AN: Hello I am back but not for long this past semester has been rough on me. But I bring you my fourth fic on this blog in honor of me losing the ticket war. I hope you all enjoy.
Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Wife Reader fluff
Warnings: mentions of cheating, a small fight (someone throws one punch), and spiraling thoughts.
Summary: When you both said “I do” at the alter your husband Namjoon swore to himself to protect you from anything. That promise grew bigger when the public gets a little too nosey for their own good.
Side note: This is super late but this fic is dedicated to @mocharacha my best friend and one of the biggest Bang Chan simps I know. Love you lots my dear and happy belated birthday! 🤗
**
Water cup? Cold.
Ice cup? Filled.
Pillow? Fluffed.
Blanket? Warm.
Snacks? Ready.
And TV? On.
Running through your checklist again, you ensured everything you would need was ready and waiting for you on the couch, where you planned to spend the next four hours. Today was a special day, and you refused to miss even one second of the program you had planned to watch.
Running to the bathroom, well actually, waddling to the bathroom one last time you emptied your bladder then made your way to the couch to watch the awards show.
“Alright little one. It’s just you and me, so let’s see what dad looks like. I bet he looks so cute with his dimples poking out.” You rubbed a hand over your belly, feeling a foot press back into your hand.
You were currently seven, approaching eight months pregnant and you couldn’t wait to give birth. Despite what everyone around you said about glowing and other such nonsense, you were ready to get your body back to yourself again. Your husband, however, seemed to enjoy your pregnant state. He ran to rub your feet and sides whenever he could, and a night didn’t pass that he didn’t read your child a book before bed.
“And BTS has arrived! Listen to those cheers.” The reporter on the TV exclaimed, snapping you out of your daydream.
You turned your focus back to the TV watching as each member was shown one by one. You laughed softly at the shy smile on Jimin’s face until the camera switched to Suga with a soft smile on his face causing you to melt in your spot. How could two humans be so cute?
The moment your husband's face appeared, you were sixteen again, heart fluttering like when you first glimpsed a crush across the hallway. Taking in his red-carpet presence, your heart skipped a beat, his eyes sparkled, his dimples carved deeper than ever. Kim Namjoon was a vision of beauty tonight. Your cheeks curved into soft roundness as he touched three fingers to his lips, sealing them with a kiss before sending it off with a graceful flick, looking directly into the camera.
To some it would seem as if he was showing affection, but you knew that he was really sending back a message of love to his tiny family at home.
What used to be a two fingers kiss to represent the two of you has become a three fingers kiss to include your unborn child, including the life you both awaited.
“Welcome guys! It’s nice to have BTS here as a full group!” The reporter beamed at them, trying to keep her professional demeanor.
“Thank you. We’re happy to be here as seven.” Namjoon smiled bigger, gesturing to the others behind him.
“You guys are supposed to be performing tonight. Is there anything you can share with us about your upcoming performance?” The reporter asked, remaining professional.
“What I am allowed to say is that if you’ve been ARMY since the beginning, then this performance will be special to you.” Namjoon smiled politely, moving away from the mic.
“Now I see some of you have brought guests with you, but I don’t see (y/n)-nim anywhere. Is she not here tonight?” The reporter asked, looking at the different family members behind the cameras waiting to go in with their respective members.
“She wasn’t feeling well, so she couldn’t make it today, sadly but if she’s feeling better she should be watching.” Namjoon answered smoothly, his voice calm but with a warning beneath the softness.
“She’s not feeling well? That’s too bad, but you can tell the truth here.” The reporter asked, keeping her smile friendly, “Where is she really?”
Namjoon chuckled, “I wish I could say something else, but that’s the truth, she wasn’t feeling well so she stayed home.”
The truth was far more private, the world had yet to know about your pregnancy. When you first discovered you were expecting, you made a decision, you wanted to savor your first pregnancy with your husband, just the two of you, away from the public eye.
The past seven months had been exhausting in their own ways, but living them quietly, shielded from the media's gaze, had been a comfort and a relief. Every milestone, every flutter, every little change had been yours alone to cherish. Your husband has been a rock in these times shielding you from unforgiving flashes and the heartless words of “fans”.
“Then”, The reporter pressed, her smile twisting into a small smirk as the camera pointed back at him, “can you speak on the rumors that suggest she’s cheated on you which is why we don’t see you two together anymore?”
Namjoon’s shoulders tensed as the question processed in his mind and the expression on his face fell to a neutral one. How dare this woman who knew nothing about you slander you like this and in front of him no less. His jaw clenched and his tongue poked his cheek for a second as his mind quickly worked out his next statement. He took a deep breath grounding himself then gave a response calmer than he himself expected.
“Tonight… BTS will be performing for ARMY, who is excitedly waiting for us. Please stick around for our performance.” Namjoon bowed at the camera then moved away from the reporter without a second glance.
The patter of feet signaled that the rest of the members followed him. A breath escaped him when a warm hand touched his shoulder and Namjoon looked to his left to find Jin looking at him worried. A silent conversation passed between them prompting Jin to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he moved away revealing a similar worried look on everyone else’s faces.
“Don’t worry guys, I'm fine. The question meant nothing and that’s as far as it’ll go. We have people waiting to see us perform tonight. Besides, we're bulletproof.”
Jimin who was closest to him after Jin responded promptly, “Stick to writing lyrics hyung.”
With a round of laughter the group slowly made their way in.
*~*
What started as a positive night with excitement to perform for ARMY has now left a sour taste in his mouth. All night that one question played through his mind distracting him from what was happening on stage and around him. How dare people smear filth across your name? What gave them that right? As his mind spiraled into more unanswered questions a camera would focus on him forcing him to school his expression to one less hostile than he felt inside.
The sound of applause broke him out of his endless thoughts and forced him to focus on the night. A dull ache built up in his head as his team of staff came to retrieve the group for their performance. Left up to him at this moment Kim Namjoon would rather be at home holding onto you than stuck in a room filled with people who possibly thought the worst about his wife. Nevertheless, he pushed on trying to salvage the night.
The lights dimmed and the familiar intro playing from the speakers automatically triggered muscle memory in not just him but the entire group. The familiarity of moving around on stage didn’t help his mood and he knew a scolding from J-Hope wasn’t too far away when he missed a major step in the dance break. Finally the ending pose came and his mind could finally rest. He hadn’t made it three steps backstage when he caught sight of the reporter who had dampened his mood and Namjoon headed straight for the dressing room to get into something more comfortable.
A loud swear from the door with Kim Namjoon taped to it alerted everyone present that BTS would return back to their seats as six rather than seven. When Namjoon emerged from his dressing room dressed down in more casual clothes the members who had changed quickly made eye contact with him engaging in another silent conversation. At the sound of his frustrated sigh a path to the exit door cleared and on his way out he was given a bottle of water by Jimin and a bar of chocolate for you was placed in his hand by Jungkook. Namjoon said his goodbyes then made his way to the door to leave.
“RM! RM over here!” Cameras flashed blinding him momentarily as he stepped out the door.
Paparazzi hounding him was something he grew accustomed to since his debut days many years ago. This time however the questions being thrown at him were wild and far away. He was used to the storm ever since debut but today, it felt different, gathering just beyond the horizon, the wind tightening its grip. Every laugh, every shouted question, added another swirl of pressure, another dark cloud forming over his composed exterior.
“When can we expect a new album?!”
“Is this the last public appearance of BTS as a group?!”
“What’s the next favorite food of the leader of BTS?!”
“What hand cream does BTS use?!”
Weird questions were normal as they were used to drowning out offensive questions being thrown at them. Unfortunately for the poor reporter who asked the million dollar question, Namjoon was on his final straw.
“Is it true your wife is a no good cheater?!”
The words cut through the chaos, and the storm broke. As the last word of the question left the reporter Namjoon dropped his bag and turned quicker than his security personnel could see and punched the reporter square in the face. The hit felt good to take his anger out and Namjoon almost smiled at the feeling of relief punching the guy had given him until he was brought back to reality by his bodyguard and unceremoniously shoved into a car. Before he could sit properly the car sped away sending Namjoon tumbling into a seat.
*~*
The ride home was silent as he inspected his bruising knuckles. Flexing his fingers revealed how hard he had punched the reporter but the feeling of satisfaction far outweighed his feelings of guilt. Maybe if he’s lucky the guy will appear on his broadcast station with an apology for you. When he arrived home Namjoon threw his bag aside and kicked his shoes off and immediately went to look for you.
“Button?” Namjoon called entering the living room.
“On the couch. Why are you back already? I liked the performance.” You responded pushing yourself into a sitting position.
“I just wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible. Is there room for me on there?” Namjoon slid onto the couch behind you before you could shuffle up. “I missed you while I was gone. Both of you.”
