and then he pinched the base lightly, just enough pressure to send a jolt straight to your clit as if he were touching that itself.

you keened loudly.

he froze at the noise and groaned.

“fuck.”

he's heard the old stories about how bunny hybrids have the most sensitive ears and tails compared to other hybrid species, how the lightest touch there could unravel them.

he'd killed bunny hybrids before and he'd never bothered with anything to do with them, just one shot with his gun and they were gone.

but now actually feeling it, hearing that tiny helpless sound spill from your lips… it felt like something was trying to escape him that he'd kept locked inside him for years.

his thumb dragged slowly over your ear one last time from the base to the tip, then lower following your head to your cheek and lower… until it came to rest against your bottom lip.

“scared little bunny.” he rasped.

“making those noises for a monster.”

he pressed just enough to part your lips sliding the pad of his thumb barely inside, resting against the wetness of your tongue.

you should have been scared, probably pushed him away and run because you could have done so from the distance between you both.

you didn't.

you looked up at him with glassy eyes that seemed more of need than fear.

you touched him by accident, your tongue giving a flick on his finger making him let out a guttural surprised noise.

the lick almost traveled down to where his cock was already hard, straining against his pants.

he hated you for reducing him to this, hated himself for wanting and needing to hear that sound again.

for one long moment yoongi simply stared down at you, almost angrily as his jaw tensed.

his dark eyes usually so cold and unreadable were blown wide now with so many emotions that even you couldn’t detect it from staring directly at them.

you whimpered against his thumb, lips still parted around it as the digit lingered and you didn’t know what came into you because you gave an involuntary suck.

something raw and painful flickered on his face and he abruptly as though the contact scorched him, yanked his hand free leaving your mouth empty.

he rocked back onto his heels with a growl as he closed his eyes tightly.

“get up.” he ordered.

the warmth that was in his tone was gone and went back to the usual coldness, no trace of the man who was entirely fixated on wanting to devour you.

“go home. don’t come back out here at night ever.”

his gun was back on his waist and he had never once aimed it at you, not when he'd first cornered you, not even when your fear had made you freeze.

he had several perfect chances to end you, but he didn't.

he couldn't.

because the thought of hurting even a strand of your hair made him angry, he would kill himself before he even thought of hurting you.

it made him see red because he wasn’t a weak man like that.

he didn't show mercy.

he could’ve just killed you and left.

but all the feelings you were emitting in him were telling an entirely different story and it was messing up his head.

because all he wanted to do was pick you up throw you on his shoulders and keep you like a treasure.

he wanted you.

wanted to possess you.

and he didn’t even trust himself in your presence right now… because what he could do to you would be worse than killing because he'd never felt this before.

and the way you so innocently sucked on his finger was his final straw.

so he gave you an out.

he wanted you to go back home and away from him.

you blinked up at him in confusion through your unshed tears as to why he was willing to let you go.

why isn’t he killing you?

why did he look like being near you caused him pain?

in your dazed state you tried to process the shift in him and when he suddenly rose up, standing in front of you, the absence of his body heat left you cold that you felt even on the inside.

like he'd brought you warmth you’ve never felt before.

and he was pulling away now.

he looked down at you with a glare as his hand clenched into fists.

“i said go.” he snapped.

his voice cracks and he hates it.

he hated you.

he hated you for making him feel like this.

he couldn’t breathe with you near, he hated how hard his heart pounded at the sight of your tears and how he wanted to wipe them away.

how he wanted to make you cry not from fear but from pleasure.

you tried, god you tried to get up and just go back to your safety, away from him and so far away but you couldn't.

your body remained frozen on the ground as if it itself didn’t wanna leave.

your skirt rides up as you shift causing the edges of your panty to be revealed.

“i…i…”

you couldn’t finish your words because your heart screamed that you didn’t wanna leave.

maybe because somewhere in your soul you already knew that he wouldn’t hurt you.

yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose as he dragged a hand roughly through his hair, tugging at the strands.

“you don’t get it do you?” he hisses.

“i'm not the kind of man who'll let things go. i catch, i kill, i take the money, that's it. that's all it's ever been.”

he gestured wildly toward you.

“and then you come along looking like that, sounding like that, smelling like goddamn heaven and suddenly i can't—”

he cuts himself off as his jaw clenches hard enough for a muscle to tick beneath it.

it hurt to finish the sentence.

you stared up at him, heart pounding.

“you… can't what?”

you didn’t know what you were asking him but just that your question alone held so much hope.

yoongi's gaze snapped up to yours and for the first time tonight you saw something close to human in his eyes… you saw vulnerability.

which proved that he wasn’t as cruel as he believed himself to be and you brought that out of him…

made him feel for the first time in years.

that expression vanished just as soon as as if it hadn’t even been there in the first place, as if he himself were trying to stop that.

“i can't decide whether i want to snap your neck or bury my face between your thighs until you cum all over my tongue.”

your breath simply stopped after hearing that as you felt your pussy throb, slick coating your panties until they clung to your swollen folds.

a quiet whine left you as your thighs squeezed together hard, imagining him doing exactly what he said.

your body was betraying you.

because it wanted him to do every single thing he said he would.

it made your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

“look at you…” he murmurs roughly.

“shaking like a leaf.”

you whimper but there's nowhere to go as your legs fall open almost on their own.

between your thighs you're aching even as tears stream down your face.

he notices.

of course he does.

his gaze drops and lingers on the way your thighs press together, trying to hide the dampness you know is there as he studies the way your panties cling to your mound.

a slow dangerous smile curves on his lips.

“fucking hell..” he breathes.

“scared shitless and still dripping for me. that little cunt of yours doesn’t know what’s good for it does it?”

you sobbed, shaking your head frantically.

“p—please... i—i didn’t mean—”

“didn't mean to get wet?” he cuts you off as he leans closer.

“didn't mean to spread those pretty legs when i pinned you down? didn't mean to let me smell how much you want this even while you're crying?”

his hand moves calloused fingers brushing the inside of your thigh just enough to make you jolt, hips twitching toward the touch before you can stop them.

he laughs meanly.

“pathetic...”

“so fucking pathetic and so fucking perfect.”

he leans down until his mouth is beside your ear, brushing against your lobe.

“listen carefully… i'm gonna give you one last chance to escape little bun.” he rasps.

“one. single. chance.”

your heart thuds so hard you feel like it will burst out of your chest.

“you're going to stand up slowly, turn around and run!” he orders

you blink through tears, confused as your breasts heave.

“w—what?”

“don't make me repeat myself. run as fast as you can.”

he pulls back just enough to meet your glistening eyes.

“if i catch you…”

his tone drops to something almost gentle which makes it so much worse.

“i'm gonna fuck you right here on the forest floor and stuff you full of my cum until the only thing you know how to do is take my cock.”

he's going to do it until even the shape of him will be branded in your pussy.

until you'll even forget your own name.

and he doesn't joke.

your breath hitches eyes widening as another wave of arousal hits you, a droplet of your slick slides down your thigh and he tracks it with hungry eyes.

he wets his bottom lip with his tongue.

excitement fills you despite everything as something hungry coiled inside you as well.

that told you running might lead to something far more exquisite than death.

he was playing with you and you were more than willing to be a part of it.

“b-but—”

“you have ten seconds left and you're still talking.” he interrupts.

“starting now.”

he backs away grabbing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it like he wouldn’t even bother to run.

he had that lazy confidence in him.

which implied that you wouldn’t be able to escape him.

no matter how much you tried.

his gaze fixed on the middle of your thighs where your panty was even more exposed now, on the dark patch of your arousal.

your body's already begging for it, dripping for the monster who's about to hunt it down.

you're making him break all the rules.

“you think i'm bluffing?” he asks when you make no effort to move.

he exhales smoke in the air and you scramble up to your feet shakily, as he watches you stand up.

“make it fun for me yeah? i like a chase, a good chase.”

he didn't any waste further time and started counting.

“nine..” he counts.

“eight… seven…”

“the clock is ticking, bun...”

part of you hopes he catches you because you don't feel like prey.

you feel like his.

❪ perm. taglist ❫ ♯ @chaelvrx @slutology00 @furioustrashlover @kelsyx33 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @minewlove @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lachesismoonmist @angelfuzzy2 @levisnumber1 @angelsdecalcomania @magicalnachocreator @hynjamkook @koodollylvr @withmuchluv-tannie @istarag @elmarimochi9513 @wtfanu @kooklv @endlesslysassy @tatamicc @armybomb-infires @jiniminisworld @seokjinthescientist @gyeomibearr @xmiaacxio @n0chuprettykook @gizaspicebag @aaclariww @dollytingz @kskskskskskskskss @jeonette @coldfuzzylava

© GUKCNT — all rights reserved | divider by @/pixopix

[gukcnt]

taglist :

@fancypeacepersona @mar-lo-pap @deemiin10 @sturnskiss @beaniestrash @fluffysheepmaster @teardoong @thebaratheonlion @xxx-xxx @a2dkive @di-nana-saur @sugadclaws @ssoomad @esposadomd @mrskimjoon @withmuchluv-tannie @justlikecrazy @nerdythoughtspell @mintedagustd @mxrwaz-blog @littlestarstinyseven @melizzzie @uninspiredhousecat00 @cprcupcakke @madwriter16-blog @tinyxrose @anumita-2007 @wvnternvghtt @yoongiiuu93 @mrsjohnnysuh @petroogorodnik @dr0wsy-m00ns @asdghjji7hf @princessbabybootie2 @perfectlyoongi

[mintedagustd]

Pov:you’re a owl hybrid and chilling ontop of the tree

[glossdebut]

I need to know what they’re saying because all i’m getting from it so far is horny and pissed and horny and

[mintedagustd]

Me while listening to the whole album:

[mintedagustd]

Me listening to the whole playlist:

[gukcnt]

i'm gonna post tomorrow babes !!

[mintedagustd]

Im not gonna fucking sleep, I was deprived enough from tumblr

[lovieku]

LOLLIPOP ⋆ 정국

in which jeongguk almost makes you forget you’re four years older than him and that he’s fucking you with a lollipop on the counter of the local cafe you work at.

⌗ from LOViE playlist

pairing younger!jk x barista!fem reader

genre smut

contents pwp, 80s au, jk 20 | oc 24, noona usage, situationship ??, slight jealousy, makeout sesh, public sex, brief tit play, fingering, switch!jk And oc, food play, cum eating, almost bj, jk is sensitive and could come untouched, he’s also so whipped

word count 3.6k

author's note i'm so sorry for this it's a filthy mess barely read through ! i'm ovulating and jk got me so wet in his last live Oop... can't stop thinking about his Rings and that Lollipop omg. anyway lovieku nation do not fear cause you're getting a lengthier and deeper fic soon ☺️😛 love ya

The heavy door jingles as it’s pushed open. Your hand freezes mid-swipe across the counter, voice already on autopilot before you even look up.

“Sorry, we’re clos—”

But when you do look up, you have to resist rolling your eyes straight back into your skull. Unsure if it’s annoyance or a visceral reaction, something that starts lower and coils tight in your middle.

“Should flip the sign then, no?”

Jeongguk gestures lazily toward the entrance — toward the board the manager told you to turn before leaving you alone to clean every inch of the café, like some 80s Cinderella scrubbing after midnight. Flips it from OPEN to CLOSED.

Still, the fashionable rebel doesn’t feel the message applies to him. The door swings shut behind him, as if the very idea that this place could be closed to him is incomprehensible. As if you would actually ask him to leave.

He steps closer. Leather jacket, simple black tee, straight black jeans cinched tight at the waist with a thick belt. A silver cross hangs at his throat, the tiny stones catching the light, matching the many rings stacked along his fingers.

Jeongguk looks ridiculous, even more so when a smirk on his pierced lips is in response to your eventual eye roll. He looks ridiculous because he’s the only one dressing like the trends crawling out of the city. Walking around like he expects paparazzi to trail behind him on the empty streets. Like he’s not out of place in your small town.

Like he doesn’t make you feel out of place.

He’s younger than you, four years. You know because your little sister had biology with him back in high school, and the stupid project they had to present resulted in him coming over to your house for a couple of days. A couple of days that turned into a recurrence. A recurrence with the sole purpose of seducing you.

You. Awkward, hair messy and braided, coffee-stained apron and bare faced you. With a rag in one hand and a cleaning spray in the other.

You sigh, placing them on the counter in front of you. “I said we’re closed.”

He coos, striding nearer until only the table separates your bodies. “You’re really gonna kick me out, noona?”

Teeth clenching, you untie your hair and let it fall loose, fingers combing through the front in an unconscious attempt to look more presentable under his swollen doe orbs and cocky smile.

Jeongguk has managed to seduce you.

It took three years. Three years of persistence, of never once backing down. He found every possible excuse to partner with your sister on school projects just to be in your house, in your space. Even when there were no assignments, he’d come over anyway, giving your sibling false hope that he was trying to befriend her, maybe even make her his girlfriend.

Your parents loved the idea. You didn’t. Not because you thought they’d be a bad match, but because you knew the real reason he kept showing up.

It only got worse when he found out where you worked. He started coming in every day after classes, giving up his every penny into the jukebox just to dedicate songs to you. His favourite was Can’t Take My Eyes off You.

It happened one night at a house party he somehow managed to sneak into. Found you on the porch, drunk and crying into your arms. Drove you home on his bike, the night air sobering you just enough to realise what you were doing when you pulled him down by the collar and kissed him in front of your door.

You threw up seconds later.

Since then, it’s been sneaky encounters, mostly in your bedroom after he’d knock softly on your window, hair tussled and breath fanning from the short but tense climb.

But more than anything, it’s given Jeongguk the final green light to fully court you. Gifting you roses every week, dropping you lunch at work, scoring goals for you at charity games. You pretend you don’t notice who he’s pointing to every time that happens.

In return, you haven’t given him much. Heated makeout sessions, dry humping and touching over thin layers. That’s where you drew the line. There was one time he touched himself in front of you, the first and only time you’ve seen his glorious and bare dick, all up and red for you. He’d claimed he was so hard he felt like he might actually die, sounded genuinely panicked when he said it — breath shaky, eyes wide. You’d believed him enough not to push him away.

Most of the time, though, it takes very little. A few slow grinds against your thigh and he’s spilling into his jeans with a strangled groan.

You made it clear from the beginning that whatever this is, it stays between you. A strict secret. No matter how many times he’s tried to ease public touches into your dynamic, you always step back. Pretend he’s just another customer. Just another boy in town. Your little sister’s friend.

It’s not like you’re not attracted to him. You are. Objectively, undeniably, he’s beautiful. Sharp jaw, dark eyes, tall figure. You just can’t shake the shame that comes with wanting someone younger. Especially someone who could have any girl his age, the very ones already lined up for him, battling their lashes, whispering when he walks by.

You’ve tried telling him a thousand times, that you’d be just a waste of his time, that he’d be better off with Leah, or Anna, or whichever cheerleader was flirting with him at the game last week.

Jeongguk doesn’t care. Ever since you happened, it’s as if his vision has narrowed, his ears have closed to every voice but yours. His focus has moved in one direction, and the destination is you.

If he can’t have you, then he won’t have anyone. There’s no point. He wants you only.

Hands planted on your hips, you lift your chin and try to conceal the once-over you just gave him, though your gaze lingers a second too long on the lollipop he rolls between his ring-adorned fingers.

“What are you doing here, Jeongguk?”

He sucks on his candy before smiling. “Wanted to see my favourite girl on earth.”

At that, you turn your back to him immediately, pretending to be busy wiping down a section of counter that’s already spotless. In reality, your heart climbs straight to your throat, eyes squeezing shut along with your thighs pressing together without you meaning to.

“I’m busy.”

Behind you, his jewelry clinks against the surface, fingers tapping lazily along to the muted hum of your playlist. “Too busy even for me, angel?”

Expression set, knowing exactly where this is headed, you turn around. He leans forward instantly at your proximity, like a dog catching the scent of its owner, and your faces are so close that he has to tilt his head down and you have to crane your neck up.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

The lollipop is strawberry flavoured. You know because his breath fans warm on your lashes, and because you can almost taste it yourself when he pops it back into his mouth, pretty tongue curling slow and deliberate all over it. His cheeks hollow around it, pushing it in and out. In and out. All while his blown pupils flick between your own and your lips.

You like to think of yourself as a strong, independent woman. Who knows exactly what she wants and what she doesn’t. Will fight for it, or against it.

Two minutes later, Jeongguk is on the other side of the counter with you pressed between him and the unforgiving edge. His palms are insatiable and slide from your thighs up along your waist, settling just beneath your chest. His mouth claims yours, swallowing your every small, breathless sound.

You are a strong woman, most of the time. At the very least you can say you’re fighting for what you want. And against it, if the way your hips move restlessly against the denim of his jeans counts as resistance.

The mix of sugar and saliva turns sticky, syrup-thick between you, and it threatens to make your teeth ache. You’re almost sickened by how easily your limbs melt in his hold, honey-soft and pliant. Almost, because you also sickeningly enjoy the rough smell of cigarette lingering on you after a long shift tangling with his soft amber scent.

“I missed you,” his words are muffled in your mouth, neither of you able to pull away. You answer with a soft hum, arms sliding around his broad back to tug him closer. You’re afraid to speak and be betrayed by your own voice. So you’ll let your tongues do the talking instead.

His own explores like it’s reaching as deep as it possibly can, almost tasting the words you keep locked at the back of your throat. He’s always been the one to say what you won’t. He talks enough for the both of you.

With his grip tightening on your hip, he reluctantly draws back, leaving only a breath of space, distance bridged by the longing in his stare.

“I really wanna touch you, noona. Please… can I?”

You’re convinced he only uses those puppy eyes when it benefits him, but you can’t prove it. The only piece of evidence you have is your immediate nodding, every single time.

Jeongguk fumbles with the strings of your apron, letting it slip from your waist and pool at your feet. He groans at the sight of you in nothing but your excuse of a skirt and a flimsy tank top, fabric clinging to your skin. His wide hand cups your boob, thumb brushing slow circles, while he mouths at the other over the thin material. You gasp at the raw contact, at the contrast of his cool rings and the heat radiating from his towering body, back instinctively arching into it.

He never lingers on one spot for too long. Comes back up, saccharine lips teasing yours before drifting to the sensitive and just as sweet place under your ear. The strawberry lollipop is still hooked loosely between his fingers. And with his own mouth occupied, it finds a new purpose: nudging one strap off your shoulder, his hand twists the smooth edge of the candy on your hard nipple, your head thrown back at the slick feeling.

“Ggukkie, oh my god,” breaths stuttering, you’re overwhelmed with his resolute confidence, fingers curling and tugging at his already-tousled hair as if wishing you could pry him off, but front betraying you and naturally pressing forward for more.

Fanning on your neck, he licks a stripe behind your lobe, sucking on the sensitive spot. Then lingers there, tip of his nose to your ear, so that his words stick like the sugar trail smeared all over your chest.

“I’m so hard for you. Let me touch you, please?”

You know what he really means. Your face slowly comes back up to meet his, brows knitting together both in pleasure and confusion. Confusion at the way your heartbeat stumbles when you take him in like this: heavy-lidded eyes dark with want, lips parted just enough to catch his breath, one hand still cupping your boob for insatiable closeness.

There’s no other reaction that feels more natural than kissing him. And he seems to get it, gulp down your consent, seek for more as he surges forward and reaches inside your mouth with animalistic urges. You frantically tug at his jacket, letting him throw it somewhere over the counter behind you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s breathless. His pitch-black sharpening gaze is on you, a faint sheen of moisture briefly keeping you tethered.

“You know you’re mine, yeah?”

“Huh?”

He pops the lolly back into his mouth, tongue swirling over it. The way his wet muscle flickers up, down and around it has your core quivering, mouth falling agape. The moment he pulls the candy out with an audible pop, briefly toying with the stick, you can see what he means. What he’s warning you for. He’s resolute, won’t wait for another second.

“Yoongi-hyung won’t give you what I can.”

In any other circumstance, you would’ve laughed in his face.

If it weren’t for his sneaky fingers hooking your panties aside beneath your skirt and letting the strawberry head glide along your folds. Your startled gasp melts into a moan, instinctively bracing yourself for balance on his shoulders, fingers curling into his collar.