You laughed as his hands rubbing your belly tickled your skin softly. Immediately warmth filled you both as you settled in each other’s arms. The peace was broken however when you took his hand in yours.
“Joonie what happened to your hand?! Your knuckles are all bruised. Did you break something again?” You lifted his hand above the blanket to get a better look at it.
Namjoon took hold of your hand instead and placed a soft kiss on your palm. “That’s not important right now. Let me enjoy having my favorite girl back in my arms.”
“Like hell! You’re a musician. Your hands are what make you money. Stay here.” You wriggled out of his grasp and pushed yourself off the couch.
Namjoon pouted until his face lit up watching you waddle into the bathroom. He loved the fact that you were pregnant and so round now. From the many things he can do for you like rubbing your feet and rubbing oil on your belly. Feeling his unborn child kick while he sings. Even watching you having to waddle every moment has brought him an unspeakable amount of joy and unforgettable memories. His reminisce was cut short when you returned with the first aid kit in hand.
“Come give me your hand. Let me make it better.” You said plopping back onto the couch beside him.
Namjoon watched as you patched up his hand before placing an ice pack on his bruises. Seeing this side of you in your current state gave him visions of the future once you were no longer pregnant and his excitement spiked once again.
Warmth spread across the back of your hands as Namjoon’s free hand enveloped both of yours. His touch was so tender it caused a spark of pain to flash across your back. Your child sensing the change in your hormones wiggled trying to get their father’s attention. Namjoon’s eyes grew bigger the longer he looked at you and his hand trailed from under yours to the back of your neck tickling the hairs there.
“I appreciate you so much. You’re working so hard to prepare our mini for this world, and even then you find time to take care of me.” Namjoon whispered as his hand moved from your neck to your cheek.
“You’re my husband. I’ll always take care of you. No matter what happens.” Your response was just as soft as his as the weight of your cheek pressed into his hand.
Namjoon chuckled and pulled you into a short sweet kiss, just a small taste. He placed another kiss on your cheek, one on your nose, one on your temple and finally one last kiss on your forehead.
AN: Hello I am back but not for long this past semester has been rough on me. But I bring you my fourth fic on this blog in honor of me losing the ticket war. I hope you all enjoy.
Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Wife Reader fluff
Warnings: mentions of cheating, a small fight (someone throws one punch), and spiraling thoughts.
Summary: When you both said “I do” at the alter your husband Namjoon swore to himself to protect you from anything. That promise grew bigger when the public gets a little too nosey for their own good.
Side note: This is super late but this fic is dedicated to @mocharacha my best friend and one of the biggest Bang Chan simps I know. Love you lots my dear and happy belated birthday! 🤗
**
Water cup? Cold.
Ice cup? Filled.
Pillow? Fluffed.
Blanket? Warm.
Snacks? Ready.
And TV? On.
Running through your checklist again, you ensured everything you would need was ready and waiting for you on the couch, where you planned to spend the next four hours. Today was a special day, and you refused to miss even one second of the program you had planned to watch.
Running to the bathroom, well actually, waddling to the bathroom one last time you emptied your bladder then made your way to the couch to watch the awards show.
“Alright little one. It’s just you and me, so let’s see what dad looks like. I bet he looks so cute with his dimples poking out.” You rubbed a hand over your belly, feeling a foot press back into your hand.
You were currently seven, approaching eight months pregnant and you couldn’t wait to give birth. Despite what everyone around you said about glowing and other such nonsense, you were ready to get your body back to yourself again. Your husband, however, seemed to enjoy your pregnant state. He ran to rub your feet and sides whenever he could, and a night didn’t pass that he didn’t read your child a book before bed.
“And BTS has arrived! Listen to those cheers.” The reporter on the TV exclaimed, snapping you out of your daydream.
You turned your focus back to the TV watching as each member was shown one by one. You laughed softly at the shy smile on Jimin’s face until the camera switched to Suga with a soft smile on his face causing you to melt in your spot. How could two humans be so cute?
The moment your husband's face appeared, you were sixteen again, heart fluttering like when you first glimpsed a crush across the hallway. Taking in his red-carpet presence, your heart skipped a beat, his eyes sparkled, his dimples carved deeper than ever. Kim Namjoon was a vision of beauty tonight. Your cheeks curved into soft roundness as he touched three fingers to his lips, sealing them with a kiss before sending it off with a graceful flick, looking directly into the camera.
To some it would seem as if he was showing affection, but you knew that he was really sending back a message of love to his tiny family at home.
What used to be a two fingers kiss to represent the two of you has become a three fingers kiss to include your unborn child, including the life you both awaited.
“Welcome guys! It’s nice to have BTS here as a full group!” The reporter beamed at them, trying to keep her professional demeanor.
“Thank you. We’re happy to be here as seven.” Namjoon smiled bigger, gesturing to the others behind him.
“You guys are supposed to be performing tonight. Is there anything you can share with us about your upcoming performance?” The reporter asked, remaining professional.
“What I am allowed to say is that if you’ve been ARMY since the beginning, then this performance will be special to you.” Namjoon smiled politely, moving away from the mic.
“Now I see some of you have brought guests with you, but I don’t see (y/n)-nim anywhere. Is she not here tonight?” The reporter asked, looking at the different family members behind the cameras waiting to go in with their respective members.
“She wasn’t feeling well, so she couldn’t make it today, sadly but if she’s feeling better she should be watching.” Namjoon answered smoothly, his voice calm but with a warning beneath the softness.
“She’s not feeling well? That’s too bad, but you can tell the truth here.” The reporter asked, keeping her smile friendly, “Where is she really?”
Namjoon chuckled, “I wish I could say something else, but that’s the truth, she wasn’t feeling well so she stayed home.”
The truth was far more private, the world had yet to know about your pregnancy. When you first discovered you were expecting, you made a decision, you wanted to savor your first pregnancy with your husband, just the two of you, away from the public eye.
The past seven months had been exhausting in their own ways, but living them quietly, shielded from the media's gaze, had been a comfort and a relief. Every milestone, every flutter, every little change had been yours alone to cherish. Your husband has been a rock in these times shielding you from unforgiving flashes and the heartless words of “fans”.
“Then”, The reporter pressed, her smile twisting into a small smirk as the camera pointed back at him, “can you speak on the rumors that suggest she’s cheated on you which is why we don’t see you two together anymore?”
Namjoon’s shoulders tensed as the question processed in his mind and the expression on his face fell to a neutral one. How dare this woman who knew nothing about you slander you like this and in front of him no less. His jaw clenched and his tongue poked his cheek for a second as his mind quickly worked out his next statement. He took a deep breath grounding himself then gave a response calmer than he himself expected.
“Tonight… BTS will be performing for ARMY, who is excitedly waiting for us. Please stick around for our performance.” Namjoon bowed at the camera then moved away from the reporter without a second glance.
The patter of feet signaled that the rest of the members followed him. A breath escaped him when a warm hand touched his shoulder and Namjoon looked to his left to find Jin looking at him worried. A silent conversation passed between them prompting Jin to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he moved away revealing a similar worried look on everyone else’s faces.
“Don’t worry guys, I'm fine. The question meant nothing and that’s as far as it’ll go. We have people waiting to see us perform tonight. Besides, we're bulletproof.”
Jimin who was closest to him after Jin responded promptly, “Stick to writing lyrics hyung.”
With a round of laughter the group slowly made their way in.
*~*
What started as a positive night with excitement to perform for ARMY has now left a sour taste in his mouth. All night that one question played through his mind distracting him from what was happening on stage and around him. How dare people smear filth across your name? What gave them that right? As his mind spiraled into more unanswered questions a camera would focus on him forcing him to school his expression to one less hostile than he felt inside.
The sound of applause broke him out of his endless thoughts and forced him to focus on the night. A dull ache built up in his head as his team of staff came to retrieve the group for their performance. Left up to him at this moment Kim Namjoon would rather be at home holding onto you than stuck in a room filled with people who possibly thought the worst about his wife. Nevertheless, he pushed on trying to salvage the night.
The lights dimmed and the familiar intro playing from the speakers automatically triggered muscle memory in not just him but the entire group. The familiarity of moving around on stage didn’t help his mood and he knew a scolding from J-Hope wasn’t too far away when he missed a major step in the dance break. Finally the ending pose came and his mind could finally rest. He hadn’t made it three steps backstage when he caught sight of the reporter who had dampened his mood and Namjoon headed straight for the dressing room to get into something more comfortable.
A loud swear from the door with Kim Namjoon taped to it alerted everyone present that BTS would return back to their seats as six rather than seven. When Namjoon emerged from his dressing room dressed down in more casual clothes the members who had changed quickly made eye contact with him engaging in another silent conversation. At the sound of his frustrated sigh a path to the exit door cleared and on his way out he was given a bottle of water by Jimin and a bar of chocolate for you was placed in his hand by Jungkook. Namjoon said his goodbyes then made his way to the door to leave.
“RM! RM over here!” Cameras flashed blinding him momentarily as he stepped out the door.
Paparazzi hounding him was something he grew accustomed to since his debut days many years ago. This time however the questions being thrown at him were wild and far away. He was used to the storm ever since debut but today, it felt different, gathering just beyond the horizon, the wind tightening its grip. Every laugh, every shouted question, added another swirl of pressure, another dark cloud forming over his composed exterior.
“When can we expect a new album?!”
“Is this the last public appearance of BTS as a group?!”
“What’s the next favorite food of the leader of BTS?!”
“What hand cream does BTS use?!”
Weird questions were normal as they were used to drowning out offensive questions being thrown at them. Unfortunately for the poor reporter who asked the million dollar question, Namjoon was on his final straw.
“Is it true your wife is a no good cheater?!”
The words cut through the chaos, and the storm broke. As the last word of the question left the reporter Namjoon dropped his bag and turned quicker than his security personnel could see and punched the reporter square in the face. The hit felt good to take his anger out and Namjoon almost smiled at the feeling of relief punching the guy had given him until he was brought back to reality by his bodyguard and unceremoniously shoved into a car. Before he could sit properly the car sped away sending Namjoon tumbling into a seat.
*~*
The ride home was silent as he inspected his bruising knuckles. Flexing his fingers revealed how hard he had punched the reporter but the feeling of satisfaction far outweighed his feelings of guilt. Maybe if he’s lucky the guy will appear on his broadcast station with an apology for you. When he arrived home Namjoon threw his bag aside and kicked his shoes off and immediately went to look for you.
“Button?” Namjoon called entering the living room.
“On the couch. Why are you back already? I liked the performance.” You responded pushing yourself into a sitting position.
“I just wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible. Is there room for me on there?” Namjoon slid onto the couch behind you before you could shuffle up. “I missed you while I was gone. Both of you.”
You laughed as his hands rubbing your belly tickled your skin softly. Immediately warmth filled you both as you settled in each other’s arms. The peace was broken however when you took his hand in yours.
“Joonie what happened to your hand?! Your knuckles are all bruised. Did you break something again?” You lifted his hand above the blanket to get a better look at it.
Namjoon took hold of your hand instead and placed a soft kiss on your palm. “That’s not important right now. Let me enjoy having my favorite girl back in my arms.”
“Like hell! You’re a musician. Your hands are what make you money. Stay here.” You wriggled out of his grasp and pushed yourself off the couch.
Namjoon pouted until his face lit up watching you waddle into the bathroom. He loved the fact that you were pregnant and so round now. From the many things he can do for you like rubbing your feet and rubbing oil on your belly. Feeling his unborn child kick while he sings. Even watching you having to waddle every moment has brought him an unspeakable amount of joy and unforgettable memories. His reminisce was cut short when you returned with the first aid kit in hand.
“Come give me your hand. Let me make it better.” You said plopping back onto the couch beside him.
Namjoon watched as you patched up his hand before placing an ice pack on his bruises. Seeing this side of you in your current state gave him visions of the future once you were no longer pregnant and his excitement spiked once again.
Warmth spread across the back of your hands as Namjoon’s free hand enveloped both of yours. His touch was so tender it caused a spark of pain to flash across your back. Your child sensing the change in your hormones wiggled trying to get their father’s attention. Namjoon’s eyes grew bigger the longer he looked at you and his hand trailed from under yours to the back of your neck tickling the hairs there.
“I appreciate you so much. You’re working so hard to prepare our mini for this world, and even then you find time to take care of me.” Namjoon whispered as his hand moved from your neck to your cheek.
“You’re my husband. I’ll always take care of you. No matter what happens.” Your response was just as soft as his as the weight of your cheek pressed into his hand.
Namjoon chuckled and pulled you into a short sweet kiss, just a small taste. He placed another kiss on your cheek, one on your nose, one on your temple and finally one last kiss on your forehead.
writer culture is having so. many. ideas. for this really cool series and you have the perfect lines and titles and everything but you don't have time to write it and you're terrified that you'll lose your hyperfixation and never actually finish the series
you're stupid for him — know it, hate it, wear it like a secret bruise under your ribs. jungkook’s the last person you should want, all smirk and sin, never stays long enough to mean anything. so you hide it. pretend you doesn’t care. date other boys just to prove you can. but when they leave — they always leave — it’s his name that finds you, his voice that cuts through the noise. and every time, you swears it’s the last. every time, it isn’t
You feel the table Jungkook and you are sitting at shaking slightly, and it starts to worry and irritate you a lot, because your concentration is completely dissipating, and it makes you screech loudly.
"Jungkook, you need to stop," your hand touches his shirt. You see how this gesture pulls him out of his bubble.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just stares with that lazy dangerous boy-face, all soft around the edges but wicked where it counts, and his leg is still jerking under the desk like it belongs to some stranger he’s trying to disown.
He looks wrecked, completely undone in that way only math can ruin a person: jaw tight, shoulders knotted, pen chewed into an ugly little weapon between his teeth, the metal of his glasses smudged from how many times he’s shoved them up the bridge of his nose. Every part of him is betraying him — the brows pulled low, the tongue bulging his cheek like he’s hiding a secret curse in his mouth — and all you can think is he’s two seconds away from tearing the report into violent confetti.
And you're not sure whether you want to stop him or dare him, because the exhaustion in him is electric, and you can feel it crawling up your spine too.
"Why are you even nervous?" you ask. "You told me you've got it." you remember how he tried to prove to you how well he copes with errors; now you see that it was a complete and utter lie.
His movements still appear fluid, even though you can see his fatigue with your eyes closed. "Wasn't lying."
You imagine how difficult, challenging it was for him to admit from the very start that he had problems with anything, since it wasn't even him, but our mutual friend, Taehyung, who implored me to do something about his stubborn, rigid attitude, which did not allow him to agree that he might not fully grasp something. You remember how you reacted then; you know that you sensed a certain male ego in his character - he couldn't just bend it because of studies.
“Mhmm,” you're on the verge of acting out, perhaps foolishly. Provoking him right now isn't the smartest or most helpful move, but the chance is there. You murmur, leaning back, stretching like a cat who knows exactly what she’s doing. “I'm completely buying it.”
and God, you do it on purpose — the arch of your spine, the lazy slouch of your neck — because you know he’s watching even when he swears he isn’t. You know you look smaller next to him, like you could be eclipsed by the breadth of his shoulders, by the way he fills every inch of space without even trying. He lives at the gym, he’s said it a hundred times, in that voice that makes you picture him there, sweat dripping down his temples, his shirt clinging in all the right ways. You shouldn’t think about that, but you do. You always do.
He exhales, slow and deliberate, and when his eyes meet your again, they don’t stay still. They travel — down, to your mouth, and back up — and there’s this flicker in them, this small, dangerous spark that feels like being seen and undressed in the same breath. “You told me not to stare at you,” he says, and his voice drops, quiet, deep, meant only for you.
It rolls through you, that sound — low and velvety, dark enough to stain. And he smells like sin disguised as cologne: dark chocolate and musk and grapefruit, that expensive, adult kind of scent that doesn’t wash off easy. It's the kind that gets into your clothes, your hair, the back of your throat, until even air starts tasting like him. You'd forgotten it for a while, the way you forget pain until someone presses on the bruise — but now it’s back, blooming all over again, vivid and throbbing.
You've always been drawn, gravitating to his neck, where the scent is much stronger. You've always dreamed of burying your head there, but then you remember what kind of relationship you have, and that feeling remains just as raw and bleeding, but deep inside. He must never know about it.
You raise your eyes like it's weighted, peeking out from under your eyelashes, just to find him slouched into that lazy predator posture, head tilted the barest degree, hand braced under his chin in a way that feels rehearsed but isn’t, fingers half-curtaining his mouth. You know he’s hiding a smirk, you know it, because he thrives on this petty torment, on drawing out your unraveling until it stings.
"Because you can't concentrate on your assignment."
His mouth twitches again, but this time it’s more wolf than boy. “Yeah, you were right,” he says, and wipes his mouth with his palm, slow and deliberate. Then he leans back, his hands dragging down his thighs — and fuck, the motion is slow enough for you to notice everything, from the stretch of denim to the way muscle shifts under fabric, taut and ready to break. “You’re a big fucking distraction.”
You follow his hand movement with your gaze. You, too, lose concentration as easily as he does, especially when the object of distraction is him. He notices your hesitation; you see him lean slightly in your direction. You move further away, your pulse is a drum, every cell screaming at the danger of this moment, of his curled grin. Feeling like one of those girls he only has one-night stands with, with no strings attached afterward.
"This trick isn't working on me," your hands instinctively clutch the surface of the table to keep you from collapsing. Your eyes dart around, scrutinizing every detail of his face. You sigh sharply and anxiously, ogling him, breathing inches from my face. You smell mint and menthol when he exhales.