He seizes the opportunity presented by your weight practically hanging off of him to lift you up onto the counter behind you, glasses and cups clattering together, one leg guided open and hoisted up over his forearm, the other barely keeping you steady on the floor.

You desperately wish a 20 year old boy didn’t have this much power over you. The kind that makes you forget your words, how to properly put them in a sentence. You don’t know how much longer you can pretend he’s wrong about you being his, or that the candy being dangerously close to your fluttering hole isn’t simultaneously the sexiest and most disgusting thing that’s ever happened to you.

“What the… fuck… does Yoongi have to do with anything?” Your expression is so tense it threatens premature wrinkles, only softening when his thick and silver-ringed fingers trail up to tangle in your hair.

“I saw you at the party. Flirting with him,” he keeps teasing your entrance, alternates between that and your swollen clit. “I know I’m younger, but I can fuck you better, noona.”

You gasp around surprise and pleasure, clinging to the thinnest thread of composure, though your body has long decided what it wants.

“What do you think you’re doing, Jeongguk?”

“Showing you.”

A loud moan is ripped from you when he finally commits, finally pushes the candy inside, swirling it in agonizingly slow circles. You head thrashes, overwhelmed by the collision of guilt and pleasure, brows drawing and eyes welling up. The hand buried in your locks descends to wrap gently around your throat, forcing your hooded gaze back to his.

“What? You think I can’t?”

You’re certain, painfully positive, that he can make you cum like this. Even more sure when his index and middle fingers thrust the candy deeper, while his thumb begins a relentless rhythm around your clit. You shake your head frantically, not in denial of his words but as a visceral reaction to his touch. It feels the closest you’ll ever be to heaven and hell. Your arms slide up his chest to wrap around his broad back and haul him closer.

The grip on the side of your neck tightens, the silver of his rings digging in deliciously, his eyes strictly on yours. “I’m going to make you cum on my sucker,” he smirks childishly at the pun, but you’re putty in his hands and hang on his every sound. You can only nod pathetically. “And then I’m going to taste it.”

When you buck your hips closer, inviting his suggestive intentions, you feel exactly how hard he is against your thigh. The brief and searing contact has him rutting his bulge flush on your skin, mouth forming an O shape around a delirious moan that you promptly swallow, capturing his lips with yours.

Your orgasm is messy. It’s your teeth clashing, tongues wishing they’d reach even deeper, his hold working at it as he pulls you into him from your nape. It’s the lollipop hanging from your tightening heat, three fingers joining it and his thumb maintaining an uncoordinated pace on your nub. He devours your every whimper at the cold bite of his silver rings on your sensitive folds, and a particularly sharp groan when you feel the textured surface of one entering you alongside his long digits.

Eventually, you only convulse around them once you’ve answered his command.

“You’re mine. Tell me you are. Tell me you want this.” No matter how much he tries to project dominance, or how much older he wants to make himself sound like, the request comes out more as a beg, a plea, a desperate whine against your lips as if he’s constantly waiting on you to tell him what to do. Guide him, please him, tell him he’s doing a good job.

“Want this so fucking bad, Ggukkie. I’m yours, I’m yo—oh, fuck!”

Nonetheless, the incoherent and stuttered confession, the continuous and satisfied pulse of your hole and your body naturally pulling his clothed length closer is all the fuel he needs. Not that he requires much. He’s incessantly untiring when it comes to you and your pleasure.

Jeongguk swipes the dense, translucent fluid from your folds, welcoming the sweet result onto his flat tongue. He watches you as he swallows, lets his cheeks hollow around the taste as he proudly savours every last drop.

His eyes tell a whole other story, now. They’re wide and searching, seeking approval, reassurance, relief. The wet sounds are punctuated by his small whines, and you let his bucking hips beg just a moment longer before your hand finally ruffles his hair. Your breath is still frantic, brains still very much fucked.

“You’re so naughty,” it’s a whisper between you, mirroring the slow tipping of the slicked candy. It slips from his mouth with a string of saliva still connecting him to it, before you’re wrapping your own hungry lips around the treat.

Jeongguk groans, hand palming himself through the heavy denim of his jeans. He’s gradually surrendering his show of dominance, slowly losing himself to you and the hazed effect you cast over him.

“Fuck. Please, let me come,” his head leans into your hold, mouth capturing yours and the glistening, consumed lollipop held between you. You both suck on it, tongues swirling on its head and tangling with one another in a syrupy knot.

Guiding the stick, you push it further into his mouth, pressing the round head flat against his tongue. He’s completely pliant now, throat clicking with a shallow gag as you test how far he’ll let you go.

Smiling at his familiar obedience, you hop off the counter, a small whimper escaping you as your sensitive core hits the cool air. You leave the candy hanging from his lips before dropping to your knees. The lollipop eventually slips, clattering to the floor beside you, and his jaw almost follows, remains agape in shock.

When you press a kiss through the tension in his jeans, he hisses. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, don’t do that. I’m gonna fucking— gonna fucking come.”

Matching his impatience, you decide to save the teasing for another day. You fumble with his belt and the metal of his zipper, peeling down his black denims to reveal a heavy, darkened patch of heat on his Calvin Kleins.

Finally letting his length spring free, a strained moan catches in his throat. His hand flies to your hair, fingers sliding down to cup your cheek with the tenderness that you know him for. You feel the rings pressing on that spot, might leave a mark, but you simply kiss his palm, briefly mouthing his thumb before turning your focus to his perfectly tall and thick cock, pulsing in your face.

Retreating the discarded lollipop, you trace the sticky candy on his base, drawing a rough groan from his chest. Then, following the sugary trail, you run your tongue along his entire length, swirling right over the tip.

“Baby, fuck— I’m so sorry,” his hold on your jaw tightens, cock twitching on your tongue and the tip of your nose. Your hand travels up his tight abs, lollipop staining his shirt with his own precum as you force him to look down at you. He’d kept his eyes squeezed shut, desperate to keep from unraveling in under a minute before you’d even truly started.

When he sees you — brows drawn up in confusion, eyes still glassy from your own release — and feels your warm, wet mouth closing around his head, he breaks. A wail escapes him as he throws his head back, spilling across your tongue and over your cheeks. His cock pumps relentlessly, feverishly.

You watch in awe, his face contorted in pleasure that almost seems painful and a fist closing around your locks.

Hooded gaze dropping back to yours, you find that his eyes are brimming. A single tear falls, lands unexpected on your forehead.

“I’m so— so sorry, noona,” his voice quivers and threatens to break into a sob. He’s still twitching with over-sensitivity when you alarmedly stand up, candy finally clattering to the floor so you can cradle his face in your palms.

“Goo, baby, it’s okay.” You smile reassuringly, peppering his flushed face with soft kisses. “We’ll try that again another time, hm? How’s that sound?”

He peeks at you shyly through his lashes, cheek seeking the comfort of your touch. He sniffs, tip of his nose a dusty red. “Really?”

You nod, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. “Really. You did so good.”

Jeongguk leans in, tongue catching the stray white spots on your cheeks before seeking the rest from your mouth. You both hum at the contact, fronts pressing together as he already begins to stir against you once more.

When you pull back, your nose scrunches as your foreheads rest against one another. “This was all so disgusting.”

He lets out a breathy, boyish chuckle. Makes it hard to believe he’s been the same guy ever since he stepped through the door.

“You fucking loved it. As much as I did.”

[cherryreadsfics]

Need more of him 😩 he's like that one guilty pleasure you can't help but go back to

[lovieku]

oh oc would totally agree with this … 😩🙂‍↕️

[luvvjayk-deactivated20260713]

34 + 35 - jungkook

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x f!Reader (best friends to lovers, long-distance)

⋆˚࿔ Genre: Smut (18+), Angst, Pining, Friends with Tension/Benefits, Emotional Sexual Tension, Jealousy, Porn with (some) Plot, Reconnection

⋆˚࿔ Rating: Explicit / 18+ / MDNI

⋆˚࿔ Word Count: ~10k+ words

⋆˚࿔ Summary: Years of late-night FaceTime calls with your long-distance best friend Jungkook started as innocent catch-ups… then turned into something else entirely. Instructions. Edging sessions. Filthy praise. You saved every recording—especially the one labeled “34 + 35”. He was never supposed to find it. He was never supposed to fly to Seoul and fuck you like he’s been starving for you since the very first call.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings & Tags: explicit sexual content • heavy smut • long-distance mutual masturbation • FaceTime/phone sex • guided masturbation • dirty talk • praise kink • degradation kink • edging • orgasm denial • multiple orgasms • overstimulation • accidental voyeurism • jealousy • possessive behavior • rough sex • unprotected sex • creampie • multiple creampies • cum play • light impact play (spanking) • choking (light, non-breath-restricting) • hair pulling • nipple play • oral sex references • squirting • marking • no actual poly or cheating but brief date with another man (leads to jealousy trigger) • cum eating (brief, self-tasting)

⋆˚࿔ Additional Notes: This is shameless, plot-light smut with heavy emotional undercurrents. The sex is filthy, drawn-out, and escalates dramatically once they’re in the same room. If degradation, possessiveness, or intense jealousy dynamics bother you, please skip. just completely inspired by 34 + 35 - ariana grande song

The apartment in Gangnam was quiet except for the low hum of the city filtering through the half-open window—neon lights painting faint streaks across YN’s bedroom ceiling. She lay on her stomach across the duvet, phone propped against a stack of pillows, wearing nothing but an oversized black tee that used to be his from high school. It still smelled faintly like cedar and whatever cologne he’d worn back then, even after years of washing. She told herself she kept it for nostalgia. Lies.

The FaceTime ringtone cut through the stillness. She answered on the second one, and there he was: Jungkook in his study across an ocean, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the black ink of his forearm tattoos stark against the white button-down. Behind him, the same orderly chaos—textbooks stacked like architecture, a single desk lamp throwing gold across his sharp jaw and the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

“You look like you’ve already given up on today,” he said first, voice low and rough from a full day of lecturing. He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms overhead so the shirt pulled tight across his chest and the fabric rode up just enough to show a sliver of toned abdomen. He didn’t fix it. “What time did you even wake up?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile. “Early enough to regret it. Had a meeting at nine that could’ve been an email. You? Still terrorizing freshmen with derivatives?”

“They terrorize themselves. One kid today asked if the chain rule was named after actual chains. I almost retired on the spot.” He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it worse. “But yeah, long day. Grading midterms until my eyes crossed. Needed to see a friendly face before I lose my mind completely.”

The words landed softer than he probably meant. YN felt that familiar tug low in her stomach—the one she’d learned to ignore years ago. She shifted, letting the hem of the tee ride higher on her thighs, bare legs stretching across the sheets. His gaze flicked down for half a second. She pretended not to notice.

“You always say that like I’m doing you a favor,” she teased, voice deliberately light. “I’m literally just lying here procrastinating sleep. You’re the one with actual responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities are overrated. I’d trade them for your couch and a bottle of soju right now.” He tilted his head, studying her through the screen. “You’re wearing my old shirt again. Still fits?”

Her pulse skipped. “Barely. I’ve gained… personality since high school.”

“Looks like it fits exactly the way it should.” His tone stayed casual, but the way he said it—slow, eyes lingering on the way the fabric clung to the curve of her breasts—felt anything but. “You always sleep in that thing when you’re stressed. What’s going on?”

She exhaled through her nose, debating how much to give him. “Nothing major. Just… the usual. Swiped on some guy last week. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Drinks, maybe dinner if he doesn’t bore me to death in the first twenty minutes.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but something tightened around his mouth. “Another app casualty. What’s this one’s deal? Finance bro? Gym rat? Trust-fund poet?”

“Software engineer. Nice jawline, decent conversation over text. Claims he can cook. Jury’s still out.” She shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. “Figured I should at least try. Can’t keep living like a nun.”

He made a low sound—half laugh, half something darker. “You’re not a nun. You’re just picky. There’s a difference.”

“Picky, huh?” She arched a brow, rolling onto her side so the tee slipped off one shoulder. The strap of her bralette peeked out, thin black lace against skin. “Says the guy who hasn’t dated anyone longer than three weeks since grad school.”

“I date. I just don’t announce it.” He leaned closer to the camera, elbows on the desk, forearms flexing as he clasped his hands. “And when I do, it’s because they’re worth the time. Not because I’m trying to prove something.”

The jab landed. She felt heat crawl up her neck. “I’m not proving anything. I’m just… curious. Bored. Horny. Pick one.”

His laugh was quiet, almost private. “All three, probably.” He paused, eyes tracing the line of her exposed collarbone. “You ever think maybe you’re looking in the wrong places?”

Her breath caught. For one dangerous second the line between banter and something else dissolved. She could feel the weight of his stare like fingers on her skin.

“And where should I be looking, Professor?” The title came out huskier than she intended.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. If anything, his gaze sharpened. “Somewhere that actually knows you. Someone who doesn’t need an app to figure out what makes you tick.”

Silence stretched, thick and humming. She licked her bottom lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how dry her mouth felt.

“Careful,” she said softly. “That almost sounded like you were volunteering.”

He held her eyes for a long beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—just enough. “I don’t volunteer. I get requested.”

Heat flooded her core so fast she had to press her thighs together under the covers. She forced a laugh to cover it. “Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he corrected, voice dropping lower. “There’s a difference.”

She swallowed. “Noted.”

He changed the subject after that—asked about her latest project at work, told her about a ridiculous theorem one of his colleagues was obsessed with—but the undercurrent stayed. Every time he shifted and the light caught the ink curling around his bicep, every time his voice roughened from fatigue, she felt it: the slow, inevitable burn of wanting something she’d convinced herself she could never have.

Later, after they said goodnight and the screen went dark, YN didn’t move for a long time. She lay there staring at the ceiling, thighs still pressed tight, replaying the way he’d looked at her—like he already knew exactly how she’d fall apart under his hands.

She opened the dating app anyway. Swiped right on three more guys she’d probably never message.

Distraction. Always distraction.

But when she finally slid a hand between her legs that night, it wasn’t any of their faces she pictured.

It was his—sharp eyes, low voice, the slow roll of “I don’t volunteer. I get requested” echoing in her head while her fingers circled exactly the way she wished his tongue would. The next few dates blurred together like bad playlist skips—polite small talk over overpriced cocktails, awkward laughs at jokes that weren’t funny, hands brushing too soon or not at all. YN kept swiping anyway, telling herself momentum would eventually drown out the quiet ache that settled in her chest every time Jungkook’s name lit up her screen.

Then came Minho.

Software engineer, thirty-one, profile pictures heavy on gym mirrors and city rooftops. Messages sharp, flirty without trying too hard. He asked real questions, remembered details, made her laugh twice in under ten minutes of texting. When he suggested drinks at a low-lit bar in Itaewon and followed it with “no pressure, but I’d like to kiss you if the vibe’s right,” her stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t in months.

She said yes.

The date itself was good—better than good. Conversation flowed, his hand rested lightly on the small of her back when they walked, and when he leaned in outside the bar to brush his lips against hers, slow and deliberate, she felt the first real pulse of want coil low in her gut. He pulled back just enough to murmur against her mouth, “I’d really like to take you home tonight. Only if you want.”

She wanted. Or thought she did.

But the second the words left his mouth, panic bloomed sharp and cold beneath the heat. She’d had sex before—scattered, fumbling encounters in university that left her more confused than satisfied. She knew the mechanics. She didn’t know herself. Not the spots that made her breath hitch, not the pressure that turned ache into something shattering, not the rhythm her body actually craved. The thought of lying under him, clueless and performing, made her throat close.

She smiled, kissed him again—quick, deflecting—and promised to text about next time. He didn’t push. That made it worse.

Two nights later the humidity in Seoul was suffocating, windows open, fan doing nothing but stir the thick air. YN sprawled on her bed in nothing but black cotton boyshorts and a cropped tank, skin sticky, hair piled messily on top of her head. The FaceTime call connected at 11:47 p.m. her time, 9:47 a.m. his.

Jungkook appeared shirtless.

He must have just finished a workout or a shower; damp strands of black hair clung to his forehead, a towel slung around his neck, droplets tracing slow paths down the ridges of his collarbone, over the dark ink that wrapped his shoulder and spilled across his pec. The desk lamp behind him cast everything in warm amber, turning the sweat on his skin into something almost obscene.

He didn’t bother covering up. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, biceps flexing without effort.

“You look like you’re melting,” he said, voice still rough from sleep or maybe just the early hour for him. “Air-con broken again?”

“No. Just Seoul trying to kill me.” She shifted, propping herself higher on the pillows so the tank rode up, exposing the soft dip of her waist and the waistband of her shorts. “You look like you just finished filming thirst-trap content for your students.”

He snorted, wiping the towel across his neck. “They’d fail the next quiz if I did. What’s got you up this late? Another date?”

She exhaled, long and slow. The words felt heavier than they should.

“Yeah. Minho. The one I told you about.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “The rooftop guy. How’d it go?”

“Good. Really good, actually.” She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. “He… wants to sleep with me. Asked tonight. I said maybe next time.”

A beat of silence. His jaw ticked once.

“And you’re freaking out because…?”

She laughed, but it came out brittle. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing, Jungkook. Like—zero. I’ve had sex, sure, but it was always… fast. Drunk. Awkward. I don’t even know what I like. Where to be touched. How fast, how hard, if I even get there the normal way. What if I just lie there like a dead fish while he’s expecting some porn-star performance? I’d rather die.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just watched her through the screen with that steady, dissecting gaze he used when he was solving something complicated.

“You’re not clueless,” he said finally, voice low and even. “You’re just uncharted. There’s a difference.”

Her pulse kicked hard. “Uncharted. Cute metaphor, Professor.”

“Not a metaphor. A fact.” He uncrossed his arms, leaned forward so his face filled more of the frame, tattoos shifting with the movement. “You’ve never mapped it out properly. Never taken the time to figure out what actually makes your breath catch, what makes your hips move on their own, what gets you so wet you can’t think straight.”

Heat exploded under her skin so fast she had to press her thighs together. She tried to keep her voice steady. “And how exactly do I… map it?”

“You experiment.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. “Alone. No pressure, no audience. Start slow—neck, collarbone, the insides of your arms. Then lower. Stomach. Hips. Inner thighs. Tease yourself until you’re aching, then go where the ache leads. Light first. Then firmer. Circles, strokes, taps. Pay attention to what makes your toes curl versus what just feels nice. Build it. Edge it. Learn your own rhythm.”

Every word landed like a slow drag of fingers. She could picture it—his voice in her ear while her hand moved exactly where he described. She swallowed hard.

“You make it sound like a research project.”

“It is.” The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed dark. “Hypothesis: certain touches make you soak through your shorts. Test it. Record the results. Adjust variables. Repeat until you know your body better than anyone else ever will.”

She laughed shakily, but it sounded more like a breath. “And then what? Hand him the lab report?”

“No.” His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. “Then when he touches you, you know exactly how to guide his hand. Or tell him to fuck off if he can’t keep up.”

Silence stretched again, heavy with humidity and something else.

She shifted, the movement making the tank slip higher, the underside of her breast almost visible. His gaze flicked down—deliberate this time—then back to her face.

“You’re blushing,” he said quietly.

“It’s hot in here.”

“Sure it is.” He dragged the towel across his chest again, slower this time, like he knew exactly what the motion did to her. “Try it tonight. After we hang up. Start small. See what happens.”

“And report back?” The question came out huskier than she meant.

His smile was slow. Dangerous. “Only if you want extra credit.”

She felt the words settle between her legs like a hand. Her clit throbbed once, traitorous and sudden.

“Noted,” she managed.

They talked for another twenty minutes—work, weather, nothing important—but the undercurrent stayed. Every time he shifted and the light caught the ink on his ribs, every time his voice roughened on a yawn, she felt it coil tighter.

When they finally said goodnight, she didn’t hang up right away. Just watched the screen go dark, heart hammering.

Then she slid her hand down her stomach, past the waistband of her shorts, and did exactly what he’d told her.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Imagining his voice the entire time.

“Light first. Then firmer. See what makes your hips move on their own.”

Her back arched off the bed at the first real press.

She didn’t come that night—not fully—but the edge he’d put her on stayed for hours, humming under her skin like a live wire.

And when she finally drifted off, it was his low, steady “Only if you want extra credit” looping in her head, over and over, until sleep took her.

The weeks bled into each other like ink on wet paper, humid Seoul nights stacking one on top of the next. YN’s dating life stayed lukewarm at best—Minho texted sporadically, suggesting another drink, but she kept pushing it back with vague excuses. The real reason sat heavy in her phone history: longer and longer FaceTime calls with Jungkook that started innocent and ended with her thighs trembling under the sheets.

It began small. One call, she mentioned offhand that the “mapping” experiment had gone… okay. “But I keep getting stuck at the same point. Like my body knows what it wants but won’t tell me the combination.”

Jungkook had been mid-sip of coffee, shirt already gone because “LA decided to hit 38°C today.” The black ink curling over his shoulder and down his ribs caught the morning light filtering through his blinds. He set the mug down slowly.

“Then stop guessing. Be systematic.” His voice was calm, professorial, but lower than usual. “Next time, start at your clit but don’t go straight for it. Circle the hood first—light, barely there. Then drag one finger down the outer lips, back up, repeat. No penetration yet. Just tease until you’re dripping. See how long you can hold off before you crack and press harder.”

She’d laughed, nervous, cheeks burning. “You’re turning this into a fucking flowchart.”

“Precision matters,” he said, eyes locked on hers through the screen. “You want to know what makes you come undone? Then learn the variables.”

That was the first time she kept the camera on while following his instructions.

At first it was clinical—almost. She angled the phone high, so only her face and collarbones showed, the rest hidden under the duvet. Her giggles broke the quiet every time her breath hitched. “This feels ridiculous. I’m literally taking notes from my best friend like he’s my personal sex ed teacher.”

He didn’t laugh back. Just watched, jaw tight. “Keep going. Slower circles. Tell me when the pressure feels good versus when it feels like nothing.”

“Now it’s… better. Shit. Tingling.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Good. Stay there. Don’t chase it yet. Breathe through it.” His chest rose and fell visibly, slower than before, nipples dark against taut skin. “Describe it. Exact sensation.”

“Hot. Pulsing. Like everything’s drawing tight but not enough.”

“Then add a second finger. Flat, not pointed. Slide along the sides—never directly on the clit. Edge it. Pull back when you get close.”

She whimpered once—small, involuntary. His hand flexed on the desk, knuckles white.

The next call, she didn’t bother with the duvet. Just a thin silk slip the color of midnight, lace trim barely skimming the tops of her thighs. When she shifted to prop the phone higher, one strap slid down her shoulder. She left it there.

Jungkook appeared shirtless again, this time with sweat beading along his sternum. “You trying to kill the AC or something?” she teased, voice lighter than she felt.

“It’s broken. Again.” His eyes dropped to the fallen strap, lingered, then flicked back up. “Nice slip. New?”

“Impulse buy. Figured if I’m doing ‘homework,’ might as well look the part.” She stretched lazily, back arching so the silk pulled tight across her nipples, visible through the thin fabric. “Your turn. Any updates on the heat wave?”

“Still brutal.” He leaned back, arms spreading along the back of his chair so every line of his torso flexed—abs contracting, the deep V disappearing into low-slung sweats. “You ready for round two?”

“Born ready.” She smirked, but her pulse hammered in her throat.

This time the instructions came slower, more deliberate.

“Legs wider. Let me see how you’re touching.” His voice had dropped an octave. “Show me the rhythm. Slow-motion replay.”

She hesitated only a second before angling the camera lower—still not full exposure, but enough that the silk rode up, revealing the damp patch darkening her black lace boyshorts. She hooked a finger under the fabric, pulled it aside just enough.

“Like this?” She circled her clit with the pad of her middle finger—slow, feather-light.

His breath audibly caught. “Yeah. Exactly like that. Now press a little firmer. Small, tight circles. Count to ten, then stop. Repeat.”

“You’re evil.” But she obeyed, hips lifting off the mattress on the third round. “Fuck… it’s building fast.”

“Don’t come yet.” The command was quiet, almost gentle, but iron underneath. “Edge it twice more. Tell me how close you are each time.”

“Eight… nine… close. Really close.” Her thighs trembled. “Stopping… god.”

“Good girl.” The praise landed like a slap of heat. His hand had disappeared below the frame now—she could see the subtle flex of his forearm, the way his bicep tensed in rhythm. “One more. This time, two fingers inside. Curl them up, press against the front wall. Thumb on your clit. Slow grind.”

She moaned—open, shameless. “Jungkook… I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” His voice was rougher now, strained. “Hold it. Squeeze around your fingers. Feel how wet you are. Tell me.”

“Soaked. Dripping down my thighs. Please…”

“Please what?”

“Let me come.” It came out desperate, cracked.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “On three. One… two… three. Now.”

Her back bowed off the bed, a broken cry tearing from her throat as the orgasm hit—sharp, blinding, thighs clamping around her own hand. Through the haze she saw him: head tipped back, throat working, the rapid flex of his arm below frame speeding up before he groaned low, body jerking once, twice.

Silence after. Heavy breathing on both ends.

She laughed shakily, dazed. “That… escalated.”

“You escalated it.” His voice was wrecked, eyes half-lidded. “Wearing that slip. Arching like that. You knew what you were doing.”

“Maybe.” She dragged a finger through her own wetness, brought it to her lips—slow, deliberate—tasting herself while holding his stare. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

His jaw ticked. “I didn’t.”

The call ended soon after—mutual goodnights that felt obscene in their politeness—but the shift was permanent now. No more pretending the tension was accidental.

The next night she answered in nothing but lace-trimmed boyshorts and a cropped tank that ended just under her breasts. When she leaned forward to adjust the phone, the hem lifted enough to flash the underside curve.

Jungkook appeared in only black boxer briefs, claiming the apartment was “still a furnace.” The outline of him—thick, half-hard—was impossible to ignore.

“New uniform?” she asked, voice husky.

“Fair’s fair.” He palmed himself once through the fabric—casual, like stretching. “You gonna behave tonight?”

“Never.” She slid a hand down her stomach, fingers dipping under the lace. “What’s the lesson plan, Professor?”

His smile was slow, predatory. “Tonight we work on endurance. You don’t come until I say. And I’m going to make it hurt so good you’ll beg for the numbers.”

She shivered. “Challenge accepted.”

The calls had long since stopped pretending to be casual. Now they were scheduled like appointments—late Seoul nights when the city quieted and his California mornings still carried the haze of sleep. YN answered one humid Thursday in nothing but sheer black lace panties and a cropped silk camisole that ended inches above her navel, the fabric so thin her nipples peaked against it the second the AC kicked on. She propped the phone against pillows, legs bent at the knees, thighs parted just enough that the camera caught the shadow between them.

Jungkook appeared in low gray sweats, no shirt, hair still damp from a shower. The tattoos on his ribs shifted with every slow breath. He didn’t greet her with small talk anymore.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?” His voice was gravel, eyes dragging down the screen like he could feel the heat radiating off her.

She didn’t deny it. Just hooked a finger under the lace edge and tugged it aside, exposing slick folds to the cool air. “Been thinking about this all day. Couldn’t wait.”

“Show me how much.”

She slid two fingers down, parting herself, letting him see the shine coating her entrance. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped when she brushed her clit—already swollen, hypersensitive from days of edging herself to the memory of his last command.

They pulled up a video together—some soft-lit amateur clip they’d both saved to a shared note. A woman on her knees, mouth working slow and deliberate over a thick cock; the man’s hand gentle in her hair, guiding without forcing. At first they dissected it clinically.

“See how she keeps her tongue flat under the head?” Jungkook’s tone was steady, almost academic. “The pressure’s constant but not aggressive. Builds him up without rushing the finish.”

YN mirrored the motion with her fingers—circling her clit in wide, lazy loops, mimicking the slow drag of tongue. “Like this?”

“Slower.” His voice dropped half an octave. “Make it ache first. Let the need coil so tight you can’t think.”

Her hips rolled forward on instinct. A breathy moan slipped out—soft, testing. His jaw clenched visibly; the outline of his cock thickened against the gray cotton, straining the fabric.

“Fuck… you’re leaking,” he muttered, palming himself once through the sweats—slow, deliberate. “Keep that rhythm. Don’t speed up. Tell me how close.”

“So close… pulsing. God, Jungkook—”

“Stop.”

She froze, fingers hovering, thighs shaking. The denial hit like ice water and fire at once. “You’re cruel.”

“And you love it.” He tugged the waistband down just enough to free himself—thick, flushed, the head glistening. He wrapped a fist around the base, stroking once, eyes never leaving her screen. “Now resume. But match my pace. Slow. Up. Down. Feel every inch of the build.”

They synced without words—her fingers sliding in shallow thrusts, his hand gliding over his length in the same unhurried rhythm. Breathing grew ragged on both ends. The video played on, forgotten; all that mattered was the wet sounds filling the call, the way her clit throbbed under her touch, the flex of his forearm as he worked himself.

Mid-edge, when she was trembling and glassy-eyed, she let the words slip—breathless, teasing.

“What if we tried something like… 34 plus 35?”

He huffed a low laugh, hand still moving. “That’s just 69. Basic addition. You and your weird math jokes.”

The obliviousness sent a fresh gush of wetness between her thighs. She bit her lip hard enough to sting, imagining his mouth on her while she took him deep—tongues and lips and no space for air. The fantasy burned hotter because he didn’t catch it. Didn’t know how badly she wanted to flip positions, straddle his face, grind down while she swallowed him whole.

“Yeah… basic,” she murmured, voice wrecked. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

“Not stopping until you’re shaking.” His strokes sped fractionally—still controlled, but the vein along his shaft stood out stark. “Rub faster now. Small, tight circles. Imagine it’s my tongue instead—flat, pressing, flicking just enough to make you sob.”

She obeyed. Moans turned sharp, desperate. Her free hand gripped the sheet, knuckles white.

“Jungkook—please—”

“Not yet.” His voice cracked on the command. “Hold it. Squeeze around nothing. Feel how empty you are. How much you want to be filled.”

She whimpered—loud, broken. The denial stretched unbearable seconds into eternity.

Then, finally: “Now. Come for me.”

Her body seized—back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm tore through her in brutal waves. She cried out his name, raw and unguarded. On screen, his head fell back, throat working, abs contracting hard as he spilled over his fist in thick, pulsing ropes—groaning low, wrecked.

They stayed like that—panting, spent, screens still open. No rush to speak.

After a long minute, he dragged a hand through his hair, voice hoarse. “You keep pulling that 34 35 shit… one day I’m gonna make you explain it.”

She laughed—shaky, satisfied. “Maybe I will. When you’re ready to solve it properly.”

He smirked, dark and knowing, even if he still didn’t get the subtext.

The tension didn’t break. It only thickened.

The next call came two nights later, no preamble, no casual check-in. YN answered in a sheer white camisole so thin the dark circles of her nipples pressed against the fabric like they were begging to be seen. No bra. No shorts—just black lace panties that rode high on her hips. She sat cross-legged on the bed, phone angled to catch the way the silk clung to the undersides of her breasts when she breathed.

Jungkook appeared shirtless again, but this time the pretense was gone. Gray sweats low on his hips, the thick ridge of his cock already outlined against the cotton before either of them spoke.

“You’re not even trying to hide it anymore,” he said, voice rough, eyes dragging from her chest to the damp spot darkening the lace between her thighs.

“Neither are you.” She shifted, letting her knees fall wider, the camisole strap slipping down one shoulder. “I see the flush on your neck. The way your forearm flexes when your hand disappears. You’re already touching yourself, aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it. Just palmed the length of himself through the fabric—slow, deliberate. “Hard not to when you show up like that. What do you want tonight?”

“Show me.” Her voice came out breathier than she meant. “Stroke with me. Let me watch.”

A beat of heavy silence. His jaw ticked once, twice. Then he reached for the phone, angled it lower until the camera framed his lap: sweats shoved down just enough, cock thick and flushed in his fist, the head already slick. He gave one slow pump, eyes never leaving hers through the screen.

“Your turn.”

She hooked the lace aside, fingers sliding through her wetness before circling her clit—matching the lazy rhythm he set. Their breathing synced almost instantly: shallow inhales, soft exhales that turned ragged fast.

“Slower,” he commanded, voice gravel-low. “Match me. Feel every drag.”

She obeyed, hips rolling forward on the third stroke. A soft moan slipped out—his name tangled in it. His grip tightened visibly, thumb swiping over the slit, spreading pre-cum. “Fuck… say it again.”

“Jungkook…” She sped up fractionally, testing. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that. Tight circles. Don’t stop.” His strokes grew firmer, forearm flexing with each pull. The wet sounds filled the call—hers slick and obscene, his rougher, fist gliding over skin.

Tension coiled unbearable. She arched, free hand pinching a nipple through the sheer fabric until it ached. “I’m close… god, watching you—”

“Not yet.” His voice cracked on the denial. “Wait for me. Squeeze around your fingers. Imagine it’s mine stretching you instead.”

She whimpered—loud, desperate—but held the edge, thighs trembling. His head tipped back for a second, throat working, abs contracting hard.

“Now.” The word tore out of him.

She shattered first—back bowing, a broken “Jungkook—” spilling from her lips as her orgasm ripped through her, walls pulsing around nothing, slick coating her fingers. Seconds later he followed: low, guttural groan, hips jerking as thick ropes spilled over his fist, painting his stomach.

They stayed connected, panting, screens still open. No rush to speak.

After a long minute he huffed a quiet laugh, wiping his hand on the sheet. “Just friends helping friends, right?”

“Right.” Her voice was wrecked, smile shaky. “Totally platonic.”

The lie hung between them, thinner than the camisole still clinging to her sweat-damp skin.

She didn’t bother fixing the fallen strap next time. He didn’t bother mentioning the heat.

The bar lights were too dim, the music too loud, Minho’s hands too careful. YN tried—god, she tried—to stay present. His mouth on her neck should have felt good; instead it registered as wrong texture, wrong pressure. Every slide of his fingers along her thigh echoed Jungkook’s low “slower… build the ache” in her head. She arched into the touch anyway, chasing the ghost of commands that weren’t his.

They made it to his apartment. Clothes shed in the hallway, bed sheets cool against her back. He settled between her legs, kissed down her stomach, and she closed her eyes—picturing dark ink curling over broad shoulders, a voice rough with control. When his tongue flicked her clit, tentative, she moaned without thinking.

“Jungkook…”

The name slipped out—soft, wrecked, unmistakable.

Minho froze. Pulled back. The silence was louder than the city outside.

“What?” His voice was flat, confused. “Who the fuck is Jungkook?”

She sat up fast, heart slamming. “Shit—Minho, I—”

He was already rolling off the bed, grabbing his boxers. “You’re serious right now? You’re thinking about someone else while I’m—” He gestured between them, face twisting. “Never mind. Just… get dressed.”

The ride home was silent except for the hum of the taxi. She stared out the window, thighs still slick with unspent want, shame burning hotter than arousal ever had.

Next FaceTime, two nights later. She answered in the same silk slip, hair loose, trying for casual. Jungkook appeared shirtless, study lamp casting harsh shadows across his clenched jaw.

“So?” he asked, voice even. Too even. “How’d it go with Minho?”

She forced a smile, light. “It was good. Really good, actually. Your tips worked. I didn’t freeze up or anything.”

His eyes narrowed—sharp, predatory. The flush on his neck wasn’t from heat this time. His hand flexed on the desk, knuckles white. “Glad it helped.” The words came out clipped, smile tight enough to crack.

She felt the shift like a door slamming. He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Tell me exactly how good.”

Her pulse kicked. “Just… good. I came. Twice.”

Something dark flickered across his face—jealousy, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t speak for a long second, just stared, breathing slow and deliberate.

“Twice.” He repeated it like tasting poison, not convinced. “Must’ve been real thorough, then.”

The air between pixels crackled, thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

The FaceTime connected at 1:14 a.m. Seoul time. No hello. No small talk. Jungkook’s face filled the screen—jaw locked, eyes black with something feral, shirt already gone, sweats shoved down just enough to free his cock. It stood thick and flushed in his fist, the head slick from the few strokes he’d already given himself before answering.

“Strip.” The word came out low, guttural. “Everything. Now.”

YN’s breath caught. She was still in the same sheer slip from earlier—thin straps, lace hem barely skimming her ass. Her hands moved before her brain caught up: fingers hooking the straps, sliding them off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her waist, then she pushed it down her hips, kicking it off the bed. Naked. Exposed. Camera angled low enough to show the sheen already coating her inner thighs.

“Legs wide. Let me see how fucking wet you are from lying to me.”

She spread her knees, hooking them over the edge of the mattress. Her pussy glistened under the lamp light—swollen, dripping, clit visibly throbbing. She didn’t touch yet. Waiting for permission like he’d trained her.

“Touch. Slow. Two fingers. Spread yourself open so I can watch.”

She obeyed, parting her folds with trembling fingers. The cool air hit her clit and she whimpered—soft, needy.

“Imagine it’s my mouth instead.” His voice dropped darker, filthy. “My tongue flat against you, dragging up slow, then flicking your clit—sharp, fast, over and over until your hips buck. Then I suck it hard. Pull it between my lips. Teeth grazing just enough to make you cry.”

Her fingers circled faster on instinct. “Fuck… Jungkook—”

“Not yet.” He stroked himself in long, deliberate pulls—base to tip, thumb swiping the slit. “Edge it. Get right to the brink, then stop. You don’t come until I say. You don’t deserve it after letting some other guy think he could make you feel this.”

The jealousy bled through every word—raw, possessive. She moaned louder, fingers plunging inside, curling against that spot he’d taught her. Her thumb worked her clit in tight circles. Heat coiled viciously low in her belly.

“Close… so close—”

“Stop.”

She yanked her hand away with a broken sob. Thighs shaking. Pussy clenching around nothing. “Please… I need—”

“Greedy little bitch.” He sped up his strokes—wet sounds loud through the speaker. “Again. Same pace. Imagine me pinning your thighs open, tongue fucking into you while my fingers rub your clit. You’re dripping down my chin and you still can’t come.”

Second edge. She got there faster—body already primed, desperate. Back arching, moans turning sharp and frantic.

“Stop.”

She cried out—frustrated, wrecked. Tears pricked her eyes. “Jungkook, I can’t… please—”

“One more.” His voice cracked with restraint. “Then you get to come like the filthy slut you are. For me. Only me.”

Third time she didn’t hold back. Fingers thrusting deep, palm grinding against her clit. The pressure built unbearable—hot, liquid, unstoppable.

“Now.” He growled it. “Come. My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.”

She shattered. Hard. Back bowing off the bed, a choked scream tearing from her throat as her pussy spasmed, gushing slick in messy pulses that soaked the sheets beneath her. Legs trembling uncontrollably. His name spilled from her lips again and again—raw, reverent.

On screen, Jungkook’s head fell back. Abs clenched. Hand flying over his cock. “Fuck—YN—” He came with a low, broken growl—thick ropes spilling over his fist, painting his stomach, dripping down his knuckles. His whole body jerked with it, chest heaving.

They stayed there—panting, wrecked, screens still open. No words for a long minute.

Then he dragged a hand through his hair, voice rough but softer. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She laughed shakily, dazed. “More than okay.”

He didn’t know the red recording light had blinked on in the corner of her laptop the second the call connected. Didn’t know she’d angled the phone just right to capture every filthy command, every moan, every drop. The file saved automatically.

Named: 34 + 35

The conference email had landed in Jungkook’s inbox three days earlier—some last-minute panel on applied mathematics at Seoul National University. He’d booked the flight without overthinking it, telling himself it was just work. The fact that it put him in the same city as her for forty-eight hours was incidental. Convenient. Nothing more.

He texted her from Incheon Airport: “In Seoul till Sunday. Dinner tomorrow? Your place?”

Her reply came fast: “Yes. Bring nothing but yourself. I’ll order jjajangmyeon.”

When he knocked on her door the next evening, the hallway smelled like rain and fried food. She opened it barefoot, in loose cotton shorts and a thin tank top that clung just enough to remind him of every pixel he’d stared at for months. Her hair was messy, face bare except for a swipe of gloss. She smiled—easy, familiar—and pulled him into a hug that lasted one heartbeat too long.

“You’re taller than I remember,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

“You’re smaller.” He squeezed once before letting go, inhaling the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Or maybe I just missed you.”