He shakes his head, as if disagreeing, almost laughing. You maintain until the very end that he trusted your statements, you believe. You try to convince yourself that your face doesn't betray the only emotion you can't hold back. "Is that so?"
You hear the rustle of clothing, his shirt shifting and sliding as he places his hand somewhat behind your hand on the table, close enough to you that the air collapses between you. His skin eats up the space until all you can see is him. He seeks you out with his eyes; they gleam and are slightly narrowed. You gulp, everything you're trying to convince yourself of, trying to prove that he has no effect on you. "Yeah, confident," you gaze into his eyes. He sneers wider; he enjoys it. "I'm not one of your girls.”
He is amused at your last phrase, evidenced by the way he somewhat inclines his head, baring his smile and all his teeth. "Never said you are," he runs his hand through your hair, and you almost succumb to his charms. Almost giving in. "You're worse.”
It causes you to knit your eyebrows and inquire, nearly insulted, "Worse?"
He seems to enjoy that you're falling for his flirting, there's no other way to put it; you feel the air getting thicker, feel it getting harder and intense to breathe; all you feel and inhale is his scent, the scent of his body, of his clothes, which also carry the smell of his cologne, and it magically draws you in even more: temptingly, seductively.
"Mmm…They make it look so easy," he murmurs, his hand diving back through your hair, slower this time, deliberate, tucking strands behind your ear like he owns the right. your face burns traitorously, hues of rose bleeding into scarlet, and he sees it, of course he does, and his voice lands soft but cutting: "You…You make me work for it.”
"Jungkook," you try, your voice doesn't rise and folds in on itself. You don't look at him this time. "We need to study." Your hand instinctively reaches for his chest, flattening against the hard plane of him, trying to shove him away from you. You know, you feel that you're not using all your strength, the push is hollow, that underneath you inwardly trying to do the exact opposite and an ache to grab fistfuls and anchor him closer.
But he's a big lump that's not so easy to move. His chest turns out to be very powerful, muscular, and broad; it seems deliberately unfair his lungs greedy enough to swallow twice the air you're allowed, ribcage like a fortress. You can feel it under your palm, the steady lift and fall as he breathes; compared to you, he breathes evenly and smoothly. He is sitting all this time in straight, light jeans, above the waist, and a white shirt that is open a few buttons down, showing only the outline of his chest and a small, miniature chain hanging from his neck, glinting like it knows exactly how reckless your eyes want to be.
He's older — two years older, a small number that feels enormous when you measure it in experience and arrogance, even though you cover different topics in the sessions, his subjects are twice as difficult as yours, but that doesn't mean that you can't cope with the task, especially since it seems to you that what he's going through doesn't sound and look as gloomy and gray as what you're studying. And it doesn't help that Jungkook just doesn't want to study.
What gnaws at you is him — the fact that you can see him trying, straining, but always slipping, always reckless, always reaching for distraction. You notice every lesson with him how he just struggles with himself to concentrate. You see, you know, that he's trying, but it doesn't help; he gets distracted.
"Yeah, study," all the warmth vanished in an instant, and he's already on his side of the table, looking like he's deliberately avoiding eye contact with you. "You're right, as always."
"Oh, don't say it like that," now it's your turn to be difficult, because you've had enough of his attitude for one evening. “You make it sound like I'm the villain here.”
"I didn't ask you to babysit," you see how he looks more focused than ever, as if deliberately trying to push the buttons that might sting you. You bite your lip to avoid saying something extra.
"It wasn't my idea,” you remind him, sharper than intended, “and you know it."
He just snorts in response, and you force yourself not to laugh at his tantrum, which he decides to inflate in importance and necessity. It's much quieter in the library than it has been this whole time; it's already late evening, and you almost yawn from everything that has happened today. Your shirt isn't in the best shape either, long, wrinkled, and unbuttoned in several places. You feel your head getting heavier from fatigue.
"You accepted it anyway," his head is only slightly tilted towards you, and you can't believe he's saying this out loud.
You're filled with the desire to wipe that emerging smirk off his face, but at the same time your fingers curl with a sense of lust for him, "Yeah, because I like helping people, even hopeless ones."
You added the last part with the intention of getting a reaction from him, and as if by magic, his face changes to a sarcastic one, "Wow. That was low. You wound me," he puts his hand on his heart, and you clench your lip even harder to not give in to him.
“Who said I was talking about you?”
You watch the muscles on his body shift, becoming more stiff and tight, still flowing smoothly, and you follow these gestures, unable to resist.
His tone of voice drops lower, curling like smoke and becomes impossible to keep out, more authoritative, much more masculine. "Admit it. You'd be bored to death without me."
The laugh that tears out of you is brittle, you flip the page — loud, careless, theatrical — as if the paper can drown out his voice, "Please. I was perfectly happy before you came along."
"Happy? Or lonely?" he throws the phrase out quicker than you can catch it, and there's something brutal in how he says it, fast and deep, like he already knows which answer belongs to you.
Your hands are itching to wipe that smirk off his face, to bruise the arrogance straight off his lips. He's the same as always, his conversational games bordering on flirtation, and sometimes you really try to get a sense of whether that's really his character. And now you don't know what you want more: to strike him to erase that pompousness, or to drag, pull him impossibly closer by that smug jaw.
"You're older, you're supposed to be setting an example."
"Don't need to throw it at me," he doesn't miss a beat; he wears language the way he wears black — effortless, sharpened, deadly.
You can't stand it, your eyes glue themselves to the page, but your head is occupied with something completely different. You can't make out anything you're pretending to read. The words blur, smear into nonsense, your brain refusing to follow the lines when his voice is so much louder. Your head only tilts just enough towards him to see that same smirk that undoes you.
"You're so full of yourself."
"Full of truth," he says, demanding and smug as ever. Rich and smug, pressing the weight of it onto you like his knee against your thigh.
"Full of shit," you correct.
He takes advantage of the opportunity, because you chose the place you always fancy, which has wordlessly become yours. It's almost hidden in the corner of the library; you have to make a left turn to find it, walking past many shelves to stumble upon it.
“It doesn't stop you before,” his body language has always been a mystery to you. He moves like everyone around owes him; as if the world owes him pace and space.
"We're supposed to be studying," you have to repeat yourself, more strictly and convincingly, but it has little effect on him. You see, you feel it, the ego that still sparkles from him.
“And yet you're still talking to me,” Jungkook counters, fluid and smooth as poured ink, not even looking down at the open book in front of him, as though its pages exist solely for decoration, “so maybe you don't want to study as badly as you say.”
“Don't twist my words,” you bite back, too quick, which only makes him tilt his head like he’s caught you in a trap you built yourself.
“Didn't twist anything,” he says, feigning innocence with those wide, faux-doe eyes that are absolutely lying, “You're the one who can't stop staring at me every three seconds. Oblivious, aren't you?”
You know how bad you're at lying—like, embarrassingly bad, the kind of bad that shows itself in the twitch of an eyelid, in the stumble of a tongue, in the betrayal of every nerve that lights up when he looks at you. And those eyes, god, those doe-dark, impossible eyes that see straight through you as if your bones are made of glass and your blood is nothing but a red confession spilling under your skin. But still you try, because your pride insists on theatre even when you know the curtain’s already half-burnt.
"Oh, please. I don't even notice you half the time."
"Mm," he hums, savoring the single syllable like wine, leaning back in his chair, stretching his body out like he's performing the idea of desire itself, that drags your attention whether you like it or not. "You've been staring at the same line of your notes for, what, ten minutes? Either you're in love with that equation, or — "
"Shut up," your face is on fire. You feel the same heat as from his body when you're close to him; his body is always hotter than yours.
"Make me," he doesn't miss an opportunity, like it's the easiest dare in the world, like he knows you'll choke on it before you can even form an answer.
You glare, blowing daggers at him, but instead, you only see that full-of-himself smirk, and then it stretches even wider, dangerous. "You are so childish."
"Two years older, remember?" he tosses it back at you, sneer widening, lazy and lethal, "which makes me wiser by default.”
“You’re wiser at being a pain in the ass.”
His voice becomes even more alluring and deep. You feel closer to him. "Funny, you don't sound that annoyed. In fact — " he leans forward, elbows on the table, chain glinting against his throat, " — you sound entertained."
"And you sound like someone who notices everything I do,” your eyes chase his burning gaze. His tongue is back behind his cheek. You feel his face grow more focused and centered at you, "Should I be flattered or creeped out?”
He laughs, lazy and wicked, “Flattered. Definitely flattered.”
Eventually, you start working on the project, but it also means that your eyes are betrayingly drawn to him at any opportunity, even if he doesn't notice. He mustn't, because if he finds out about your weakness for him, there will be no turning back. If he finds out that he has long been your biggest weakness and the perfect example of a man.