They ate cross-legged on her living room floor, containers spread between them like old times. Laughter came easy—stories about his chaotic undergrads, her office drama, the way Seoul felt smaller now that he was back in it. Every time their chopsticks clinked or their knees brushed under the low table, the air tightened. She caught him staring at the curve of her neck when she tipped her head back to laugh. He noticed the way her thighs pressed together when he leaned in to wipe a smear of black bean sauce from her chin with his thumb.

“You’ve got sauce… right here.” His voice stayed low, casual. His thumb lingered a second longer than necessary, pressing just enough to feel her pulse jump.

“Thanks.” She licked her bottom lip after, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Can’t have you thinking I’m a messy eater.”

“I already know you are.” The words came out darker than he meant. She didn’t flinch—just held his gaze until the moment stretched thin and hot.

They cleaned up in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing in the tiny kitchen. When she bent to load the dishwasher, the hem of her shorts rode up, exposing the soft crease where thigh met ass. He looked away too late. She straightened, smirking like she’d caught him.

“Couch is yours tonight,” she said, tossing him a spare blanket. “Unless you want the floor. Professor’s choice.”

“Couch is fine.” He caught the blanket, fingers brushing hers. “I don’t plan on sleeping much anyway.”

She paused in the doorway to her bedroom, one hand on the frame. “Jet lag?”

“Something like that.”

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then lower—quick, deliberate—before she disappeared down the hall. “Night, Jungkook.”

“Night.”

The apartment went quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and distant traffic. He tried to sleep. Tried scrolling his phone, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Nothing worked. The undercurrent from dinner still buzzed under his skin—every glance, every accidental touch replaying like a loop he couldn’t pause.

Around 2:37 a.m. he gave up. Sat up on the couch, blanket pooled around his waist. Her laptop sat open on the coffee table, screen dark except for a single glowing file icon in the middle of the desktop. Paused. Title: 34 + 35.

Curiosity—sharp, insistent—won.

He reached over, tapped the trackpad. The video resumed without warning.

His own voice filled the dim living room, low and filthy.

“Imagine my mouth instead—tongue flicking your clit, sucking hard.”

The camera angle was perfect: her on the bed, legs spread wide, fingers buried deep, back arched so hard her breasts lifted toward the ceiling. Sweat glistened on her skin. Her moans were desperate, broken—“Please… Jungkook, I can’t—”

His stomach dropped. Cock twitched instantly, thickening against the soft cotton of his sweats. He should have closed it. Should have shut the laptop, walked away, pretended he hadn’t seen.

He didn’t.

Instead he dragged the volume slider up a notch. Watched himself on screen—shirtless, hand working his length in brutal rhythm while he commanded her.

“Not yet, you greedy little bitch—hold it.”

Her body jerked at the denial, thighs trembling, a thin string of slick connecting her fingers to her entrance. She sobbed his name again—raw, pleading. Then the permission came.

“Now. Come. My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.”

She shattered. Back bowing off the mattress, a choked scream ripping out as she gushed—messy, uncontrollable pulses soaking the sheets beneath her. Her hips bucked like she was riding his face, his cock, anything to chase the aftershocks. On screen, his groan followed seconds later—low, wrecked—thick ropes spilling over his fist.

Jungkook’s breathing turned shallow. He was rock-hard now, painfully so, the head of his cock leaking against the fabric. He palmed himself once—slow, testing—through the sweats. The friction sent a jolt straight up his spine.

He replayed the last thirty seconds. Her face when she came—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream, his name falling from her lips like prayer. Again. The sound of her squirting, wet and obscene. Again. His own voice growling “my filthy slut” like ownership.

His hand slipped under the waistband. Wrapped around himself. One slow stroke—base to tip—spreading pre-cum. Another. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, eyes glued to the screen where she was still trembling through aftershocks, fingers still inside herself, milking every last pulse.

The video looped back to the beginning. “Strip. Everything. Now.”

He sped up—fist tight, rhythm matching the frantic pace he’d set on cam months ago. His abs clenched, breath coming in harsh pants. The couch creaked under him. He didn’t care. All he could see was her—writhing, begging, coming undone because of him. For him.

He imagined walking into her room right now. Waking her with his mouth between her thighs. Making her come again—real this time, not pixels. Making her say his name while he fucked her through it, slow and deep, until she couldn’t remember anyone else’s.

The edge hit fast. Too fast. He groaned low—her name tangled in it—hips jerking as he spilled over his fist, hot and thick, soaking his sweats and the blanket. His whole body shuddered with it, vision blurring for a second.

Silence rushed back in. The video kept playing—her soft whimpers fading into heavy breathing.

The apartment was still dark except for the blue glow spilling from the laptop on the coffee table. YN had woken with a dry throat, the sheets tangled around her legs, body still humming from dreams she couldn’t quite shake. She padded barefoot down the hallway in the tiniest sleep slip she owned—black silk, barely grazing the tops of her thighs, thin straps already slipping off her shoulders, no bra, no panties. Just skin and want.

She stopped dead in the doorway to the living room.

Jungkook was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the screen. The video was paused on a single frame: her own face mid-orgasm, mouth open in a silent scream, his voice frozen mid-sentence somewhere off-camera. “My filthy slut—come all over your hand while I watch you fall apart.” The timestamp glowed in the corner. He’d watched the whole thing. Multiple times, judging by the way his breathing was still uneven, the obvious ridge straining against his sweats.

He didn’t flinch when he saw her. Just lifted his gaze slowly—dark, unreadable, pupils blown wide.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she whispered, voice cracking on the last word.

He stood. Slow. Deliberate. Every inch of the movement predatory, like a predator deciding the chase was over.

“Why keep it?” His voice was low, rough from lack of sleep and something darker. He took one step toward her. “Why label it ‘34 + 35’ and leave it right there on your desktop like a fucking invitation?”

She swallowed hard. The air between them felt flammable. “Because…” Her back hit the wall as he closed the distance. “Because when you’re gone—when it’s just me and the silence—it gets me off harder than anything else. Hearing you call me your slut. Watching you lose control because of me. I replay it until I can’t breathe. Until I come so hard I cry.”

The confession hung there—raw, shameless.

Something snapped in his expression. Not anger. Hunger. Pure, unfiltered need.

He crossed the last two strides in a heartbeat. One hand slammed against the wall beside her head; the other fisted the front of her slip and yanked her forward. Their mouths crashed together—rough, desperate, no preamble. His tongue pushed past her lips immediately, claiming, tasting the faint mint of her toothpaste and the lingering sweetness of the jjajangmyeon from earlier. She moaned into it—loud, broken—fingers digging into his bare shoulders, nails biting skin.

He tasted like coffee and restraint finally gone.

He spun her so her front pressed to the wall, cheek against cool plaster. The slip rode up instantly, exposing her ass. His erection ground against her from behind—thick, hot, insistent—while his free hand dragged up her thigh, bunching the silk until it bunched at her waist.

“You’ve been getting off to me for months,” he growled against her ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fucking yourself raw to my voice while I was on the other side of the world, clueless. You think I’m not gonna make you pay for that?”

“Please,” she gasped, hips pushing back against him instinctively. “I need it. Need you.”

“You’ll get it.” His hand slid between her legs—two fingers plunging straight into her soaked heat without warning. She cried out, knees buckling. He caught her around the waist, holding her upright. “So fucking wet already. Dripping down your thighs just from watching me watch you. Pathetic.”

He pumped his fingers once, twice—curling hard against that spot that made her vision white—then pulled out. She whimpered at the loss.

“On your knees.”

She dropped without hesitation, carpet burning her skin. He shoved his sweats down; his cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, the head already slick with pre-cum. She opened her mouth automatically, tongue out, but he fisted her hair instead, tilting her head back.

“Not yet.” He stroked himself once—slow, deliberate—letting the tip drag across her bottom lip, smearing wetness. “You don’t get to taste until I’ve had mine.”

He hauled her up by the hair, spun her again, bent her over the back of the couch so her ass was high, chest pressed to the cushions. The slip was rucked up around her waist now—useless. He kicked her feet wider.

“Look at you.” His palm cracked against her ass—sharp, stinging. She jolted, moaning. “Ass up, pussy dripping, begging for it like the greedy little slut you are.”

Another slap. Harder. The sound echoed. Her skin bloomed red instantly.

“Say it.”

“I’m your greedy little slut,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Please—fuck me. I need your cock.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease in. One brutal thrust and he was buried to the hilt—thick, stretching her open in one go. She screamed—half pain, half pleasure—nails digging into the couch fabric.

“Fuck—tight,” he groaned, hips snapping forward again. “Been dreaming about this cunt for months. Squeezing me like you were made for it.”

The pace was merciless from the start—deep, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, his balls hitting her clit with every thrust. One hand wrapped around her throat from behind—not choking, just possessive—fingers pressing just enough to make her head spin. The other cracked down on her ass again, then again, turning it bright red.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, pace brutal. “Me fucking you raw while my voice still echoes in your head? While you’re still clenching around the memory of my fingers?”

“Yes—god, yes—” She was babbling now, words slurring. “Harder. Deeper. Mark me. Make me yours.”

He pulled out suddenly—leaving her empty, aching—and flipped her onto her back on the couch. Legs spread wide, slip torn at one strap so one breast spilled free. He hooked her knees over his shoulders, folded her in half, and slammed back in—deeper angle, hitting that spot relentlessly.

“Look at me.” His hand gripped her jaw, forcing her eyes to his. “You don’t get to close them. You watch while I ruin you.”

She obeyed—eyes glassy, lips swollen. He fucked into her harder, thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, fast circles.

“Come,” he ordered, voice raw. “Come on my cock like you came for the video. Scream my name. Let the whole fucking building know who owns this pussy.”

The command tipped her over. She shattered—back arching off the cushions, walls clamping down so hard he groaned like it hurt. A gush of wetness coated them both; she sobbed his name—“Jungkook—fuck—Jungkook—”—over and over as wave after wave ripped through her.

He didn’t stop. Kept pounding through it—chasing his own edge—until his rhythm stuttered. “Gonna fill you,” he snarled against her mouth. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

One last brutal thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside her—hot, thick pulses that made her clench again, milking him dry. His forehead dropped to hers, both of them shaking, sweat-slick, breathing like they’d run miles.

For a long minute, neither moved. The laptop was still open—video long since ended, screen dark. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something possessive neither of them wanted to name yet.

He pulled out slowly—watching his cum leak from her swollen entrance, mixing with her own wetness. She whimpered at the loss.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice softer now. He scooped her up—legs around his waist—and carried her to the bedroom. Laid her on the sheets still warm from her earlier sleep.

He stripped the ruined slip off her completely, then shed his sweats. Climbed in beside her, pulling her back to his chest, one arm banded around her waist, the other sliding between her thighs to cup her possessively.

“We’re not done,” he whispered against her ear, already half-hard again against her ass. “Not even close.”

She shivered, pressing back into him. “Good.”

The city lights flickered through the curtains. Dawn was still hours away.

And neither of them was sleeping tonight.

The bedroom door barely clicked shut before Jungkook had her back on the mattress—face-down, ass up, still leaking his first load down her thighs. He didn’t give her time to catch her breath. One hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest to the sheets; the other guided his cock back inside her in one long, punishing slide. She gasped—raw, oversensitive walls fluttering around him.

“Thought we were done?” he murmured against her ear, hips already rolling in slow, deep circles that dragged every ridge along her front wall. “We’re just getting started.”

He fucked her like that for long minutes—lazy but brutal, grinding so deep she felt him in her stomach. Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his elbows, and folded her in half again. Missionary this time, but slower. Deeper. Every thrust deliberate, eyes locked on hers the entire time. No words—just the wet slap of skin, her sharp inhales, his low grunts when she clenched around him. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped onto her collarbone. She reached up, nails raking down his chest, leaving red trails over ink.

“Look at me,” he ordered when her eyes fluttered shut. “Watch while I fill you again.”

She did. Held his stare through the next orgasm—hers first, walls pulsing so hard he groaned like it hurt. Then his—hips stuttering, cock throbbing as he pumped another hot load deep inside her, so much it leaked out around him when he finally stilled.

They didn’t stay there long.

He carried her to the living room floor—rug burning her back as he laid her down, spread her thighs wide, and sank back in from above. Reverse this time: she straddled him facing away, ass bouncing as she tried to ride. He didn’t let her control it. Hands clamped on her hips, yanking her down hard onto every upward thrust, setting a punishing rhythm. His palm cracked against her ass—once, twice—until the skin glowed red again.

“Bounce harder,” he growled. “Show me how bad you wanted this.”

She obeyed—hips rolling, back arching, moans turning into sharp cries every time he bottomed out. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast circles until she came again—shaking, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs. He followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a low “Fuck—take it all.”

Next was the wall—her back slammed against it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms locked around his neck. He fucked her standing, gravity driving him deeper with every snap of his hips. One hand braced beside her head; the other gripped her throat—not choking, just possessive pressure that made her eyes roll. She bit his shoulder to muffle her screams when the next orgasm hit. He bit her neck in return—hard enough to bruise—growling against her skin as he came again, flooding her until it dripped down her thighs and onto the hardwood.

They stumbled to the kitchen. He lifted her onto the counter—cold granite shocking her overheated skin. Legs spread wide, heels hooked on the edge. He stepped between them, thrust back in without warning, pace brutal again. The sound of skin slapping echoed off the tiles.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” he rasped, watching his cock disappear into her over and over. “My cum, your cum—such a filthy fucking mess.”

He reached past her, yanked open the drawer she kept her toys in—the one he’d once casually recommended she buy from during one of their calls. The small bullet vibrator landed in his palm. He clicked it on—low buzz filling the room—then pressed it straight to her swollen clit.

“No—Jungkook—too much—”

“You’ll take it.” He kept thrusting—deep, steady—while the vibrations wrecked her. “Come again. Milk me dry.”

She shattered almost instantly—sobbing, thighs shaking uncontrollably, walls spasming so hard he cursed under his breath. He didn’t stop the toy. Kept it pressed firm while he fucked her through another, then another—orgasms stacking until tears streamed down her cheeks, pleasure so sharp it bordered pain. When he finally came again—growling her name, hips jerking—he pulled out just enough to watch the last creampie leak out, mixing with her slick on the counter.

Dawn was bleeding pink through the curtains by the time they made it back to the bed. Bodies slick with sweat, cum, and exhaustion. They collapsed—her sprawled across his chest, his arm banded around her waist like he was afraid she’d disappear.

No grand declarations. No whispered I-love-yous. Just heavy breathing and the faint scent of sex hanging thick in the air.

He reached for the sheet, dragged it over them, then used a corner to gently wipe the sweat and mess from between her thighs. His touch was careful now—almost tender. He traced the fresh hickey blooming on her neck with his thumb, low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Fucked you stupid,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

She laughed—hoarse, spent. “Worth it.”

His eyes drifted to the laptop still open on the nightstand. The file name glowed in the dim light: 34 + 35.

He quirked a brow, thumb still stroking her skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shifted—slow, deliberate—until she was straddling his hips again. His cock—still half-hard—twitched against her slick folds. She leaned down, lips brushing his, voice a soft, filthy whisper.

“Means I wanna 69 with you.”

She kissed him then—slow, deep, tongues sliding together like they had all the time in the world. He smirked against her mouth, hands sliding down to grip her ass—fingers digging in, pulling her flush so her wet heat dragged along his length.

“Noted,” he said, voice dark with promise. “But next time? You’re gonna beg for it properly.”

She rolled her hips once—teasing, testing. “Challenge accepted.”

The city outside woke slowly. Inside, they stayed tangled—marked, wrecked, irreversibly changed.

No going back.

masterlist taglist about me

A/N :

hi hi… i’m finally back after almost six months and i return with something very different from my usual style 👀

this one-shot is mostly smut very fast paced with a very light plot, heavily inspired by me looping 34+35 by ariana grande way too many times and honestly… i had way too much fun writing it.

if you enjoyed it, please show some love — reblogs, likes, comments, all of it really helps more than you know <3

i’ll be focusing on one-shots for a while as i get back into my rhythm before diving into series again. if you’d like to be tagged in future works, check out my taglist and let me know ♡

thank you for being here. truly.

thank you again for reading. really. it means a lot. ♡

— rie ⋆˚࿔ © luvvjayk 2025 · all rights reserved

[sunkissedcheekss]

Recent Reads

(mostly jk centred ficss)

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MDNI!!! 18+ STRICTLY

f-fluff, m-mature, a-angst

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Lie with you by @girlygguk (oneshot) (f,a)

-in which jungkook doesn't realise what he has until he just about loses it

Crazy by @girlygguk (twoshot) (f,s,a)

— you know it sounds twisted. that most people would see hyungwon as the perfect boyfriend. healthy, balanced, all the things that relationships should be. that's when you realised... you weren't like most people. but that's okay. because neither is jungkook.

Turn the lights off by @dailynnt (oneshot) (f,s,a)

-After your fiancé cheated on you, you seek solace at the elite Inferno club in the heart of Gangnam. There you meet a mysterious guy with tattoos, piercings, and charisma that makes you forget your pain. One night of passion, but will it end there?

Gameboy by @matchastwb (twoshot) (f,s,a)

-was it weird to fall in love with someone you’ve never met? maybe. but the guy you’ve been playing video games with for the past few months was simply too charming. unfortunately for you, he was already smitten with some girl in his economics class, and it also didn’t help that he thought you were a boy.

The perfect match by @matchastwb (series- smau+written-ongoing)

-the perfect match is a modern dating app that uses in-app quizzes to bring highly compatible people together based on their personalities, likes, dislikes, sense of humor, and even sexual kinks. so how the fuck did you get matched with your nasty neighbor?

mascot by @matchastwb (kth centred - oneshot) (f)

-when you are somehow roped into being the school's temporary mascot for a basketball game, star player kim taehyung (aka the guy you've had a massive crush on for the past two years) mistakes you for his friend and reveals a secret you would've never been able to guess.

Tenure by @keen-li (series-ongoing) (f,s,a)

-Tired of letting trauma and fear dictate your every move, you quit the job you’ve depended on and head to the city in search of something better -- a career, a life, maybe even yourself. Love is the last thing on your list. But then you meet someone who is both everything you’ve needed and everything you’ve run from, and together, you’ll have to decide what’s harder -- escaping yourselves, or escaping the other...

Popstar by @keen-li (series-ongoing) (f,s,a)

-Struggling artist Jungkook, who wants to be the biggest pop star, faces a dilemma when you come into the picture pregnant with his child: ruin his life or ruin his life. Which does he pick?

Daddy Kookie by @jkwrites-m (series-ongoing) (f,s,a)

-After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Just a Trend by @cupidsbling (series-ongoing) (f,s)

-On a random date night with Jungkook, you decide to do the viral Kiss your best friend trend on him to see his reaction.

Boyfriend Hotline by @matchastwb (smau-ongoing) (f,s,a)

-need a shoulder to cry on or someone to get you off late at night? fear not, because boyfriend hotline is a brand new app that will match you with someone who is more than happy to fulfill any of your boyfriend-related needs.

Apologise First by @cupidsbling (oneshot) (f,s,a)

-You and your boyfriend have a little argument, so he suggests something filthy and demented to decide who has to apologise first.

under the mistletoe by @dreamersparacosm (f,s,a)

-every christmas, since you were six years old, jeon jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. but when you were fifteen, you were replaced by a revolving door of girlfriends. thus began your decade-long aversion to the holiday—this year, however, you’ve been tasked with hosting the annual christmas soirée, and there’s no telling what might be waiting for you under the mistletoe this time around.

streamer jungkook x streamer yn by @ohhowjooniewept (oneshot)(f,s,a)

-confident, cocky jungkook who’s extremely down bad!!!!!!!!

mafia leader x mafia daughter by @ohhowjooniewept (oneshot) (f,s,a)

-dirty, dark and smutty

A glimpse of us by @gukcnt (f,s,a)

-a quiet winter morning where you, jungkook and your babyboy share the same cozy warmth and unspoken love that binds you all into one.