And yet, God, you can’t help it — every time you’ve seen him in sportswear after boxing, shirt clinging damp to his torso like it was painted on, you've catalogued every muscle, every live-wire vein snaking across his forearm, each pulse-point shouting louder than the algebra in front of you.
You've looked at those arms and thought of them looped around your neck, not tender but possessive, that kind of feral strength that says mine, and shame has never burned sweeter. His thighs, thick and obscene in their promise, are the kind you dream about climbing onto and never stepping down from, the kind you know would bruise your hips, leave you ruined and grinning and begging for more.
He must never know how you pine for him, because no matter how much you take yourself in hand, or him for that matter, you want to — you dream of becoming one of his girls, but you understand that you're not his type; you don't live as openly and to the fullest as those he hangs out with. You also understand that playboys like Jungkook just don't know how to be in relationships, but that doesn't stop you from licking your lips at him from afar every time.
You lost track of time when you noticed Jungkook had been staring at you blankly for a while, not even trying to hide it.
"You're starting," you didn't take your eyes off the textbook.
His voice is slightly hoarse, but he smirks even more sinisterly, "Hmm, you're beautiful like this."
"You can't say things like that, Jungkook," you gasp, trying not to look at him, but you can't help it.
Your head turns slightly in his direction, noticing how he leans back in the chair, his silhouette becoming even bigger and broader. You swallow, because in your head you could interpret it as an invitation, the way his thighs are spread apart, as if there's just enough room there. For you.
His smirk widens as he winks, wrapping his arms around his powerful chest, "Why? Can't forbid a man to tell the truth."
You roll your eyes, deliberately avoiding his gaze, "You're impossible."
"Want to do something about it?"
Your hand freezes, gripping the book cover tighter than necessary. Jungkook is counting on a dirty game in which he always wins, because you're always left as a mess afterward.
But this time he doesn't wait for your answer before his smooth voice echoes in your head, "You're always telling me how you can't stand me…" he emphasizes the last words, "Thought you wanted to change that," he shrugs, hinting at a double meaning.
“And what? Boost your male ego even more?” your whole body knots tight, every tendon taut, every breath shallow, like you're bracing for an impact you can’t quite see coming. You're aware of yourself too much—skin buzzing, heart hammering, nerves lit like little electric wires under your ribs.
You hate that he does this to you, that a glance alone could make you conscious of every inch you occupy.
He just raises an eyebrow in surprise, his head tips, but you don't see that sincerity in him; it seems to you, "So I'm right?" voice all smoke and grin, the kind that curls under your skin and itches there, makes you restless.
You swear you feel him before he moves—his body cutting into your space, a gravity that pulls without touching. Your brain supplies the image before it’s even real: his mouth crashing into yours, the greedy kind of kiss that would strip you down to nothing, lips swallowing every sound, every gasp, every shaky laugh. Eyes hot enough to sear, hands rough enough to cage. You know what he’d do because you've thought about it too often, too vividly.
But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You pushed yourself back, let the book take up all your field of vision like a shield. “Focus on the project,” you mutter, stabbing your pen down onto the page, onto the neat blue markings you'd made earlier, as if ink can anchor you. “Do the tasks I marked.” Your voice tries for cool, but the edge is fraying. You try not to look, but habit is a traitor, and your gaze betrays you, flicking back to him in tiny stolen seconds that you hope he doesn’t notice.
One no isn't enough for him, because as soon as he sees that you're continuing to work on the project, as you said, he just smirks harder, "Have you always been like that?"
This makes a grimace appear on your face. You feel like you want to answer him harshly and snap, because of course he won't know what you're really like. The words hit you harder than they should. You feel your face twist, grimace carving deep like he’s struck a nerve you didn’t want exposed. "If you'd been more curious, you'd know that.”
Jungkook was never a patient person, not in a way saints are. You realized that at the very beginning of your acquaintance, at the very moment he opened his mouth, that he is: careless, blunt, so goddamn arrogant. He was never careful; if he wanted or thought something, he would easily say it point-blank to your face, without hesitation and without needing to choose his words.
"And you want me to be curious?"
Your head tilts, your voice almost breaking on the dryness of your laugh. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.” His grin curves sharp, deliberate, that boyish mockery dressed up like sin. “Your body is my answer.”
You whip around before you can stop yourself, hating how the burn of his smirk crawls over your skin like heat rash, hating more that it’s him—him in those clothes that fit too well, cling too tight, molding themselves to every line you’d sworn not to memorize. But you did. God, why him? Why the boy who clearly wouldn’t even blink if you disappeared?
"If you're so good at reading bodies, maybe you should read mine screaming 'get lost’.” His eyes are burning, the same as yours. Your body is shaking; you're still nervous around him, and with trembling hands under the table, you fist the fabric of your skirt too hard, harder than necessary.
And the look he gives you—oh, it isn’t retreat, it isn’t shame. It's fire, finding gasoline."There she is." He murmurs, like you’ve just confirmed his favorite suspicion. Your tantrum didn't embarrass him at all; if anything, it only loosened him up, stretches him taller, coils him closer until your space is no longer yours. You see his body getting closer to you again.
You smell that cologne scent again; deep, heady, the one that demands to be remembered, which becomes even heavier and more expensive. You want to roll your eyes, if you weren’t secretly imagining how much better the gesture would be pressed against the hot span of his neck.
"You're always daring me to figure you out. Fine. Make it harder. Tell me something I couldn't guess, something that would surprise me." His accent is heard in his voice, his voice dips, slick like honey. Which slyly becomes even deeper.
"Why would I tell you that?"
"Because you want me to." His hand drags across, warm and unrelenting, covering yours like he owns the right. Your breath stumbles out traitorously in a gasp you can’t choke back. The difference in size is obscene—his palm dwarfing yours, heat rolling over your knuckles, too heavy to resist. "Because no one's ever asked the right way.”
For the first time you really look at him, searching, dissecting. It's the first thing he's said that actually shut you up, lodged hard enough in your throat you couldn’t force words past it, and he must know, because he doesn’t gloat. His eyes just watch, patient for once, as your hand darts to your hair, smoothing a strand back like it might give you something steady to hide behind. "What do you want to know?"
He peels away too fast, arms folding across his chest, hand gone, warmth gone, and you hate yourself for feeling the loss like withdrawal. He’s still too close, still towering with that quiet deliberation, his mouth twitching as if he’s chewing on words he already picked but refuses to let out. You know him. He isn’t thinking. He's stalling, stretching the pause just to grind on your nerves.
Voice dipped in that husky velvet tone that always sounds too practiced to be accidental. It's that familiar line he uses when he’s trying to pry you open without looking like he’s begging—lazy, confident, too sure of his own gravity. “Tell me something only I'll get to know,”
You smirk, shallow and sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes because you know he’s fishing, and you refuse to be the catch. “i know you’ll use whatever I say against me anyway,” you shoot back, sharp and sugar-sweet, but your smile falters when his face doesn’t move, when he doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t quirk his mouth into that usual fuckboy smirk that makes you want to both kiss and kill him.
Because this time, he looks impassive. terrifyingly so. Eyes unreadable, lips a still line, shoulders squared like he’s holding something back with both hands. The silence is heavy, thick, like something living between you, and you can’t shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—he isn’t lying when he whispers it back, low enough that you feel it in your chest instead of your ears.
"Never.”
“Bullshit.” It comes out too quick, too defensive, because what else do you do when someone like Jeon Jungkook says something that almost sounds sincere?
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks at you with that steady, slow-burn kind of gaze that makes you forget where your skin ends. And his serious face—God, that face—makes you laugh, this ugly, startled thing that bursts out of you before you can stop it. Your hand flies to your chest, a nervous tell you hate, "I believed you for a second,” you manage, forcing the words through the thrum in your throat.
You don’t look at him after that. You can’t. You look away because you have to. The floor, the table, your fingers—anything to keep from drowning in the intensity of him. Your heart is still hammering in that stupid, traitorous way that makes you want to rip it out and toss it across the table. What the hell happened to him? When did he start saying things that sounded like they meant something? When did he learn how to stop being the boy who only ever played with the edges of your patience and start being the one who could fold you up without even touching you?
He leans back, but not in that lazy, I-don’t-care way he usually does. This time there’s something coiled about him, deliberate restraint. His jaw ticks. One leg stretches out beneath the table, muscle shifting under denim, posture suddenly tight in a way that makes your pulse misbehave. “I wasn’t joking,” he says, and it lands like a weight dropped between you, quiet but impossibly loud.
It leaves you speechless—an unfamiliar, unwelcome kind of silence for someone who always has something clever to throw back. Your brain scrambles for escape routes, for something, anything that’ll push this conversation back into safer territory, away from whatever strange gravity’s pulling at both of you. And God, you forgot about the project, the deadline, the fact that the entire reason you’re sitting here with him is academic and not personal. You forgot that you’re supposed to be immune by now.