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so this is it for now, hoping to be back with more

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[jeons2k]

‎୨ৎ between rounds ׄ ׅ ׄ (1k special)

in which your boxer boyfriend comes home shattered after his first loss, and you decide the only way to heal his bruised ego is to give him the best head of his life.

pairing/genre. boxer!jungkook x fashion designer!oc, established relationship, fluff, smut (mdni)

warnings/tags. pwp, implied semi public sex, mentions of cuts and bruises, use of pet names (babe, sugar, doll), kissing, explicit sexual content: oral (m & f), name calling, they lwk make a mess, fluff

wc. around 4k

roxe’s notes. wsg fam... been working on this for like 2 months now heh (yes 2 months and yes it’s only 4k words..) & thought it would be a cute lil 1k special drabble (and yes its part of a drabble series) anw leave me ur thoughts & other drabbles (for this couple) ideas juseyo

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓎢𓎠୨ৎ𓎠𓎡

perm taglist. @hopelesslygreenbriar @sunainasworld @bajislove @jcnggukie @juggukies @j0cgr0c @mar-lo-pap @kimyishin @allysh @dionysusndifferent @gealkook @hisfavpiscesprincess @diablojjk @rustedaffections @osakis-gf @somisarchive @cholychi @vasilisaofthevalley @seokwrts @scarletreigns @renoirgoh @stillwithkooki @odetomeringue @yoanalovesyouuu @mimi1097 @mellyyyyyyx @sky-23s-world @sucker4jeon @angeleclipsey @bjoriis @gregalution

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓎢𓎠୨ৎ𓎠𓎡

the apartment smelled of garlic and seared steak.

you wiped your hands on a dish towel, sighing. jimin’s voice from earlier’s call still echoed in your head.

“he got his clock cleaned, babe. the other kid was faster. jungkook just… couldn’t adjust.”

“is he okay?” you’d asked, heart in your throat.

“physically? yeah, he’ll live, but mentally?” jimin had let out a low whistle. “he’s not taking it lightly, at all. he’s silent right now. and that’s kinda the scariest part, you know.”

you leaned against the kitchen counter. jungkook, your boyfriend, the boxer everyone talked about like he was some sort of a god. built like a wall, shoulders broad, arms thick from years of lifting and hitting things for a living. everything about him felt intimidating.

his whole life was built on a schedule; up at 4:45 am for roadwork. hit the gym by seven. ice baths that made him curse, meals measured out by the ounce, bed by ten. he didn’t complain about it. he liked the order. he liked knowing exactly what each day would demand. and that was, of course, before meeting you.

so ever since you started seeing each other, he’d have this one rule he never explained and never broke: you were not allowed, in any circumstances, to watch his fights. not live, not on a stream, nothing.

you’d asked early on, back when things were still new between the two of you. you’d offered to come along just to sit quietly, just to be there and support him. he’d brushed it off with a shrug. “it's boring, you'd hate it,” he said, not meeting your eyes.

later, when the crowds got bigger and his name started showing up online more often, you pushed harder. you remember standing in the bedroom while he packed his gym bag, tugging lightly at his arm, whining “come on, baby. i want to see you! everyone else’s girlfriend is probably there. i wanna be my man’s good luck charm too!"

he’d stopped packing then, turning to look at you. his jaw had tightened, just a little. “you don't need to see that,” he said, his voice low. “that part of my life isn’t for you,”

“everything about your life is for me!” you’d argued. “i see the videos jimin sends, you’re amazing baby, i swear!”

okay maybe you shouldn’t have said that last part, but it was too late to take it back.

his eyes flashed. “jimin sends you what? and you watch them?" he took a step closer. the energy in the room shifted. “so you’re doing stuff behind my back now?”

you’d pouted, crossing your arms. “you know what, that doesn't make any sense. i just want to be there for you."

he’d looked at you for a long moment, your defiant stance, your bottom lip jutting out. then, a slow, wicked smile had formed in his mouth. he didn’t argue anymore. he just closed the distance, his hands going to your hips, spinning you around to face the dresser. you’d let out a squeak of surprise.

“what are you– my client’s calling in two minutes!” you’d protested, even as your heart began to pound.

“then you better be quiet,” he’d murmured, his breath hot against your neck. he’d rucked up your skirt, shoved your panties aside, and entered you in one smooth, relentless thrust of his hips. you’d gasped, your hands flying out to brace against the wood, as you feel his length inside your walls.

your phone had rung then, your client’s name flashing on the screen. “jungkook ugh, stop, i have to–” you’d tried to whisper between shameless moans, but instead of slowing down, he’d set a deep, punishing thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs.

“answer it sugar,” he’d growled, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you back onto him harder. “fucking answer it.”

somehow, you’d swiped to answer, your voice breathless and strained as you’d managed a “..hello? yes, i’m here.” the entire call was a blur of your barely there answers, as you were trying your best to conceal your moans, while jungkook fucked you with a focused intensity he usually reserved for the heavy bag. every thrust was a claim, a way of telling you that this is what you get. this is your part of me. the ring is his, only his to deal with.

you’d had to bite your own fist to stifle your moans, your body coiling tighter and tighter until you’d shattered, your orgasm hitting you so hard you’d seen stars, your forehead pressed against the cool wood of the dresser as you’d struggled to keep your voice even for the client on the phone.

afterward, as you’d hung up, limp and shaking, he’d turned you around, kissed you hard, and smoothed your skirt down. “see?” he’d said, his thumb brushing your swollen lips. “you don't need to be at the fights. you’ve got a front row seat right here doll.”

your phone buzzed on the counter. a text from jimin.

jimboo:

heads up, ur man’s… not good 😬 js put his fist through a locker n smashed a chair

promoters r lowk pissed

you bit your lip, typing back.

you:

omg my poor baby is mad 😔

if only i was there, i could distract him

jimboo:

trust me, you don’t wanna be here. this guy’s going nuts

how do you even deal w him when you guys argue??

a small smile touched your lips. jungkook hated fighting with you. he’d either shut down, or get you bent over somewhere while he fucks you senseless. most importantly, he’d never, ever, raise his voice or fists at you. that ring beast was locked away tight when he was with you.

you:

it’s a secret 🥴

anw do you know when he’s heading back?

jimboo:

ew u freak

he js stormed out prob heading ur way now

seriously tho… maybe don’t provoke him like you usually do, yeah? a bro to his bro’s gf advice

you read the text, a plan instantly forming in your mind. provoking jungkook when he was in a mood was your specialty; a teasing comment here, a challenging smirk there. it never failed to break the tension, always made him smile or extremely turned on. but jimin was right. this time was a little different. this time there was a loss. a first, public, shattering loss for a man who built his whole identity on winning.

you:

who said anything ab provoking? im gonna do smt way better 😼

you put the phone down, screen facing the counter. you walked quickly to your bedroom, your heart starting to beat a little faster. you stood in front of the mirror to check yourself, you looked… domestic. cozy leggings, an old t-shirt of jungkook. definitely not ‘make him drop to his knees and eat your pussy’ enough.

you rummaged on your vanity for your lip gloss, the one that made your lips look shiny and gave the just-kissed illusion, and swept a quick brush of cream blush over your cheeks. not too much. just enough to look alive and pretty.

you went to your closet. and there it was, hanging in the back; your short, baby pink skirt he’d bought you on a whim. “turn for me,” he’d said, his voice a low growl in your ear at the store, “fuck, makes your ass look absolutely delicious babe.” you paired it with a white lacy delicate cropped top, with a small pink satin bow tied right at the center. underneath, you wore the new lingerie set you’d been saving; a deep blush color, all lace and straps, that pushed your breasts up and made them look fuller. you looked at your reflection; sweet little treat.

you knew jungkook more then anyone in this world. you knew his ego, his insane drive. he didn’t believe in losing. he only believed in hard work and inevitable victory. so you know this loss wouldn’t just bruise his body; it had cracked his entire worldview. he’d be coming home furious, humiliated, and locked deep inside himself.

the steak was resting, and the potatoes were creamy, just like the way he preferred them. the food was one thing, just a little peace offering, a tiny attempt to make him feel better. but you? you were the real plan. you were going to remind him, without saying a single word, of what he had here. something no one in that ring could ever touch or take from him. you took a deep breath, adjusted the little pink bow on your top, and went to wait.

. . .

when you heard the door opening, you took a quick breath, pasted on a soft smile, and walked into the entryway with hurried steps.

jungkook filled the doorway, his shoulders slumped. he was still in his black shorts and the fitted gray sponsor’s shirt, now stained with sweat and something dark that might have been blood. a fresh cut split the end of his left eyebrow, held together by a single butterfly strip. his knuckles were swollen and scraped raw.

“hi baby,” you said, your voice bright and warm against the cold silence he brought in with him.

you moved closer to him, wrapping your arms around his torso, feeling the tension in him. you went up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to the hard line of his jaw.

"missed you," you murmured against his skin.

for a second, he didn't move at all. but then his hand came up and landed on your ass. not in the usual grab, not in the playful smack that would make you yelp and laugh. it was just a small little pat. a flat, distracted touch, like he was checking to make sure you were there. then his hand dropped, and he gently pushed you back, just enough to break your hold on him.

he walked past you without a word, heading straight down the hall to your shared bedroom.

you stood there, arms falling to your sides. “okay then,” you muttered to the empty space he’d left behind. “ugh he really is mad.” he didn't kiss you back. he didn't even look at you properly, or else you’re sure he’d have grunted a “hey, pretty girl” or told you that skirt was gonna get you in trouble.

you heard the bathroom door shut, and a moment later, the sound of the shower running hard. you let out a sigh. okay, shower time.

you used the time to move quickly, setting the small dining table. you lit the two candles in the center (cheesy yeah, but anything to set up the mood) and plated the food carefully. it looked so good. it looked like... love. jungkook was going to like this so much, you just knew it.

by the time he was finished, the table was set and the food was steaming. he walked into the living area, hair damp and darker, wearing just a pair of soft sweatpants low on his hips. the fresh bruises on his ribs and shoulders were a sickly yellow at the edges. his face looked so closed off, so distant, so cold.

“hey baby,” you said, keeping your tone light. “i made your favorite. come eat before it gets cold, okay?”

he didn’t answer, just pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. he picked up his fork and knife and began to eat. he didn’t glance at the candles, nor did he look at you. he just ate, his eyes focused on something a thousand miles away. no “thank you,” no “this is great, babe.” nothing. and you couldn’t lie, this was begining to piss you off.

you picked at your own food, the silence tightening around you. you watched him. he was almost done, chewing his last bite, but you could tell he wasn’t really tasting it. his eyes had that flat, faraway look.

in reality, jungkook was back in the ring, replaying that moment, that one second where he’d slipped, where he’d been a tiny fraction too slow. how did he let that happen?

you pushed your chair back. he didn’t even notice. you walked over to him, and before he could react, you were carefully settling yourself sideways onto his lap. your pink skirt rode up high on your thighs. you leaned into him, the lacy top of your crop top brushing his chest, putting your face close to his.

he blinked, finally pulled back to the present. he looked down at you, his expression still unreadable.

you let out an annoyed huff. “i know you’re mad about the fight. i get it. but it’s just one fight, jungkook. one!” you poked his chest gently. “are you really gonna ignore your pretty girlfriend who cooked your favorite meal and got all dolled up for you,” you said, gesturing vaguely at yourself, “just because of a stupid fight? hmm?”

his gaze traveled from your eyes, down to the top you were wearing, to the skirt he loved so much. a flicker of something passed through his eyes.

so that was it, he thought. he’d noticed the skirt the second he walked in, even through his fog of anger. he loved that skirt. he’d also smelled the rosemary and steak before you’d even said a word. so you’d done all of this. for him.

a long, slow breath escaped him. the stiff line of his shoulders softened, just a fraction. his big hands came up and settled on your bare thighs, his thumbs beginning to rub slow, gentle circles on your tender skin. his touch was warm and surprisingly soft for his hard hands.

“i’m not ignoring you, babe,” he said, his voice. it was the first thing he’d said since coming home. “i’m just… i’m not really in the mood for anything right now. my head’s all over the place.”

“i know your head’s a mess,” you whispered in a soft voice. “so, can you just, stop thinking for me?”

you leaned in and kissed him. it wasn’t like one of those hungry messy kisses you’d usually share, this one was slow and deep, a deliberate attempt to pull his mind out of that stupid ring and back into this room, back to you.

your lips moved gently against his, your tongue tracing his mouth until he let out a low groan and finally kissed you back. his hands tightened on your thighs.

when you finally broke the kiss, you kept your forehead resting against his, catching your breath. your lips were just a whisper away from his when you spoke, barely audible. “just let me take care of you, babe.”

your hand slid down his stomach, over his hard pecks, and cupped him through the fabric of his sweatpants. he was big, so big even if he wasn’t hard yet, a heavy weight in your palm. you smirked giving him a gentle squeeze.

jungkook stiffened like you’d shocked him. his hand closed around your wrist, not hard but in a firm grip. “don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “you don’t need to do that.”

you ignored him, leaning in to press a soft kiss just bellow his ear. you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, fluttering your lashes. “but i want to,” you said, your voice sweet, thick with fake innocence.

before he could process the words, you were sliding off his lap and onto your knees on the floor between his spread thighs.

“fuck,” jungkook breathed, the word punched out of him.

the sight was enough to make him feel dizzy. you on your knees looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted. and that fucking excuse of a lacy top, he could already see your harden nipples pressing against the fabric, begging to be released. and that damned skirt. he just knew if he looked over, your ass would be sticking out, pleading for his hand to leave a hard spank on it.

fucking hell, he could already picture himself grabbing a fistful of your hair and shoving you down onto him, fucking that pretty, pouty mouth until you choked. his cock, against his will, gave a painful throb just from the single thought.

but then he saw it again. the meal, the careful setup, the offering. it was a pity fuck. the rage from the fight came blooming inside of him again.

“get up,” he said, voice dropping into the low tone he used to intimidate rookies at the gym. “now.”

you didn’t flinch. you knew you were acting like a stubborn little bitch, you were the only person who’d ever dare to act like this with him. so you leaned forward, letting your breasts press against the growing bulge in his sweats.

you looked up through your lashes, “how can you ask me to get up,” you murmured, your breath warm through the fabric, “when i’m just trying to please you?” you gave a slow roll of your chest against him. you felt his hard length twitch. “hmm? what kind of boyfriend says no to that?”

jungkook cursed. his hands clenched into fists on his thighs, knuckles white. “get on your fucking feet. right now.” the hard of his command was undermined by the way his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards, seeking more of the pressure.

you didn’t move. a slow knowing smirk played on your lips. you had him. the furious set of his jaw, the desperate conflicted heat in his eyes, the rock hard of his desire sitting right in front of your face, begging to be freed. he was coming apart, and it had nothing to do with the fight anymore.

without another word of warning, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and briefs, his cock springing free, already hard and flushed. he let out a sharp ragged breath.

oh god, fuck. you licked your lips slowly, his pink tip was already filled with precum, the veins around his cock were pulsing with each breath you left. you leaned in and placed a soft kiss right on the wet head, you felt him twitch against your mouth. you trailed your lips down his length, all the way to the base in, nuzzling gently at his balls.

“fuck,” he gasped, his thighs tightening on either side of you. “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

you glanced up at him through your lashes. his jaw was clenched, his eyes hooded, watching your every move with intensity that made your own stomach tighten. you slowly dragged the flat of your tongue all the way back up to the trip in one long teasing stroke.

his control snapped. “fuck, babe, just like that, hm?” his voice already ragged, his breath becoming shallow as he fought the urge to grab your head and fuck your face. “you love this, huh? my pretty little slut.”

you giggled and gave him a happy hum, before you opened your mouth and took him in. he was so big, stretching your lips, filling your mouth. you hollowed your cheeks and sucked.

“fuck!” he groaned, his hands, which had been limp at his sides, came flying to your hair. not gently.

you began to bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass, your tongue working on the sensitive underside.

“that’s it, suck on my cock. you’re such a slut for it aren't you? look at you... fuck, prettiest girl in the whole fucking planet.”

he fists on your strands tightened, holding you in place as he began to move his hips, thrusting forward. you relaxed your throat, letting him push deeper until you gagged, the wet, choked sound filled the room.

“that’s it, choke on it. just like that. fuck, your mouth’s fucking amazing babe.”

he started to move harder now, fucking your mouth with slow deep rolls of his hips. saliva spilled from your lips, coating your chin, making a mess.

you were a complete mess, and from the way he was groaning, praising you, telling you how perfect you looked, it was exactly what he needed.

you felt him swell, his thrusts growing sloppier. “gonna– fuck, i’m gonna–”

he pulled himself from your mouth with a wet pop, and you gasped, dragging in a lungful of air, your throat sore and raw. he didn’t give you a second to recover as he fisted his own shaft, his eyes locked on your face, and with a few rough pumps, he came all over your chest, the thick hot stripes of his cum dripping onto your pink skirt below. you sat back on your heels, panting tear streaked, spit slick, cum covered mess. your thighs were clenching hard, your whole body was shaking.

jungkook looked down at you, his chest heaving. he let out a long, slow groan, the sound of pressure being released. you thought he was done. you thought you’d pulled him back.

but then he moved. in one smooth motion, he leaned down, hooked his hands under your arms, and hauled you up onto the couch, turning you so you were lying on your back against the cushions. he loomed over you, caging you in, his eyes dark and possessive.

he ran a thumb through the mess on your chest, then brought it to your lips smearing it. “you been such a fucking good girl for me,” he murmured, his voice wrecked. “took me so good, huh?”

he kisses you, deep and hungry, sharing his own taste with you. then he pulled back, his hands going to your hips. “now, spread your legs for me, yeah? let me see that little pussy that’s all mine. been waiting for me, hasn’t it?”

you let out a weak purr, trying to gather your thoughts. “jungkook... you don’t have to. i’m okay, i promise. i just wanted to show you... you’re still the winner to me, the only one that matters.”

he went very still, looking down at you, émotions flashing in his eyes, a fierce overwhelming tenderness. you smiled softly, reaching up to touch his bruised cheek.

he cursed under his breath, a raw, emotional sound. “i don’t fucking deserve you,” he muttered, but his hands were already moving. he hooked his hands under your knees, spreading your legs apart. his fingers worked on the soaked lace of your panties, pulling them aside, and before you could say another word, he burried his face between your thighs, placing a deep open mouthed kiss right on your core.

you cried out, your hands flying to his hair. he licked a broad hungry stripe through your folds. “fuck babe, you taste like heaven,” he growled, so low you almost didn’t hear it. “i don’t fucking deserve you.” he breathed, the words vibrating against your clit before he sucked it into his mouth.

“jungkook!” you shrieked, trying to buck, but he held your legs open with impossible strength, eating you out like a starved man. you were so wound up from sucking him that you were already right on edge, your climax building fast, a dizzying pressure coiling in your belly.

“so fucking delicious,” he muttered, lapping at you, then teasing your entrance with the very tip of his tongue. “fucking perfect doll. love you. fuck, i love you so much. i’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

you were sobbing, pleading, a whining mess. your legs began to shake violently. he flickered on your clit with restless precious until you completely shattered. your orgasm hit you like a truck, tearing a scream from your dry throat. your back arched off the couch, your thighs clamping around his head as you shook uncontrollably.

he didn’t stop. he lapped up every drop of your release, humming with deep satisfaction against your now sensitive pussy.

when you finally collapsed, exhausted. he moved up your body. his chin was glistening with your juices. he came face to face with your fucked out, tear streaked expression and kissed you gently, tasting yourself on his tongue.

he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “forget the damn fight,” he whispered, his voice raw with émotion. “forget all of it. they can have the fucking belts, the headlines. none of it means a damn thing. i already won.” he kissed you again, softer this time. “and you’re my prize, doll.”

[gukcnt]

BOUND BY VOWS 【 CHAPTER 13 — SNEAK PEEK 】

warnings : 18+, explicit smut scene below

you felt like you were going insane.

you just wanted to scream.

you lay there on the bed, your mouth parted in a cry that never really ended and the vibe inside you still hummed faintly or you didn’t know if you were imagining it.

were you? your mind couldn’t catch up to the on and off of pleasure.

you were still confused.

your thighs clenched as your body ached from the endless edging he'd put you through in the past hour.

you stared at him with a pitiful look on your face, your thighs still spread as he stood up slowly.

he rolls his shoulders like he's shrugging off the tension and then just randomly grabs a cigarette, lighting it calmly as if it were something normal.

as if he didn’t have you seconds away from an orgasm and now he was pretending like nothing just happened.

the candlelight illuminates his face, his jaw clenched but his eyes held something amused.

he exhales smoke, almost looking like an animal ready to pounce at you and he looked like it was taking every ounce of his restraint to hold himself back.