But you’re not. You never were. His influence clings to you like smoke, seeping into your hair, your breath, your blood. No matter how hard you hide it, no matter how many walls you pretend you’ve built, it’s still there—him, bleeding into everything.
"I fear that I'm always not enough or too much." It slips out before you can leash it, before you even understand what vein you've just opened. Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to, like a half-confession caught on the edge of a whisper, and you try to bury it, hide behind your hair, behind your hands, behind the quiet.
He freezes. Not dramatically, not like the boys in movies do when they finally notice the girl’s breaking—but in that microscopic way he always does when something actually lands. The tilt of his jaw sharpens, the restless twitch of his fingers goes still, and he’s just looking now. His eyes flick over you once, twice, calculating, irritated at something he can’t name. And then, softly but with that certain gravity only he knows how to wield, he says, “That’s a fucking lie and you know it.”
The way he says it almost makes you laugh. Almost. Like he’s scolding you for something stupid, like your insecurities are just another joke he refuses to let win. But the laugh doesn’t come; it just burns in your chest. “It’s true,” you murmur, staring at the floor because it’s safer there, because the floor doesn’t look at you like it’s trying to fix you. “every time someone leaves, it feels like I'm the problem.” The words empty you out. There's a small, stupid silence after that, the kind that stretches itself too thin. You can feel the air press heavy against your skin, that awful awareness of having said too much but still wanting to be understood.
He breathes out, slow, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “You can’t be a problem at all,” he says, and it should sound kind, but it doesn’t. It sounds like disbelief, like the idea itself is impossible to him. He tilts his head a little, mouth curling around the edges of a grin that doesn’t fully arrive. “You’re the most innocent person I've known.”
His reaction makes the warmth crawl down your throat and pool deep in your stomach, all molten and merciless, like something ancient just woke up there, something you've never experienced before; your body tenses before your brain catches up, your breath hitching in that humiliatingly audible way, and you can practically hear your pulse roaring behind your ears when you say it — “do you want to hear me squirm, jungkook?”
He doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t need to. His voice comes out steady, quiet, that kind of masculine composure that shouldn’t be legal. “Depends on how honest you want to be tonight.” And God, it’s so unfair, the way his words come slow and deliberate, how every syllable feels like it’s been rolled across his tongue just to see if you'll flinch.
It's like what he says doesn't match what his body is showing.
His expression barely moves, but something behind it shifts — his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, then pulls taut again, muscle locking down over bone. It’s maddening, the disconnect, the way his body looks carved from ease while his eyes burn with something that doesn’t feel casual at all.
You don’t even realize you're speaking until you hear your own voice, too soft and too raw. “Do you want me to be honest?” the words slip out like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to be spoken, and by the time you register them, it’s too late. You bite your tongue, hard. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”
He stretches like a cat in that chair, and you press your tongue between your teeth just to keep from devouring him, something heavy and unspoken thrums between you, thick enough to taste. You can’t name it, but you feel it in the air like static, in the small tremor of his breath that shouldn’t even be noticeable but somehow is. He knows what it is. You see it in the smug half-smile that cuts his face open, in the gleam of teeth that flashes just long enough to make your stomach drop.
"Don’t. Not your job to fix what they fucked up,” he shrugs, looking into your eyes without breaking eye contact, as if you're something he can't and absolutely mustn't take his eyes off of, but his eyes wander; they wander all over your face and stop on your lips before looking back into your eyes.
—
Jungkook is unbearable in the way that only beautiful, self-assured men can be — the kind who seem to orbit above consequence, too smug in the certainty that the world will always bend before they do. He walks like the night is his, like even the pavement is lucky to carry his weight, and somehow you're beside him, too aware of every step that syncs up with yours.
It’s late, the air caught between autumn chill and the smell of burnt streetlight dust, and we’re heading from campus toward your apartment even though you told him — explicitly told him — that you didn’t need an escort, that you could call Jimin or Taehyung or literally anyone else who isn’t a walking contradiction wrapped in leather and trouble. But Jungkook doesn’t hear “no,” not really. It’s just another word he translates into challenge.
He’s carrying your bag, because of course he is. Because according to him, your “tiny hands” shouldn’t be suffering under the weight of “these fucking bricks you call textbooks,” and because apparently chivalry isn’t dead — it just wears a black leather jacket and has a jawline sharp enough to slice an ego clean open.
The streetlight catches on his shoulders, the fabric pulling tight with every slow, deliberate step, and you swear the motion of muscle under cotton should come with a warning label. You hate that you notice. You hate even more that you keep noticing. His fingers curl around the strap like he’s strangling it for misbehaving, and you realize you're watching him with the kind of attention usually reserved for things you're not supposed to want.
You're almost at your building, and you can feel that invisible shift — the one that happens when you’re too close to saying goodbye and too unwilling to. You glance up at him again, because apparently you're addicted to punishment. The temperature’s dropped, and the wind bites at the hem of your skirt, skimming along ypur knees. You rub at your arms, wishing you had more layers, but pride keeps your mouth shut until it doesn’t. “You remember we still have that joint class this week?” you mutter, half for conversation, half just to distract yourself from the cold — and from him.
He doesn’t answer right away — of course he doesn’t. Silence has always been his favorite weapon, that infuriating calm before he decides whether to ruin the night or save it. His eyes stay ahead, unfocused, like he’s chewing on something sharp and bitter that he has no intention of sharing. The air between you is electric, humming with all the words you haven’t said yet. Then, like he’s spitting out a stone, he mutters, “Fuck, y/n.” a beat, his jaw flexing. “Is it this week?”
You stop walking, your body cutting through the dim gold of the streetlight like a punctuation mark that didn’t ask to be written. The night feels wet around the edges — too humid, too heavy, the kind of weather that sticks to your skin and makes you restless. “Yeah, genius. This week. I told you I only had time this week.” your tone lands sharper than you meant, but you don’t pull it back. You've learned that softness gets you nowhere with him. Softness gets swallowed.
He drags in a breath, low and guttural, like he’s trying to sand down the edges of his own words before they come out. “I can’t make it this week,” he says finally, voice rough in that way that makes you want to bite it just to see if it’d taste like regret.
For a second, the city forgets to breathe. The words sit between you — slow, cruel, deliberate — a quiet detonation that leaves ringing in your ears. you stop dead, right in the center of that pathetic little pool of yellow light, the glow hitting you like a spotlight on someone about to break character. “What the hell do you mean you can’t?”
He finally looks at you. Really looks. The kind of look that makes your spine feel too visible, like he’s peeling something off you without moving a muscle. His eyes catch the light the way oil catches fire — reflective, dangerous, refusing to be one color. “Means I can't make it this week,” he repeats, tone flat, too calm.
It's the kind of calm that drives you insane. The kind of calm that sounds like indifference but feels like punishment. You stare at him, chest tight, mouth parting like you’re about to argue but all that escapes is air. You moved everything — rescheduled, rearranged, re-bent your entire week into his shape — and now he’s standing there, unbothered, saying it like your time’s a toy he’s done playing with.
“You must be joking,” you whisper, though there’s nothing joking about it.
His jaw ticks. There's a pulse under his skin, violent and alive. “Obviously I don't,” he says, and there’s no teasing, no smirk, no escape route in his tone, “thought we were talking about a different date.”
His voice lands like a bruise — dark, spreading, deliberate. And you hate that it still sounds beautiful. That even when he’s disappointing you, you still want to lean closer just to catch it again. It's pathetic, the way your heart can’t tell the difference between hurt and hunger.
He notices the way you’re looking at him — because of course he does — and something flickers in his face, a warning. “Y/n, don’t fucking look at me like that.” his voice drops low, warning-smooth, almost soft if it weren’t for the way his hand drags down his jaw, the tendons flexing under his skin. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me.”
Your eyes, traitorous things, follow his movements. the way that hand — big, veined, rough-skinned — moves across his face like a threat. Your chest tightens. Your brain betrays you with the mental image of that same hand on you, the weight of it, the certainty. You blink it away, angry that you even went there. “You don’t understand, do you?” your voice is quiet, but your eyes are loud, demanding. “Why’d you do that, Jungkook?”
His eyes flash. His composure cracks just enough to let the heat show. “I fucked up, okay? I know I did.” he waves a hand, agitated, his voice threading between defensiveness and something dangerously close to sincerity. “What am I supposed to do now?”
The thing about him — he gets angry when he’s guilty. It's like watching a wildfire pretend it’s not burning the forest. “Why are you always like that?” you snap before you can stop yourself.
He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don't sound so angry. It's not that serious.”