“where are you going?”

your voice cracks.

he doesn’t look back at you because if he did, he’d give in.

he wanted to make you suffer like he did.

he wanted you to feel what it feels like to deny yourself something that has been tempting you for days slowly.

how it feels to starve when the meal is right there.

“to smoke or take a shower, maybe jerk off in the guest bathroom before i break something.” he replies roughly.

“you wanted to play games tonight baby so let’s play.”

he was really doing it.

really fucking doing it.

he was about to walk away leaving you like this, a trembling desperate mess on the bed with rose petals scattered around you like some cruel romantic joke.

while the vibrator was still inside you, stretching you open which he’d turned off minutes ago because he could.

yes, he could.

as if it wasn’t your body anymore that he could control it however he wanted to and that’s what he’s been doing in the past week.

your heart pounded loudly and all your thoughts drowned out except the emptiness in your pussy.

you don’t know what possessed you suddenly, maybe it was the days of sexual frustration and the way he'd teased you continuously.

it was building up and threatened to burst any moment now.

probably it’s the sight of him looking like a sex demon with his loosened tie, sleeves rolled up with veins visible and so obviously having a soaked boner in his pants that you’ve ground against minutes ago.

whatever it was, it snaps something inside you as you sit up almost furiously.

his back faces you and as he starts taking steps toward the door, you don’t even think before your shyness or hesitation can come back in.

you're moving.

you didn’t even recognize yourself because it was so unlike you.

you launch off the bed as your hand shoots out to grab the collar of his shirt, fingers twisting hard enough for him to turn around.

your sudden yank catches him off guard as his cigarette drops to the floor and he stumbles towards you, his eyes widening in genuine shock.

you were never one to initiate intimacy and he was struggling to catch up with this new sight of you.

this boldness.

because this was what he wanted—to push you and push you until you let out the real rawness inside you.

fuck he was a dead man.

you don’t stop.

you slam into him hard enough that your nails scrape over his exposed chest and he falls back onto the bed.

“shitt.” he grunts.

you don’t even let him think before you climb over him, straddling his hips completely naked, your nipples hard and tight from all his earlier torment.

you felt lewd and obscene but you didn't care.

the shock vanished from his face, now replaced with feral hunger.

he's staring at you like he's never seen you before like you've finally broken something open between you both.

and there's no going back.

your hand fisted his hair, pulling it loose from his manbun and harshly yanking his head towards you so you can crash your mouth against his.

the kiss is messy and angry.

it was all tongue and teeth until it felt like both of you were one.

you bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood and he hisses, hands flying to your waist gripping you tight and kissing you back with equal fervor.

he sucks and bites on your tongue to take his sweet little revenge but you weren’t someone to back off as you eat at his mouth.

he turned you into this so he better deal with it.

and he lived for this shit.

he loved his woman taking what she wants from him.

you suddenly rip at his shirt, causing buttons to fly and the fabric to tear until his chest was fully bare.

you rake your nails down his chest and abs leaving red marks.

putting your marks on him.

the pain makes him groan low in his throat as he gropes your ass cheek pulling you to him harder causing your cunt to brush against his bulge.

he growls again as he feels how much you're burning and dripping at the same time.

his hair has finally come undone from the manbun and you tangle your fingers deeper there, holding him exactly where you want him.

you pull away when you can’t keep up anymore and breathe like you’ve run miles, your chest heaving as your pussy clenches around the dead vibe still inside you.

tears of pure frustration well at your eyes as you pull back just enough to glare down at him.

“you’re all bark and no bite, jeon jungkook.” you spat

your voice shakes with rage and need.

it was nothing like the shy whispers he's used to from you.

“a weak fucking man. you’ve been pushing me for days making me beg, making me crazy and now you’re going to walk away? you know what? fine.”

your lips curl in a mocking way.

“i’ll go find someone who’ll actually fuck me and who doesn’t play games.”

jungkook's eyes darken instantly, the playful smirk gone from his face as his jaw clenches so hard that you can see the muscle jump.

“what the fuck did you just say?”

he surges up one hand shooting to your throat, not squeezing or choking you just holding, thumb pressing against your racing pulse as you gasp.

it wasn’t meant to scare you but to show you who you belonged to.

and for a fact the action itself made you hornier, if that was even possible as you stare at him with dazed eyes because this is what you wanted.

wanted him to have his way with you and not hold back.

his other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back sharply and you let out an almost pornographic moan at the feeling.

“say that again.” he snarls.

“go on, i dare you to say that you’re gonna let another man touch you one more fucking time.”

you bare your teeth, your breasts bouncing with all your excited breaths.

“maybe i will. maybe i’ll even let him take me in the ass. the way you keep promising and never do it, he will probably even do a better job—”

in one brutal surge he sits up, cutting off your words and flips you beneath him, manhandling you like you weigh nothing.

he pins both of your wrists above your head with one hand.

your words make him see red.

he will kill any man with his bare hands even if he breathes in your direction.

forget letting him touch you.

jungkook would take his life slowly and he'd make you watch.

that's it.

he was done being gentle and tonight he was going to show you how hard he can make you regret it.

“you think you can say that shit to me? watch your fucking mouth y/n.”

his hand guides your palm against his slacks as his hips buck up hard, letting you feel what you do to him and how hard he was for you.

“you’ve been pushing me baby. grinding on my office table like a desperate little girl, sending me videos of that pretty pussy while i'm in meetings and now you wanna act like a brat?”

he shoves you back slightly just enough to stand up from the bed, towering over you as his hands go to his belt.

the clink of metal loud in the silence.

the noise makes you grip the sheets with anticipation as you bite your lower lip.

he undoes it with angry movements and shoves his pants and boxers off in one go.

his thick cock springs free, slapping against his stomach.

it looked so intimidating and big like this, bobbing heavily between his thighs.

even now you wondered how he'd ever fit inside you.

he fists the base of his length, stroking it with his eyes locked onto yours fiercely.

“open your mouth.” he orders.

you glare at him, still wanting to see what he’d do about it

wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine.

he leans down until his lips brushes your ear.

“open that little fucking mouth before i make you sweetheart.”

you're still trembling with adrenaline and you cannot deny yourself what you so badly need so you obey instantly.

your body on autopilot for him.

your lips part and tongue out, waiting for him.

he steps closer as the head of his cock brushes your bottom lip, smearing precum there.

“you wanna call me weak? then i'll show you what i can do. you will let me won't you? hmm you want my cock that bad?”

his nostrils flare.

he grips your cheek, tipping your head up.

he gives your head a loving stroke as his cock was just an inch from your lips and you eye it like it’s the sweetest candy.

“you really want it rough tonight angel?”

you nod frantically against his palm, tears still leaking and he grins.

“say it.”

“i want it rough p—please.” you rasp.

“i want you to fuck me like you hate me. like you’ve wanted to break me for weeks.”

you rush out shamelessly.

you’ve never sounded more confident and surer as his eyes blacken impossibly.

goddamn.

he couldn’t believe this was his sweet innocent wife, the same girl who once ran away from him and asked him to teach her how to give him head so innocently...

he was speechless for a moment.

“do you remember the safe word?” he demands

“red.” you breathe.

“louder.”

“red!” you sobbed impatiently.

“atta girl…”

he smiles slowly, almost terrifyingly and it makes your thighs squeeze together for what's about to come next.

“now get on your knees. we’re just getting started.”

both of you knew the night wouldn't end anytime soon.

a/n: i’m REALLY sorry for keeping y’all waiting for so long but here’s the sneak peek like i promised (the real fun stuff is still in the main chapter ehehe 😈) i’ve been writing this very big chapter for y’all and i’m almost done!!! i will try to upload the full chapter within a week, i'll let y’all know, love you babes and thank you so much for your patience <33

[mintedagustd]

Rough sex, whatever that is

[dreamersparacosm]

no warranty | jjk | teaser

A rebuttal lingers on the tip of your tongue, but before you can say another word, he pulls up in front of your rental. It’s an adorable, quaint townhouse at the end of a quiet street. The house is painted a soft lavender color and the owner placed flower boxes in the windows that you haven’t managed to kill yet. Miracle of miracles.

He slows to a stop in front of it, engine rumbling low, and lets out a low whistle. “Nice lil place you got, princess.”

“Mhm.” You twist your ring again and again. On the one hand, you can enter your home, sip a glass of wine, and go right to bed. Maybe get in a little time with your rose toy. But on the other hand… well, your other option is sitting cozy in the driver's seat.

This is stupid. This is so stupid. But you say it anyway: “Wanna come inside?”

He turns to look at you, one eyebrow arched. The smirk is gone, jaw clenching. His eyes drag over your face. “Whaddya want me to do if I come in?”

Oh fuck. He’s calling your bluff but you’re in too deep now to untangle yourself from the mess you’ve made.

You smile at him innocently. Your hand comes up to twirl a strand of hair around your finger. You know you’re laying it on thick, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “We could drink tea.”

His jaw ticks. “Yeah? You like tea?”

You nod, batting your eyelashes. “Love it. It’s very relaxing.”

He grunts in response to that.

You drone on, “I have chamomile, lavender, green tea—”

His hand lands on your thigh. It’s heavy and warm and his fingers splay across your skin, just above your knee, thumb pressing into the inside of your thigh through your jeans. So big it practically takes up your entire leg.

His eyes are dark, locked on yours. “If I come into your house, we’re not drinking tea.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Oh yeah? What would we do?”

His hand slides higher. Not by much, but enough that your thighs involuntarily clench. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I’d get you out of these tight little jeans,” he says, casual as anything, like he’s talking about the weather or those stupid teas you brought up. “Spread you out on whatever expensive furniture you got in there. And I’d make you admit you’re a princess everywhere… including in bed.”

Oh good god.

Your thighs clench again, trapping his hand between them. You can feel how wet you are, how your body is screaming yes, please, take me upstairs right now and have your way with me while your brain tries to maintain some composure.

His eyes drop to where your thighs have trapped his hand, grin turning downright filthy. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Then, he pulls his hand away. A whimper escapes your lips at the loss of contact.

“But I gotta head home,” he says, settling both hands back on the steering wheel. “Long day tomorrow. Your car’s not gonna fix itself.”

You stare at him. “Are you—you’re serious?”

“Deadly.” He looks over at you nonchalantly, like you’re now nothing more than a pest in his truck. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the afternoon for your car.”

rating. M for mature. explicit smut.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| should i stay or should i go by the clash

estimated word count. 10k

release date: january 12th, 2026.

[mintedagustd]

[words-in-purple]

｡⋆𓇼 unfortunately yours | jjk | day seven

synopsis: you went to morocco to heal from your ex. you did not plan on body slamming someone, assaulting a stranger with your face, or sharing a bed with him...

𓇼 pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

𓇼 genre/warning: e2l, sunshine x grumpy, strangers-to-lovers, modern au, travel romance, airport meet-cute, forced proximity, one-bed energy (hotel room next door edition), mutual pining, tension, sun-drenched holiday vibes, light bickering, flirting, slowburn-but-fast-burn, smut (18+), soft angst

𓇼 word count: 4.1k

𓇼 status: completed

𓇼 playlist 𓇼 series masterlist 𓇼 main masterlist

｡⋆𓇼 day seven | unfortunately yours

You wake up feeling like you’ve been scraped out and left in the sun to dry.

The room is dim, curtains pulled almost shut. A strip of light sneaks in anyway, cutting across the bed. Your phone lies on the bedside table, face-down, heavy with the weight of a text you still haven’t responded to.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time. Last day in Morocco. Shouldn’t it feel… lighter?

Instead, your chest feels packed with wet sand.

You drag yourself up, showering without really registering the water, and throwing on the safest outfit you own. 

The resort is already alive when you step into the corridor.

Housekeeping trolleys rattle past, loaded with stacks of folded towels and bottles of jasmine-scented cleaner. The faint smell of baking bread drifts up from the kitchens, warm and yeasty. Outside, the Atlantic is a constant exhale against the shore.

You hesitate at the lift, thumb hovering over the button. Breakfast means the buffet. The buffet means people. People might mean him. Your stomach twists, equal parts hunger and dread. You press the button anyway.

The breakfast restaurant is bright and bustling—clatter of plates, clink of glasses, bursts of laughter. Sun floods in through the big windows, turning the sea beyond into a sheet of liquid silver. Waiters weave between tables with silver trays of mint tea and coffee.

You pause at the entrance. The hostess spots you, her face lighting up. “Salam, habibti,” she says. “Table for one today?”

The words hit harder than they should.

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just me.”

She leads you to a small two-top near the windows. The table feels too big now that it’s not shared anymore. There are two place settings anyway—two glasses, two napkins, two sets of cutlery. You slide one aside, making it small, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

When you stand to hit the buffet, you keep your sunglasses on. Armor.

You focus on the food. Oranges cut into thin rounds glistening with juice. Baskets of khobz still warm. Msemen stacked in golden layers. Bissara steaming in a big pot. Little bowls of olives and cheese.

You stack your plate too quickly, hands moving on autopilot.

You’re just reaching for a tiny glass of mint tea when a couple slides into the space next to you at the drinks table. You recognise them—the older German pair from the souk tour. The woman nudges her partner, murmuring something in German as she looks between you and the empty chair at your table.

Her partner replies, eyebrows raised. You don’t understand the words, but you catch streit.

Fight.

You pretend you didn’t hear.

When you make your way back to your table, another waiter intercepts you with a gentle smile and a pot of tea balanced on a silver tray. “Good morning,” he says. “No monsieur today?”

You almost drop the plate. “No monsieur,” you answer, trying to make it a joke. “He has been—kidnapped by the pool activities.”

The waiter laughs politely, but his eyes linger on your face, as if he sees something you don’t want him to. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, almost conspiratorial. “Couples always fight a little on holiday. It is good for the story later.”

You choke on a laugh. “We’re not—”

He’s already moved on to the next table, pouring tea.

You sink into your chair, appetite shriveling.

Across the room, near the omelette station, you catch a glimpse of black—oversized shirt, dark jeans, familiar ink curling from under a rolled sleeve. Your heart slams itself against your ribs.

Jungkook.

He’s half-turned away, speaking to one of the chefs. His hair is pushed back, exposing the clean line of his jaw. The expression on his face is—not friendly. But you already know his grumpy side; this looks different. Tight. Tired.

He takes his plate without looking around, shoulders set like he’s bracing for something.

You drop your gaze so fast your sunglasses slip down your nose. You spend the rest of breakfast memorising the pattern on your plate instead of tasting a single thing.

When you finally look up again, he’s gone.

Avoidance is a full-time job.

You exit through the side door, not the lobby, and take the long route around the main pool so you don’t accidentally cross his orbit.

Agadir watches, unbothered.

You retreat to a quiet corner of the grounds—a cluster of wicker chairs near some tall pampas grass, away from the pools. From here you can see a slice of the ocean through a gap in the white walls. It’s grey-blue this morning, restless under a sky that hasn’t decided what kind of day to be.

You curl into one of the chairs, knees up, book open and unread in your lap. Your phone, heavy in your pocket, might as well be a live grenade.

You’d stayed up last night staring at that text from your ex until the words blurred. You typed out six responses. Deleted six responses. In the end you’d turned your phone face-down and stared at the darkness until sleep dragged you under.

You still haven’t answered. But you also haven’t told Jungkook you don’t want to.

The thought twists something inside you.

You try to read. The words slide off your brain. You put the book down and watch an ant climb determinedly up the arm of your chair. 

At some point, the gardener from your second day—the one who’d taught you bssaḥa when you complimented his roses—passes by with a wheelbarrow of trimmed branches. He slows when he sees you. “You look tired today, madam,” he says kindly. “Too much sun?”

“Something like that,” you say.

He nods, eyes crinkling. “Tell your husband to buy you orange juice,” he says. “It fixes everything.”

You laugh weakly. “If I see him, I’ll let him know.”

“You don’t see him?” the gardener asks, puzzled. “Always together, the two of you. Like—” He mimes two fingers walking side by side.

Something in your chest cracks a little. “Not today,” you say.

He studies you for a beat longer, then just gives a soft tsk and pushes his wheelbarrow on, humming under his breath.

You last about forty more minutes before the walls close in.

The resort feels suddenly too small. Every corner holds a memory of him now—where he stole your msemen, where he splashed you by the pool, where he glared at a guy for talking to you. The air seems thick with it.

You need more sky.

So you grab your sunglasses, sling your bag over your shoulder, and slip out through the gate that leads directly to the beach.

The world opens up.

Agadir’s bay curves wide and generous, the sand stretching out in a broad sweep. The morning crowds have started to gather—families setting up umbrellas, kids already digging at the shore, a group of teenagers clustered around a speaker blasting French rap.

The wind carries the sharp tang of salt, the sweeter curl of grilled corn from a vendor’s cart, the sugary smell of crepes from the promenade.

You walk. Barefoot again. Sand cool now, still damp in places from last night’s tide. Gulls orbit overhead. The sea glitters under a high, thin layer of cloud.

You walk past the camel handler setting up for the day, his animals chewing solemnly on breakfast. He catches your eye.

“Where is your boyfriend, madam?” he calls. “The tattoo one. Very serious face.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Working on his serious face somewhere else,” you shout back weakly.

The man laughs, shaking his head. “He will come,” he says. “They always come back to beautiful girls.”

You keep walking until your eyes sting for reasons that have nothing to do with the wind.

Jungkook, it turns out, is avoiding you just as hard. You know because you see him anyway.

Agadir is not big enough for both of your coping mechanisms.

You spot him first from a distance, cutting across the far end of the pool area like a storm cloud—black t-shirt, black jeans, hair pushed back, headphones around his neck instead of in his ears. His stride is sharp, shoulders tense, jaw set.

He doesn’t notice you; he’s too busy glaring at the ground like it personally offended him.

Every time you catch sight of him—heading toward reception, crossing the lobby, standing at the edge of the resort looking out at the sea—your heart does the same stupid, painful jolt.

Every time, you change direction. You convince yourself it’s for the best.

He needs space. You need space. Whatever happened in Essaouira was obviously temporary—wind and lantern light and proximity and your own loneliness playing tricks on you.

He regrets it. Clearly.

Why else would he shut down so fast when your phone buzzed? Why else would he go from almost kissing you on the beach to stone-faced silence within five seconds?

Because you pulled away, a small, treacherous voice in your head whispers. Because you chose the ghost in your phone over the person in front of you.

You shut that voice up by buying the largest mint lemonade the bar can make and drinking it in three gulps.

The sugar doesn’t help.

By early afternoon, the resort staff have fully decided you’re in a fight.

You hear it in the way the animation guy lowers his voice when he asks if you want to play beach volleyball—“Maybe later, when monsieur is less—stressed?”—and the way the woman at reception gives you a little sympathetic nod when you ask about your airport transfer.

“Last day?” she says.

“Yeah.”

She tilts her head. “Sometimes holiday romance is like mint tea,” she says philosophically. “Very sweet, very hot, and then it cools down and you see the glass is empty.” She smiles, like this is helpful.

You manage to keep your voice steady. “Sometimes the glass was never yours,” you say. “You just—borrowed it.”

“Oof,” she says. “That is worse.”

You both laugh, but your eyes burn. You escape to the lobby bathrooms. You press your forehead to the wooden cubicle door and think, He regrets it. Get over it. It was never meant to be anything more than—whatever it was.

You repeat it like a prayer until the words lose all meaning.

You don’t cry until you’re back in your room.

Stupidly, the thing that sets you off isn’t the text, or Jungkook’s closed-off face on the beach, or the way the resort staff keep calling him your husband like you’ve lost something real.

It’s your suitcase.

You flip it open to start packing and there it all is. The clothes you wore when you first arrived, smelling faintly of airport air. The tiny bag of spices you bought at the souk. The necklace Jungkook bargained for you. The magnet shaped like a blue door from Essaouira. A crumpled ticket from the first tour bus. A hotel pen you accidentally stole. 

Evidence that all of this is real and also almost over.

You sit on the bed, hands fisting in the duvet, and cry as quietly as you can. The kind of crying that leaves your head pounding and your eyes swollen and your chest sore. When you’re done, your nose is red, your throat hurts, and your reflection in the bathroom mirror looks like a cautionary tale.

You splash cold water on your face, pat it dry, and tell yourself to pull it together.

It meant nothing. He’ll forget you by the time his plane lands. You’ll go home and deal with your life. That’s how this works.

Maybe if you repeat it enough, you’ll believe it.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at nothing, listening to the muffled pulse of resort life through the walls.

You decide you can’t spend your last evening in Morocco sobbing into hotel linens.

You stand up, wipe under your eyes one more time, and swap your crumpled t-shirt for something nicer—a soft dress that feels like you stole it from a version of yourself who still believes in romance. You pull your hair back, dab on concealer that does absolutely nothing about the puffiness, and slip your sandals on.

Fresh air. That’s all you’re going for. Just a walk along the promenade. Maybe one last mint tea watching the sunset. You can do that without collapsing.

You open your door.

At the exact same time, the door of the next room opens too.

Jungkook steps out.

He’s in all black—black jeans, black shirt rolled to the elbows, boots that make a soft thud on the carpet. His hair is styled back off his forehead, showing the strong lines of his face; the silver hoops in his ears catch the corridor light. Tattoos snake down his forearm, half-hidden by fabric.

He looks unfair. He also looks wrecked.

There are faint shadows under his eyes, like he slept about as much as you did. His mouth is pressed in a line that isn’t quite a scowl, but it’s definitely not neutral. He’s holding his key card in one hand, the other shoved into his pocket.

You both freeze.

The corridor is suddenly too narrow, the air too thick with everything unsaid.

For a beat, you almost do what you’ve been doing all day—duck your head, murmur something polite, escape.

Then you see it.

The way his gaze sweeps over you once—dress, hair, shoulders—and then snaps to your face. To your eyes. They must still be puffy; no amount of cold water or makeup could fully hide it.

His expression shifts. The annoyance, the guardedness, the careful distance—something cracks straight through it.

He looks—stricken. Like the sight of your swollen eyes physically hurts him.

“Hey,” he says, but it comes out softer than he probably meant it to. Rough at the edges. Worried.

You swallow, throat tight.

“Hey,” you manage.

He takes a small step toward you, as if he has to physically see you closer to believe what he’s seeing. “What happened?” he asks quietly.

And for the first time all day, you’re not sure you can lie.

You end up at the Marina because he says, “We need to talk,” and for once you don’t joke your way out of it.

Agadir is sliding into night as you walk down from the hotel. The air is warm but softer now, wrapped in the smell of salt and grilled fish and car exhaust. Neon signs flicker on one by one along the road. Scooters buzz past.

You walk side by side in silence, hands in pockets, not touching.

You stop at the railing. He stops with you. For a moment you both just stand there, looking out at the boats instead of each other. Wind tugs at your clothes, at his shirt; the metal under your hands is cool.

He breaks first. “Let’s talk,” he repeats quietly.

You keep your eyes on the water. “There’s nothing to—”

“There is.” His voice cuts through yours, sharper than you’ve ever heard it. He has never interrupted you. “There is something. And you know it.”

The words hang between you, bright and unavoidable.

You swallow, jaw tight. “What do you want me to say, Jungkook? That Essaouira was a mistake? That I’m sorry? Because I’m—I’m already there.”

He turns his head so fast you can feel the movement. “You’re sorry,” he repeats flatly. “For what, exactly?”

You laugh once, humourless. “For making this complicated. For dragging you into my mess. For—” You gesture vaguely at the ocean, at the city, at everything. “All of it.”

He stares at you. In the lamplight his eyes look almost black. “That’s not what I wanted to hear,” he says.

“It’s the truth,” you insist, even though it feels more like a shield than anything honest. “You were right. I’m a chaos radius. You have an actual life to go back to. Work, family, your—favourite centrifuge or whatever. You don’t need—”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the airport.”

You freeze. The marina keeps moving around you—waiters sliding past with trays of sardines, couples strolling hand-in-hand, kids racing scooters along the boardwalk—but your world shrinks to that one line.

You turn slowly. “What?”

He exhales, looking away, jaw working like he’s chewing through stubborn words. “Since you crashed into me at the check-in,” he says. “With your crooked hoodie and your—” He gestures around your face helplessly. “Everything. I was jet-lagged and pissed off and I still noticed you. I tried not to. I tried to just be annoyed and leave it at that, but then you stole my seat and fell asleep on me and argued about armrests and—” He stops, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “You just—kept happening.”

Your stomach does a slow, disbelieving flip. “That doesn’t mean—”

“And then Essaouira.” His voice roughens on the word. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend a night with someone and then watch them flinch away like you burned them the second their phone vibrates?”

You wince. “That’s not fair,” you say quietly. “You saw a name, not the history.”

“I saw your face,” he says. “Like the ground dropped out from under you. Like I’d—I don’t know. Got in the way of something you were waiting for.”

You look back at the water because it’s easier than looking at him. The reflections ripple, gold breaking into pieces each time a boat rocks.

“I thought you regretted it,” you admit. “Us. Essaouira. All of it.”

He lets out a short, incredulous breath. “I regretted being an idiot on the beach,” he says. “I regretted not saying something before you spent an entire day running away from me like I’m contagious.” His fingers curl over the railing, knuckles pale. “I never regretted you.”

That cracks something open.

You blink hard. “I didn’t know what to do,” you say. “My ex texts from an ocean away and suddenly I’m twenty again, begging someone not to leave, and then there’s you and Morocco and everything is—too much. You make me feel something I thought was gone and that terrifies me.”

He goes very still. “You think I’m not scared?” he asks, quieter now. “I came here to get away from my life, not—not rewrite it. I hated you. I swear I did.”

You huff out a wet laugh. “You still do.”

“I don’t.” His answer is immediate. “Not anymore.” A beat. “Not since Essaouira.”

You finally look at him.

His face is open in a way you’ve never seen. Less armour, more ache. Wind lifts the fringe from his forehead; the light catches on his lip ring and the edges of his tattoos. He looks young and nervous and determined and so stupidly, painfully sincere.

Something inside you loosens. “Then why avoid me?” you ask, voice cracking. “Why back off on the beach? Why let me think I was insane for believing it meant anything?”

He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Because every time I tried to talk to you, you ran,” he says. “You hid behind sunglasses and jokes and I’m fine. You wouldn’t even look at me.” His mouth twists. “And I thought—okay. She regrets it. She chose the guy in her phone. I should be noble and shut up and let her go.”

“Idiot,” you whisper, the word breaking on a half-laugh, half-sob.

“Yeah,” he says. “Apparently.”

For a moment you just breathe, the wind filling in the space between your inhale and his exhale.

“I don’t want him back,” you say finally, the truth settling heavy and sure in your chest the second you say it out loud. “I don’t want to keep repeating the same heartbreak until it kills me. I came here to feel—anything that wasn’t that and then you showed up and ruined my nice, carefully organised misery.”

He searches your face like he’s afraid he misheard. “Ruined it how?”

“You made me laugh,” you say. “Real laugh. Souk-cat laugh. Armrest-war laugh. You made me feel—wanted. Seen. Like I’m not just some idiot who loves too much and gets left for it.”

His throat works, eyes darkening. “I don’t want to leave Morocco,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “without knowing if this—” his hand makes a small, helpless gesture between you “—whatever it is—is real.”

You’re quiet.

He steps closer. The gap between your bodies narrows to a breath. He’s less grumpy now, more raw. Vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache. 

“You’re the loudest person I’ve ever met at breakfast,” he says softly. “You talk to every staff member like you’ve known them for years. You nearly die at least twice a day, and I apparently have a nervous breakdown every time.” His mouth quirks. “You also ask real questions. And listen when I answer. And you looked at that photo of me like I was worth seeing.”

Your throat burns.

“I hated you,” he repeats, voice dropping. “I hate the way you talk to cats before people. I hate that you steal blankets. I hate that you say universe like it’s a person.” He leans in just a fraction. “But I hate more how much I’ve missed you in the last twenty-four hours.”

Your eyes sting again. “Are you always this dramatic?”

“Only when it’s you,” he says simply.

The Isha adhan begins somewhere behind the Marina, voice rising and falling over the city like a tide. The sound folds itself into the wind, the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversations—it all softens around the edges, turning the moment into something suspended and fragile.

“Look,” you say, words trembling and brave. “We don’t know what happens after this. You go home, I go home, we have time zones and work and families and baggage. Maybe it crashes and burns. Maybe it doesn’t. But—”

“But?” he prompts, eyes locked on yours.

“But I don’t want to leave pretending it meant nothing,” you admit. “You’re—the part of this trip I’m not ready to leave behind.”

Something in his expression breaks and reshapes into relief. He steps in that last tiny bit, so there’s nowhere for the wind to go between you. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, thumb catching a stray tear before it falls.

“Unfortunately—” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile now, “or maybe fortunately—I’m pretty sure you’re the part of this trip I can’t leave behind even if I try.”

Your heart trips. “Is that your way of saying you’re stuck with me?” you ask, voice wobbly.

His forehead leans gently against yours, noses nudging. The world narrows to the warmth of his breath, the faint scent of his cologne, the steady pound of your pulse in your ears.

“Unfortunately,” he murmurs, “I think I’m yours now.”

You don’t run. You don’t overthink. You just meet him halfway.

The kiss is nothing like Essaouira and exactly like it. Slower. Less frantic. More sure. His mouth is warm and familiar now, his hand steady at the nape of your neck, the other settling at your waist like it belongs there. 

The noise of the Marina fades to a low hum; the water reflects the city lights in broken stars all around you.

When you finally part, you stay close, foreheads still touching, breaths mingling.

“Of course this would happen to me,” you whisper. “Fly across an ocean, get emotionally ambushed by a man with tattoos who works in pharmaceuticals.”

He laughs, soft and stunned, eyes smiling even before his mouth does. “You started it,” he says. “You ran into me at the airport.”

“You were standing still,” you protest.

“Exactly,” he says.

The wind tugs gently at your clothes, warm and salt-sweet. Agadir glows around you—golden lights, distant hillside letters, the echo of prayer hanging in the air. Morocco holds the moment like a secret it’s seen a hundred times before and still finds beautiful.

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “Okay,” you say, heart hammering, hope cracking itself open in your chest. “Unfortunately yours, then.”

His smile softens, and this time when he kisses you, it feels like a promise you’re both choosing—eyes wide open, with the sea and the city and the whole impossible, glittering universe as your witnesses.

(the end)

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a/n: im sobbing no one talk to me, i cannot believe this is over. i appreciate all the love you guys have shown to unfortunately yours and me!! as a new writer on tumblr, all of your support means so much. i hope to see many of you across my other fics. it has been a wonderful ride and i had so much fun writing this. reading your comments, reblogs and asks has also been so very wonderful. while i will not be doing a sequel, there will be some drabbles eventually. i cannot guarantee when but i know i will miss them too much to not write more of them.

please share your thoughts through comments, reblogs and asks.

all the love in the world <333

[mintedagustd]

All worth the head pain last night👊🏻

[dreamersparacosm]

under the mistletoe ᯓ★ jeon jungkook (epilogue blurb)

a dreamersparacosm holiday special .ᐟ.ᐟ

SUMMARY. You're home for Christmas, however this year, you and your boyfriend are tasked with a very special assignment: not fucking up the holiday sugar cookies. Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend is full of surprises.

pairing. jeon jungkook x reader

word count. 2.4k

warnings/genre. none! this is pg fluff!! established relationship!au, mothers being all fussy n cute, jungkook being a sap, some kissing, implications of sex

note. hi cuties! this is part two of your holiday gift. i was going to attach this to the bottom of under the mistletoe but it was getting too long and i didn't want to split anything up :( i hope you enjoy these two being idiots in love! happy holidays 🙂‍↕️

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| last christmas by wham

banner creds | original fic | masterlist

Busan usually smells like salt and seaweed, but behind the doors of your childhood home, it smells like cinnamon and vanilla.

Christmas Eve isn’t celebrated lightly in your household. In fact, it’s one of the most coveted times of the year, besides yours and Jungkook’s birthday. It’s filled with holiday cheer, promises of Santa visiting, and of course, mistletoe dangling from each and every doorway. Your mother usually takes care of the cooking and baking, but this year, you’ve been tasked with the most prestigious duty of all: making the sugar cookies.

You’re elbow-deep in cookie dough, flour dusting your cheeks and hair. You hold the cookie cutter tightly in one hand, tongue poking out in concentration as you turn the shapeless dough into what might resemble a tree. Beside you, Jungkook is faring no better. He wields his cookie cutter shaped like a reindeer upon the dough, eyebrows furrowed. Groans of frustration fall from his lips with each cut. 

“Baby, you’re thinking too hard about this,” you tease, watching him adjust the cutter for the third time to get the perfect angle.

“These are presents for Santa,” he argues, not looking up. “They need to be perfect.”

“I don’t think Santa is expecting perfection,” you giggle. Like most things in life, Jungkook is imperfect, but when it comes to being your boyfriend, he is nothing but a picturesque man for you. Even after dating for a year and knowing each other since birth, you always find yourself excited by him, learning new quirks that you somehow had never uncovered. For starters, he talks in his sleep, and although you wake up halfway through the night to his mumbles, they’ve started to soothe you. He also seems to really enjoy Fortnite, and you’ve learned not to intrude on his gaming (although there was that one time where you cockwarmed him while playing, but that’s neither here nor there).

He grins at you, that bunny smile that still makes your heart skip even after a year of seeing it every single day. “Santa deserves cookies that don’t taste like burnt dough.”

You lean over and kiss flour off his nose, just because you can. Because he’s yours and you’re his and you’re allowed to kiss him whenever you want now. 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he lies next to you snoring off into oblivion, you stare at him. Living in the dream you’d held onto for so long. 

From across the kitchen, you hear your mother sigh dramatically.”Look at them, Jongyeon. Absolutely disgusting.”

Jungkook’s mother laughs. “I know. Making cookies in my day meant actually making cookies, not this... public display of affection.”

“Hey, we are making cookies!” Jungkook protests, pointing at the baking sheets. He wipes his flour-dusted hands on his red and green apron. “Look, ma, I’ve made like fifteen reindeers.”

“Fourteen,” you correct. “You ate one.”

His eyes narrow into hateful little slits. “It was broken.”

“Looked pretty in tact to me…” you trail off while licking your spoon that’s smothered in raw dough, but not before Jungkook can snatch it out of your hand to get his own greedy licks in. 

Jumping onto his back, you fight to get your cookie dough-ridden spoon back, salmonella be damned. 

At the dining room table, your mothers exchange a look. 

“How long do you think they’ve been in love?” your mom asks, not even bothering to lower her voice.

“Oh, since they were children,” Jungkook's mom replies, taking a sip of her red wine.

Your mother chuckles, shaking her head as she eyes you and Jungkook playing tug-of-war with the spoon.  “Remember that Christmas when he kissed her under the mistletoe and she touched her lips for an hour afterwards? The poor girl asked me the next day to go to the makeup store for lipstick.”

You swivel around. Groan loudly. “Mom, do not go down this road right now.”

Jungkook giggles into his palm, licking the spoon, “No, by all means, please finish.”

“You’re not innocent either, Kook,” his mother teases. “You came home crying one day after school because [Y/N] made a new friend that wasn’t you.”

“Okay, and now we’re done talking about this.” Jungkook’s ears are bright red, and you push his shoulder playfully. 

Even now, it’s as clear as day how foolish you two were for believing you were anything less than idiots in love. All the movie dates where he held your hand during the scary parts, all the dinners that he paid for, all the presents he splurged on. You were always his first priority, but you were too blinded by insecurity to ever even notice it. 

“We absolutely are not done,” Jungkook's mother says, grinning. “We’ve waited years for this relationship. Let us have our moment.” 

“You two are morons,” your mom sighs. “Cute morons, but morons nonetheless.”

You and Jungkook share a glance before turning back to the sugar cookie fiasco laid out in front of you. There’s still a few more batches left to bake, but you’re easily distracted when Jungkook’s around. You try to remain focused on the cookies, but your boyfriend won’t stop finding any excuse to touch you. It’s innocent, especially with your mothers around, but he’s relentless. He lets his elbow rest against yours when he’s cutting out the shape. Plays with your hair while you pour more dough onto the parchment sheet. 

You swat his hands away each time, but that doesn’t quell the way your heart still stumbles with each touch.

“Y’know, I told you at the hospital when they were born that they’d end up together.” your moms sneak up behind you two, peeking at the disaster on the kitchen counter. 

Your mom scoffs. “You did not. You said Jungkook was going to pull her hair when she grew up, which you were right about.” 

Jungkook’s arm slithers around your waist, pulling you close to him, and you fall into a fit of giggles as he presses featherlight kisses to your cheeks, jawline, neck. “Jungkook! The cookies!” 

Before you can protest, your parents are sliding to the counter and taking over. “Run off, little ones. You two are useless in the kitchen anyway.” Jungkook’s mom jokes, and you know it’s not said with a hint of malice. She hasn’t stopped smiling since the day you told her you were Jungkook’s girlfriend.

“Mom what the hell?” Jungkook throws his hands up in exasperation, and you nuzzle into his chest more as if to shield yourself from any more scrutiny. 

“No, seriously,” your mom chimes in. “These cookies need to be made by professionals. Plus, Jungkook… didn’t you say you had something for [Y/N]?”

His body stiffens, and you peer up at him. Jungkook’s face falls flat, cheeks ruby red, and he looks like he’s about to blow smoke out of his ears. 

“Baby?” you timidly ask, trying not to get your hopes up. 

Out of all the dreams and wishes you’ve talked about, there’s a few on the agenda you wouldn’t mind coming true. Pets, a house, an engagement ring, children… all things that will come in due time, you’re sure of, but you want them all. You and Jungkook spend most of your days at home wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, talking about what the future might hold. 

“I–I, uh, yeah, I do, I just—” He swallows thickly, and it still amazes you how nervous and flustered he gets around you, even though he’s literally seen you crawl through the trenches of food poisoning. His voice lowers to a whisper. “Jus’ wasn’t gonna be till after dinner.”

Jungkook’s eyes fall to the floor, kicking a piece of dough that fell off the counter. 

Your golden retriever of a boyfriend. All six feet of him, muscled and tattooed and intimidating to strangers, pouting like a kid whose surprise party got ruined. His bottom lip is jutted out, and he’s scuffing his sock against the tile like he’s five years old and not a grown man who had you screaming his name just this morning. It’s so ridiculously endearing you want to wrap him up and keep him in your pocket.

“Koo,” you gently say. 

He refuses to look up, still wallowing in his disappointment. “Wanted it to be special,” he mumbles. “Had a whole plan.”

You cup his face with both hands, tilting it up until those big doe eyes finally meet yours. He’s still pouting, and god, you love him so much. “Just show me,” you grin. “I don’t care about timing. I want to see what it is.”

“Really?” he asks, perking up like a puppy who just got tossed a bone. 

“Yeah.” You kiss him quickly, sweetly. “Now stop being dramatic and show me my present before I die.”

“Okay, fine,” he laughs, and sunshine fills your chest. “But we have to go to the doorway.”

You turn to raise an eyebrow at your mom, who’s shrugging in a way that tells you she’s in on this little secret mission of his. 

His fingers intertwine with yours, dragging you to the entryway. It’s softly lit by a lamp your mom always keeps on, and he plops you right underneath the threshold. 

Jungkook looks up, then nudges you to do the same. Like something stolen from a Hallmark movie, a mistletoe hangs from the doorframe, looking identical to the one that hung in this exact spot when you were kids.

“Hmm, baby,” he says, and his voice is warm honey, sweet and thick. “You know what they say?”

You grin, so stupidly happy you probably look like the Cheshire cat. “I think I might.”

Both hands come to rest on your waist, pulling you close. “When you’re underneath the mistletoe…”

“You must kiss the person you’re with,” you finish, and it feels like coming home. 

He kisses you, tastes like cinnamon and vanilla and the whiskey he never finished. The pads of his fingers dig into your waist, tugging you tight to him. You wrap your arms around his neck, and you don’t even care that you’re practically making out in your childhood home, but just that you’re spending this very Christmas with him. 

You hear the click of a camera and pull back slightly, laughing against his mouth. Your mother is standing there with her phone, grinning like she’s won the lottery.

“Perfect,” she sing-songs. “This one is going in the albums.”

You groan. “Mooom—”

“Don’t you dare ‘Mom’ me. I’ve been begging the universe for this for too damn long,” she scolds. 