Your laugh comes out bitter, splintered at the edges. “Not that serious, huh?” your voice trembles, not from weakness but from pressure, the kind that builds before a dam breaks. “Me rescheduling my entire week for you, that’s just a favor, right? Some dumb inconvenience?”
Your fists curl at your sides. You can feel your pulse in your palms. The streetlight buzzes above you like it’s eavesdropping. He stares, unmoving, and for once, you think maybe he doesn’t know how to answer.
His voice is too smooth, too flat, the kind of calm that feels rehearsed. His hands adjust his leather jacket, that heavy, weather-worn second skin he wears like it’s the only armor he owns, the sound of the material shifting as low and he says it so casually it almost doesn’t sting — “Nothing that can’t be changed. Don’t sound so complicated.” — like the whole conversation isn’t sitting between you like an unlit match, like he doesn’t know you're one more careless word away from burning the entire night down.
His voice is too smooth, too flat, the kind of calm that feels rehearsed. His hands adjust his leather jacket, that heavy, weather-worn second skin he wears like it’s the only armor he owns, the sound of the material shifting as low and sharp as a breath held too long. His eyes don’t meet mine. They never do when he’s pretending not to care.
The street stretches out before you — narrow, glossed with rain, breathing that faint smell of asphalt and cold metal. The lamps hum above you, haloing the wet air in pale gold, and every few seconds a car passes, its headlights slicing through the dark like someone cutting the world open. You start walking again, your steps too in sync for people who claim to irritate each other.
He looks down at his feet — at his polished, criminally expensive shoes that flash when they catch the light — and you can’t tell if he’s thinking or just pretending to. You feel the chill in your bones now, the kind that creeps in slow, crawling up from the pavement like it knows exactly where to find you.
“Am I complicated?” the words leave your mouth before you can strangle them. You tilt your head toward him, watching his profile like it might tell you something his mouth won’t — the sharp angle of his jaw, the pulse that flickers when he’s about to lie, the way the corner of his mouth quirks before the rest of him follows. And there it is again — that slow, smug curl of a smirk that brings him back into orbit, the one that says he’s enjoying this too much.
He raises an eyebrow, slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans like he’s settling in. His voice drops, low and deliberate, a private register meant for me alone. “Yes, you are.” he pauses, lips curving around the next words like they’re meant to linger. “Don't need to argue with me on that.”
You clench your fists on both sides, the motion small but grounding. Inside your head it’s chaos — one half of you has already dragged him close, breath colliding, heat spilling, the taste of that smirk dissolving on your tongue; the other half wants to shove him back, warn him, remind him that you know exactly what kind of boy he is. The type who talks in circles, who knows exactly how close he can get before it stops being harmless.
His smirk widens, slow and knowing, like he’s reading every thought as it unfurls in you. “I see your hands clenched into fists,” he murmurs, tone hovering somewhere between amusement and hunger, “don’t get defensive at me.”
You bite back a smile, your teeth catching the edge of it before it can bloom. He always does this — dismantles you with a sentence, slips past walls you spent months perfecting, makes you forget you ever built them at all, “I do no such thing, Jungkook,” you say, too steady, too smooth, and we both hear the lie in it.
You're playing a game — the kind that has no rules, no start, no finish. The kind where you don’t realize you’ve already lost until he’s smiling like that, quiet and victorious. “You do,” he says simply, his tone soft but taunting, the kind of gentle that still cuts, “you always try to look bigger than you are.”
You stop just short of rolling your eyes, “Jungkook, don’t start. I'm not in the mood for your attitude,” but your voice betrays you, trembling at the edges with something that sounds suspiciously like laughter, or maybe want.
You turn a corner, and there it is — the row of dim restaurants, windows fogged with warmth, and just beyond them, the dull familiarity of your building. Home, or something pretending to be it. The distance between you shrinks and stretches with every step, elastic and electric, like a thread that refuses to snap.
He glances sideways at you, that half-smile still alive on his mouth, and you realize — God, you hate that you realize — that you don’t actually want him to stop talking.
He’s been sticking closer lately — that slow, deliberate kind of close that feels like a secret. His body nearly lingers against your thigh like it’s a habit he’s trying to make look accidental, steps syncing with yours until you're walking in the same breath. You can feel his eyes flicker sideways, measuring, always measuring, that quiet hunger tucked beneath his lashes.
You smile, small and sharp, because you know that look. You know the way he observes you, collects you, stores you like he’s trying to memorize a language he’s not supposed to speak. But then he says it, in that low, lazy tone that drags like smoke — “Yeah, you do it with your voice, too.”
You turn to him, a little startled, a little amused, trying to keep the upper hand. “And you seem to be the one noticing?” your voice tilts on purpose, soft mockery balanced on the edge of a grin. He catches it immediately — he always does — and his mouth curves up like he’s proud of himself for winning something invisible.
His whole body betrays him, though. You can see it — the way his posture loosens, his shoulders pull back like he’s subconsciously trying to look taller, more dangerous, like the kind of boy who belongs on the wrong side of your good intentions. “Always did,” he says, voice lazy but loaded, like he’s testing how much truth he can slip in before you call him out. “Everything about you.”
And you laugh — quick, defensive, the kind of laugh that buys you time to breathe before you drown. “Don't try to get on my good side, Jungkook,” your fingers rub against the fabric of your shirt, elbows bent tight as if the motion could generate warmth. The air’s damp, sticking to your skin, to your nerves.
He looks down, pretending to think, palm pressed against his mouth and jawline — tattoos catching the light like quiet punctuation marks. That kind of gesture that's supposed to hide a sinful smirk but never really does. “No, I'm not,” he murmurs, but it sounds like a lie he’s proud of. When he finally looks up, eyes dark and too steady, his sneer is almost shy in its arrogance. “No,” he repeats, slower, deeper, "I'm not trying to get on your good side.”
And you believe him just enough to know you shouldn’t.
You're sure he did it on purpose — because nothing about him ever feels accidental. Not the lazy drag of his words, not the way his gaze lingers like a fingerprint pressed right into your skin, not even the silence that follows. The last lesson might mean nothing to him, just another empty hour ticked off his clock, but it still haunts you, that casual wreckage he leaves behind when he decides something isn’t worth his attention anymore. And still, you can’t unlearn the way your pulse trips over itself every time he looks at you like that — like he knows.
"I know you did it intentionally," you tell him, and God, your voice betrays you — that stupid lilt of flirtation that you don’t even try to hide anymore. It just happens. It spills. It's the way your body knows his name better than your mouth does. It's how every word you throw at him sounds like an invitation, even when it’s supposed to be a wall. Sometimes you swear it’s not even your fault. Sometimes you think loving him is something wired into you, genetic, unfixable.
He raises a finger — that quiet, commanding little gesture that shuts up the entire world — and says, smooth as a sin, "Don’t. Already told you, didn’t do it on purpose."
Sure. And you didn’t spend the entire night imagining him saying that in every other context. It doesn't stop the sting though — the thought that he could just forget, like it’s that easy. Forget your plans. Forget you. That you could’ve waited all this time for something that meant everything to you and absolutely nothing to him.
He catches it, of course. He always does — your tells, your tremors, the smallest twitch of hurt behind your mouth. He collects them like trophies. And when he tilts his head, the streetlight slices across his cheekbone like it’s worshipping him, and he says, low and deliberate, "Let me make it up to you."
And maybe it’s the way his voice drops an octave, or maybe it’s the way he leans in just enough to taste the air you're exhaling, but your body stops knowing what to do. He smiles — that slow, lazy, devastating thing that looks like it could ruin lives and absolutely knows it can. "I’ll do anything, baby."
And that— that pet name— baby —lands like a match in your bloodstream. You freeze. The world folds in. Asphalt, air, everything blurs around his face. His lips are right there, soft-focus and close enough that you can see where his gloss has worn off, where the edge of his mouth catches light. And you look, God help you, you look, and he catches it — of course he catches it. He smirks, doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it vibrating in the air between you, that shared little secret that isn’t even a secret anymore.
He knows you could ask for anything right now and he’d do it — that’s what’s terrifying. That's what’s intoxicating. And when he says, "Yeah, sounds tempting, mm?" — it’s less a question, more a promise. One that tastes like danger and every other bad decision you've already decided you're going to make anyway.
You bite your lip—slow, deliberate—and watch his eyes drop like they’ve been tugged there for the show. It's ridiculous how easily he gives himself away; the way that tiny motion from you can tilt the whole world in his chest. The night’s cold enough to sting but there’s a pulse of heat that spills from him, crawling up through the air like invisible smoke. You swallow it, dizzy on it, and whisper, “So… what would it be?” You hate that he can sound like that — calm, deep, rough-edged — like the world’s too small for him and you're the only thing left to amuse him tonight.
You don’t want to give in, not yet— you want to stretch this thin line of tension until it hums. You want to make him wait, make him twitch, make him lose that careful, cocky control he wraps himself in like armor. It's the only time you feel him unguarded: those small, fragile seconds when he’s watching you like you're both the question and the answer.