 Turning back to Jungkook, there’s already a sarcastic comment on the tip of your tongue, but the words die in your throat. 

He’s shaking. Trembling, actually, as he pulls a small velvet box from his pocket, hands unsteady enough he nearly drops it. Tentatively, he opens it, and your heart comes to a complete stop. 

There’s two rings inside, delicate bands with diamonds encrusted along the curve, catching the soft lamplight and throwing tiny prisms across his face. Couple rings. 

The tears are already welling up, hot and insistent, blurring your vision before he even speaks. Naturally you’re crying before he gets a single word out, because he evokes an emotion in you no other man ever could. 

“Okay, so—” His voice shakes, and he takes a breath, tries to steady himself. “This isn’t an engagement ring. Or, not yet at least. But it’s a promise.” 

You nod, even though he hasn’t asked a question. 

“I promise you that one day—maybe a year from now, maybe five, whenever we’re ready—I’m going to get down on one knee and give you a real diamond ring. I promise that we’re going to get married. That I’m going to stand at the end of an aisle and watch you walk toward me and cry like an idiot in front of everyone we know. I promise that we’re going to buy that house we talked about, the one with the big kitchen and the little shed for Ginger. I promise that every single dream we’ve ever talked about, every plan we’ve made at 1 AM when we couldn’t sleep, every ‘what if’ and ‘someday’ and ‘wouldn't it be nice'... I promise I’m going to make all of it real with you.”

He doesn’t get to finish the speech you imagined he’s practiced 40 times, because you’re launching yourself into his arms, kissing him with enough force that he stumbles backward, almost loses his balance. Camera flashes spark behind your eyes, but you’re too caught up in the sloppy kiss you’re giving him to care. 

Jungkook smiles through your kiss, then takes your left hand, can barely hold it steady, and slides the smaller ring onto your middle finger. 

“Your turn,” you manage through tears, taking his hand and placing the larger band onto his middle finger.

You can’t help but inspect them. It looks so natural, like there was always a space open for the rings to be there. "They're perfect,” you sob, “This is perfect. You’re so perfect.”

“Yeah?” He’s crying now, a beautiful smile breaking across his face. “You like them?”

“I love them,”  you whisper, just loud enough for him to catch. “I love you.”

(Later that night, back at your apartment, you show him exactly how much you appreciate his gift. The way you thank him—breathless beneath him, ringed fingers laced with his above your head, headboard banging against the wall, diamonds glinting in the dim light as he sloppily thrusts inside your warm, wet heat—makes him promise to buy you jewelry more often.)

“I love you too.”

You press another tear-soaked kiss to his lips. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

As your mother keeps snapping photos, you think about the albums that will be made. The new memories that will be captured and preserved. Photos of this Christmas and the next one and the one after that. Pictures of mistletoe kisses that no longer taste like a dull ache and heartbreak but of joy and certainty and a future that stretches out before you.

There will be new albums. New photos to replace the old ones, or maybe to sit beside them. There will be more Christmases, more mistletoe, more moments like this one. Somewhere, in an album that hasn’t been made yet, there will be a photo from today. You and Jungkook under the mistletoe, smiling at each other hopelessly. Your mother will label it with the date and a caption that says something embarrassing like “Finally!” or “About time!”

Every Christmas from now on, when you stand under the mistletoe with Jungkook, you’ll remember this moment. The first page in a whole new album of memories.

And you’ll never need to wonder where he is or where you two are headed. You’ll always know right where to find him: under the mistletoe, waiting to love you the way you’ve always loved him. 

perm taglist. @mimi1097 @AlmatiarAU @absolutelyjeons @Sabrinahiddig @yooniepot @ggukivrse @Deluluvalerie @Sugak00kie134340 @Angelxkoo @yange7l @mellyyyyyyx @Senaqsstuff @jjkkkk15 @likecrazy22 @impossiblecopoaffire @readingbee44 @EyesforJungkook @lvnderdreams @vintagemoonsstuff @mauveliz @allysh @jeontylv @neurospicynugget @jxniana @haniiii @bo-rimmy @j0cgr0c @roseda @ggukreqz @dltyum @xxxxx1415 @annyeongbitch7 @nesha227 @Cannotalwaysbenight @Satisfied18 @m4aimm @Bangtansfav-7 @secretspam699 @Seolhyuningg @ot7girl4l @writesvani @xsyruhh @songbyeonkim @jungkookisthetypeto @rustedaffections @rayyrayy10 @dollyunjinz @fancypeacepersona @bangtans-momma

[dreamersparacosm]

under the mistletoe ᯓ★ jeon jungkook

a dreamersparacosm holiday special .ᐟ.ᐟ

SUMMARY. Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. But when you were fifteen, you were replaced by a revolving door of girlfriends. Thus began your decade-long aversion to the holiday—this year, however, you’ve been tasked with hosting the annual Christmas soirée, and there’s no telling what might be waiting for you under the mistletoe this time around.

pairing. jeon jungkook x reader

word count. 23.8k

warnings/genre. childhood best friends to lovers (aka idiots to lovers if you squint!!!), slight angst, fluff, reader is the grinch reincarnated, jungkook is oblivious, alcohol consumption, smut, oral and fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms, big dick jungkook bc what else, unprotected sex sorry she’s on the pill, crying during sex (but in a cute way), it’s all just really cute i kinda hate them

note. welcome to the dreamersparacosm golden era… two one-shots over 15k words in one month. my fingers are tired. but it’s all fine n dandy bc it’s the HOLIDAYS!!! and what better way to celebrate than with a friends to lovers fic? believe it or not, this was originally going to be enemies with lovers, but i had a long talk with myself and realized that theres no way in hell i could ever do justice to a e2l in under 304949k words, but rest assured there is enough pining and angst to keep you well-fed 🥰 oc is yearning final boss, jungkook is a slowburner who’s also an idiot. my favorite kind of couple! i hope you all had a wonderful holiday! p.s: stay tuned for an extra special treat from these two later today :)

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| last christmas by wham

banner creds | masterlist | epilogue blurb

The Grinch has always been your favorite Christmas movie. 

Not because it’s particularly funny or thrilling, but because you can relate to that pessimistic green ball of fur. He despises the holiday just as much as you do—and that’s generous, considering your animosity towards the day has reached unfeasible levels. You might be worse than the aforementioned ball of fur. 

There’s really no one else to blame for your aversion to the holiday… besides Jeon Jungkook. 

Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.

Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes. 

When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew. 

At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you. 

And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare. 

Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on. 

So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. 

All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe. 

“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man. 

“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant. 

“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently. 

“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”

He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still. 

You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”

All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?” 

Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year. 

“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.” 

“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands. 

“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions. 

“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.

“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?” 

The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.

He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?” 

“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”

Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”

“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”

Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world. 

In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer. 

Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.

Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around. 

“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”

“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”

“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”

“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”

“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.” 

He salutes you, which makes you snort. 

“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”

His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”

See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”

But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave. 

So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”

Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”

You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”

He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”

“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.

“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter. 

“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking. 

“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment. 

He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”

You trail behind him. “Fine.” 

He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”

Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”

“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.

When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.

He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing. 

But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.

Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’

He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.

Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye. 

He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on. 

Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma. 

“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.

You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways. 

“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?” 

“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”

“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”

“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”

You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions. 

But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that. 

“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly. 

“Are you insane?”

“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”

“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you. 

He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”

“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue. 

“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache. 

“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace. 

He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”

“No.”

“Please?” 

“I will leave, Jungkook.”

He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”

Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest. 

You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?” 

“It was Hana’s.” 

You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”

Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?

You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason. 

“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it. 

“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.

He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”

“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows. 

“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”

“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”

For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest. 

Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring. 

He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”

“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”

It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.

At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”

“The old shit in there?” 

He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.

You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match. 

You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face. 

On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box. 

Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].

For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do. 

If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker. 

You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees. 

He kept it. 

“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums. 

“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”

You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?

Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it. 

Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.

First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine. 

Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.

Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.

The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.

To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.

“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”

You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”

“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”

“Hmm, uglier than the first.”

“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”

Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.” 

“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”

You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”

He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”

It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt. 

“You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”

You can’t argue with that. 

He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold. 

You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone. 

“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”

“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.

He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”

“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.

Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.

“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”

“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.

“And then I got you out of it.” 

“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory. 

He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time. 

Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”

You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).

You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string. 

Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says. 

You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight. 

“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough. 

He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.

“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”

Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you. 

Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15.  You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.

“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”

It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”

“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”

“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”

“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”

“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”

He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles. 

You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.” 

He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?” 

Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”

You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”

“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”

“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.

“Worked well for us, I think.”

“Why’d you stop?” 

Oh god, you’ve really done it now.  

Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger. 

Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”

“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”

He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”

Weird. 

And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal. 

“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”

He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.

“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”

He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”

You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”

“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”

“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”

Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.

But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.

You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”

He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.” 

Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb. 

“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”

Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”

“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”

“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”

“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.” 

You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”

“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently. 

Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”

“Cause of stress or something? School shit?” 

“Sure.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now. 

He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."

She purrs in the corner. 

“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”

You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.

This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.

So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in. 

“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?” 

“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink. 

“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”

You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”

He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”

You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly. 

You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.

It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.

But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.

“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room. 

Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest. 

“Not too shabby, Jeon.”

He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”

“Subpar at best.”

“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”

“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.

“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”

You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”

He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”

“My abode is not a lair.”

“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder. 

“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”

“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.

Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know. 

“I have a surprise.” 

You protest, “Jungkook—”

“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage. 

Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is. 

He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.

In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.

It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been. 

“No,” you object immediately. 

“Come on—”

“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time. 

“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”

“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”

“Not this one.”

“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”

You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity. 

“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”

His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?

“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”

“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”

“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’

He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.

“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do. 

“Why not?”

Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.

“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”

An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief. 

He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.

“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly. 

He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created. 

At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter. 

“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”

“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.

“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”

Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”

“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”

“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”

For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”

“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”

“How is it different? Enlighten me.”

“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”

Fuck. “Koo—”

“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”

“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”

“Oh.”

Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered. 

He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.

The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.

Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.

Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”

“[Y/N]?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hana. 

The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be. 

At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.

Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were. 

“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.

“How have you been?” she asks. 

“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home. 

“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”

“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.

“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”

“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”

“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.

There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”

You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her  for wondering. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”

Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”

“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”

She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”

“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”

“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”

“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can. 

“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”

Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”

She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”

“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.” 

Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?

“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”

She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”

It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land. 

“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”

She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”

Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest. 

“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.

She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”  

She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”

Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.

“Hana, I never meant to—”

“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”

Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked.  He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him.  You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry. 

“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”

“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft. 

For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here. 

“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”

“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape. 

You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry. 

“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”

There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”

Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”

She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.

“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”

You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket. 

“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”

Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..

“What did he say, Hana?”

“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”

Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.” 

She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”

You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.

But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.

No. It can’t fucking be. 

“I gotta go,” you say abruptly. 

“[Y/N]—”

But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely. 

There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.

It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills. 

It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned. 

Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening: 

Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day. 

When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.

Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.

Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment. 

Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter. 

Everyone loves Jungkook. Everyone always loves Jungkook.

Yet, he won’t even spare you a passing glance. 

It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better. 

You feel ill. Fucking ill.

Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.

“You alright?”

You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.

“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”

“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”

“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out. 

Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”

Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.

“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”

Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”

Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it. 

It’s worth one last shot. 

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Bitch just tell me.”

You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.

Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly. 

“I fucked up.”

Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”

You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”

“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”

Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything.  How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.

You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours. 

When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says,  “That was a low blow.”

“I know.”

“Like, really bad.”

“I know.”

“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”

“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”

“Have you apologized?”

“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”

“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.

“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”

“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically. 

You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole. 

The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.

Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see. 

And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.

You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm. 

Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”

But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.

“Oh,” she says. 

Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?

“How long?” Jisoo questions.

“How long what?”

“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”

You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.

“Since I was a kid.”

Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”

“Yeah,” is all you can offer.

“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room. 

“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”

She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”

“I get that a lot.”

From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.

“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.” 

It’s already worse. 

“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”

“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”

The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.

“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts. 

“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”

You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.

Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”

“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?” 

Yeah, exactly that. 

“We’ll see.”

Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”

You hold up your middle finger. 

“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.

And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you. 

It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.” 

You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”

Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.

Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs. 

It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook. 

You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you. 

He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon). 

Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.

But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle. 

Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve. 

You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand. 

“Need any help?”

Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat. 

Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous. 

“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you. 

You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.

“The party’s a hit,” he offers. 

“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.” 

“The food’s really good too.”

“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted. 

This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to. 

“Listen—”

“Jungkook,” you say in unison. 

Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.

He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”

Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge. 

Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.

But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?

“Maybe, Jungkook.”

Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”

He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.

Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words. 

You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.

“Jungkook.”

Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”

Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”

He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.

By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore. 

“Is this a joke?” you ask. 

“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth. 

You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.

“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?” 

Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain. 

Shit. 

Your throat goes dry.

“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”

“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips. 

“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare. 

“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.” 

“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. That stupid fucking word. 

“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug. 

“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”

You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.

“I was drunk,” you argue. 

Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.

“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”

You throw her a grateful look. 

“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.

“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat. 

But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching. 

“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.

“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”

The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other. 

Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.

There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower. 

He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest. 

It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks. 

It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.

Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship. 

The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.

But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful. 

You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods. 

You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’ 

He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.

And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.

But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks. 

Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Shut up.”  Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”

Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”

“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”

“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”

“She what?” 

“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”

“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

“That was not a confident yeah.”

“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”

“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”

Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.

“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now. 

“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”

Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.

He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”

Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”

Oh. 

“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s chest feels tight. 

But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”

He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him. 

“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”

Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance. 

He can’t help it. 

“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”

“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”

“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’

Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.

“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes. 

“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”

“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.

Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.

“Jungkook.”  Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”

It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not. 

Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time. 

“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”

But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—

In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.

Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest. 

Oh god. Oh fuck.

How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?

His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.

“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. 

All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.

He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it. 

But he remembers every Christmas with you.

He remembers all of it. 

Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo. 

Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs. 

Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”

“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”

His credentials are questionable. 

“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”

Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred. 

Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be. 

“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly. 

“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”

Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.

But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year. 

For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”

To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).

You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.

Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.

You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.

What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?

It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway. 

And then you scream. 

You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.

Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”

“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”

Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle. 

It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.

But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up. 

“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands. 

“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”

You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.

“I am.”

He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.” 

With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it. 

But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him. 

“Me neither,” you agree quietly. 

You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway. 

“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice. 

You keep scrubbing. 

“Hey.”

His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh. 

“That’s it? That’s all?” 

You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”

There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.

Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you. 

What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?

You can do that, you think. 

You swallow, “Jungkook—”

“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit. 

“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.

“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”

He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”

“Do you remember when it all started?”

He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”

“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”

Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter. 

“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”

Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.

“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”

He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him. 

“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”

Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features. 

“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”

The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks. 

“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”

You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”

“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”

Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”

“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”

“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”

You hiccup, trying to catch your breath. 

“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks. 

You deadpan. “What?” 

“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”

“I–what? Why?” 

You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.

Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest. 

“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”

“Look up.” He smiles. 

With shaky breath, you crane your neck. 

Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan. 

You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”

“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”

You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles. 

He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying. 

Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room. 

Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself. 

“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”

“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it. 

But he nods. 

“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”

“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire. 

“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”

Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible. 

“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets. 

“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”

“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”  

Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow. 

“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”

He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. 

He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent. 

“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”

“Koo,” is all you can manage.

“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater. 

“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”

Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose. 

His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”

Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…

“You… you love me?”

“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”

Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this. 

“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.” 

His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”

Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face. 

“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”

And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle. 

“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles. 

“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”

You laugh, a watery bubbling sound. 

You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.

“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. 

You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”

“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes. 

His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”

He kisses you. 

And oh.

Oh. 

You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds. 

Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms. 

His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.

Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”

“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.

At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more. 

Finally, you think to yourself. 

You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this. 

He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.

Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom. 

You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.

“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills. 

Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously. 

“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”

You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”

“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”

Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely. 

You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.

“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”

“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”

“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”

He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”

Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”

This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.

“Still nervous?” you mutter. 

“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”

“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck. 

“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”

You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”

He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”

“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”

He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”

Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of. 

Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you. 

“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.

You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment. 

You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?

And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”

Tears threaten to appear again. 

He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. 

He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.

Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them. 

“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”

You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”

That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you. 

“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever. 

“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”

“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak. 

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”

“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”

He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked. 

“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”

And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin. 

“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”

“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”

You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have. 

And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse. 

You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly. 

Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine. 

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses. 

His cheeks turn red. 

“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”

You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?” 

He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”

“What, Koo?”

Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”

Oh. 

Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it. 

You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips. 

“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”

“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”

He grins toothily. “I love you too.”

And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you. 

You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length. 

“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.

“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline. 

Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck. 

You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.

But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.

You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”

Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you. 

He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you. 

You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”

“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”

A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right. 

“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”

“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”

“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake. 

You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat. 

Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you. 

His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.

“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”

You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second. 

He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”

“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”

He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”

Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”

You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.

“Yours,” you cry, clutching him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.

“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”

Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his. 

You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.

You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.

You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.

Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Me either.”

“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”

“Of course it did.”

You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”

Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.

You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.

“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”

“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies." 

“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug. 

He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”

Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”

“It was all you.”

He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”

You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore. 

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”

“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”

He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.

“Koo, what—”

But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he demands. 

“Jungkook—”

“Close them,” he whines.

You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.

“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”

Timidly, you open them. 

He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.

It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.

“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.

His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”

“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”

His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.

Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved. 

It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip. 

“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur. 

He pauses. Goes completely still.

“You saw that?”

“It has my name on it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.” 

You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you. 

After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily. 

“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.

In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach. 

You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it? 

The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.

But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle. 

Plus, the Grinch is overrated. 

“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”

perm taglist. @mimi1097 @AlmatiarAU @absolutelyjeons @Sabrinahiddig @yooniepot @ggukivrse @Deluluvalerie @Sugak00kie134340 @Angelxkoo @yange7l @mellyyyyyyx @Senaqsstuff @jjkkkk15 @likecrazy22 @impossiblecopoaffire @readingbee44 @EyesforJungkook @lvnderdreams @vintagemoonsstuff @mauveliz @allysh @jeontylv @neurospicynugget @jxniana @haniiii @bo-rimmy @j0cgr0c @roseda @ggukreqz @dltyum @xxxxx1415 @annyeongbitch7 @nesha227 @Cannotalwaysbenight @Satisfied18 @m4aimm @Bangtansfav-7 @secretspam699 @Seolhyuningg @ot7girl4l @writesvani @xsyruhh @songbyeonkim @jungkookisthetypeto @rustedaffections @rayyrayy10 @dollyunjinz @fancypeacepersona @bangtans-momma

[mintedagustd]

I’m gonna need a physical copy of this, and basically read this every Christmas 🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻🖐🏻

[gukcnt]

Okay, thoughts..uhm. That was giving menstrual cycle.. with all em luteal phasing typashit… that lowk almost threw me off the burj khalifa cause maem-

He’s downbad for that woman….(I feel like you’re gonna make it crazy when they start to do an actual deed…) and uhm ngl I can’t blame a wealthy man like him either.. he fr would take the goddamn moon if she asked…

THREW YOU OFF THE BURJ KHALIFA?! hope you're okay LMAO 😭 i literally love you so much for always making me giggle ehehehe

ohh the man is SUPER down bad for her.. you have no idea about the amount of extend he'd go for her, you got that right he wouldn't even think twice before he gives all his money for the moon if she asked (he's the standard..)

and right their first time will be real nasty and sweet 😈

[mintedagustd]

NASTY!?

[gukcnt]

MY SWEET AUTHOR IS NOT OKAY???:<<<< please take a rest and have a good break. Don’t take advantage of your health, since it bites back :<

Tho really have a good break 🩷 take your sweetest time and I will chokehold whoever tried to pressure you… 🥰

oh girl you better watch out because i'm about to kiss you stupid NO KIDDING 😖

you're literally one of my most favorite babe here and NOTHING can change that? and STAWP with all the flattery because i'm blushing and all

also i'm about to warn people to not pressure me because you got my back kekeke

[mintedagustd]

Who dares to pressure my precious author will suffer the consequences of me 🤌🏻