He laughs then, that dark, quiet thing that feels like it lives in his throat. Shakes his head as if shaking off whatever trouble he’s already guessed you're brewing. “You’re thinking something way too dangerous,” he says, and God, the way he drags the word dangerous makes it sound like a dare. “I can feel it.”
“You don’t know me,” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. Maybe because you can feel the pavement anchoring you, keeping you from stepping closer even though that’s all you want—to erase the space, to test the electricity.
His eyes glint—lit like matches—and he shifts, the leather of his jacket creasing against itself, his hands deep in his pockets, like he’s holding back the world. “Wrong answer, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that you can smell the heat of him, the faint metallic sweetness of cologne that always clings to your thoughts hours after he’s gone. “Your little sexy brain never stops, does it?”
And something in me snaps—some mixture of amusement and nerves and want—so you swing a lazy fist at his shoulder, more touch than hit, the gesture stupid and impulsive and entirely too soft. “My brain is not small,” you say, but it comes out more like a confession than a comeback.
He grins at that—wide, slow, dangerous—and the sound of it, the feel of it, the sight of it sits right behind your ribs and stays there, like a pulse you can’t get rid of.
“It is. Everything about you is little,” and he says it like it’s both a curse and a confession. The words roll from his mouth heavy, like smoke. Jungkook will never admit it, not even if you begged him to, but you can see it anyway: how the size of you makes something territorial rise in him, something primal and unspoken that hums right under his skin. You're small enough for him to want to guard, to stand in front of, to shadow entirely if you ever needed to disappear. You swear his body’s built like a barricade and his heart’s got sirens in it.
“In a bad way?” you ask, half-laughing because you already know he’ll twist it. iYou can see it flicker across his expression—the smirk that climbs up one corner of his mouth, the arrogance so perfectly threaded through his charm it’s practically an art form. He’s trying to look unbothered, superior even, like the world and you are both his to outsmart, and God, maybe he’s right. He's the kind of boy who finishes second only because he didn’t care to finish first.
He tilts his head, lips curling as he says, low enough that it slides straight down your spine, “In the best fucking way possible, sweetheart.”
And then his hand—huge, veined, steady—finds yours, folds it up inside his like it’s something fragile, like he’s testing how much pressure it can take before it breaks. The air goes too still, and suddenly you're hyperaware of how warm he is, how his touch feels like it’s branding you.
You can feel your pulse stutter in your throat as he starts tracing your fingers, one by one, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, over your skin. His gaze never leaves yours. When he lifts your joined hands, aligning them like a study in contrast—his, large and masculine, yours, impossibly small—it’s obscene how much meaning he fits into that single look.
“So fucking small,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, “could just bend you in half.”
Your brain blanks. The world fuzzes at the edges. You blink up at him, your voice catching somewhere between shock and something much worse. “What?”
The smirk comes back, lazy and knowing, spreading across his face like the first drop of ink in water. “Getting shy?” he asks, almost sings it, and he doesn’t need to add the rest because you can hear it anyway, that unspoken ‘I’m only getting started’ hovering in the air between you like static.
He catches your hand again before you can pull away, and his brow furrows when he feels it—cold, nearly numb. His expression shifts, softer now but still threaded with that same low intensity that makes you want to look anywhere but his eyes. “Fuck, your body’s freezing,” he mutters, rubbing warmth into your fingers with the rough pads of his thumbs, as if the act itself might save you. “why are you so cold?”
And you almost say because you keep taking all the heat out of you, but you don’t. You just watch the steam of your breath tangle in the night air and let him hold your hand like it’s the only thing he’s got left to anchor himself.
He’s touching you like you're made of something fragile, patting you down as if my skin might betray him, as if warmth could hide somewhere he hasn’t already claimed. His brows knit tight with irritation—because you're cold, because you're stubborn, because you're you—and in one motion that looks both heroic and entirely unnecessary, he shrugs out of his leather jacket, the sound of it cracking like thunder in the night air. “You’ll be getting ill faster than I can get you home in time,” he mutters, voice low, edged with that particular brand of annoyance that sounds suspiciously like care.
And you hate that you notice it. You hate that you notice everything. The way his muscles tighten under his shirt, the way the streetlight glances off the curve of his throat, the way his damn jacket—black, heavy, smelling like cedar and smoke and sin—suddenly feels like a confession. He doesn’t share. Not his things, not his attention, not his orbit. So when he holds it out, it’s not just fabric, it’s a symbol, and you can feel it clawing at your chest, tearing open that stupid part of you that still thinks he means what he doesn’t say. You shake your head, step back, lift a hand to stop him like it’ll save you from drowning in his scent.
“Fuck, you’re being a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, and then laughs when he catches the look on your face—half fury, half cracked open. “it’s impossible to take you like this.” and then, softer, almost too soft, “just take it, sweetheart.”
And you do, though not by choice. He slips it over your shoulders himself, careful in a way that doesn’t match his mouth. The jacket’s too big, the sleeves swallow your hands, the hem hits halfway down your thighs, and when he steps back to look at you, you swear the world stops spinning just to watch him watching you. “No big deal, right? just my jacket to keep you warm, darling?”
But his gaze betrays him. It drags down your body and lingers, dark and hungry. “Shit,” he says, almost to himself, “It’s too big on you.” his smirk turns sinful, black as a bruise. “So damn pretty. Can’t take my eyes off.”
And you freeze, because he’s never been this careful, never been this gentle, not with you, not with anyone. And suddenly you don’t know where to look. He’s every fantasy you've ever denied, standing too close, smelling like everything that ruins girls like you. And then his hand—broad, warm, unrelenting—finds your waist under the jacket, guiding you forward like he’s forgotten what distance means. “Better keep looking at me with those big doe eyes,” he says, tone shifting low and teasing. When you do, his grin widens. “Yeah, look at me.”
You do. Because you can’t not.
And maybe that’s why the next words slip out like a confession you didn’t mean to make. “Would you tell me the reason why you wouldn’t come?”
It’s not even about the event anymore. It’s about wanting to know if you still matter enough for an explanation.
He tilts his head, tongue pressed to his cheek, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, the power play, the interrogation. “You wanna know the reason I can’t make it this week?” he says slowly, drawing out every word like he’s tasting it. His smirk returns, lazy, deliberate. “There’s a party at Malcolm's penthouse.”
And you swear your stomach drops. Malcolm. You know that name like a wound you never let heal.
“Malcolm?” you ask, too fast. “The one that has a little sister Malcolm?"
His smirk deepens, and you hate that it does. “Yeah,” he says, watching you unravel, “The one that has a little sister. What about it?”
Oh, everything about it, actually. The fact that she’s older than him by a year, that she’s his ex, that everyone at the university whispers about them getting back together, about how they still get caught leaving the same parties, the same rooms. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t. But you do. And the jealousy that crawls up your throat feels alive, like it has teeth.
“Oh, nothing,” you say, too fast, too bright. Your eyes dart away, landing anywhere but on him. The lamplight, the concrete, the sky. Anywhere that doesn’t reflect how bad of a liar you are. You cringe at your own performance, at the way your voice betrays you, but he doesn’t call you out on it. He doesn’t need to. His smile says enough: he knows exactly how much you care, and he’s enjoying every second of it.
His hand tightens on your waist like he’s staking a claim, like the air between you hasn’t already surrendered to him long ago. You can feel the press of metal against your skin—his rings, his watch, the faint drag of cold steel that should’ve grounded you but only makes you hotter. “Nothing?” he murmurs, voice low enough to curl somewhere inside your ribs. “You sure?” you nod, lying like you always do when you want him to stop asking but not stop touching. His mouth crooks into something that could be a smirk if it weren’t so Goddamn certain. “Yeah, right.”
“You choose a party over a lesson,” you say, teeth grazing your lip, tongue biting the edge of restraint. You don’t add ‘over me’, because you're not that pathetic, not tonight. But the words sit there anyway, sharp and unswallowed, pulsing like they’re alive.
He laughs under his breath, that dark, lazy sound that’s all danger dressed up as humor. His fingers flex at your waist, pulling you closer until the world reduces itself to heat and breath. “Didn’t choose,” he says, eyes cutting through the dark. “Fucking told you I forgot.”
“Yeah, lie to me,” you say, even though you know he’s half-telling the truth and that’s worse. That's always worse.
His hand drags upward, thumb catching under the hem of your shirt before settling back where it was, like he’s reminding himself you're still human, still breakable. “You're impossible.”
“You did it dirty, that’s all,” you fire back, voice smaller than you wanted. “Could’ve just said you didn’t want to.” it’s easier to sound mad than admit you're melting, that every Goddamn move he makes feels engineered to make you come undone in increments.
He breathes out a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No, darling,” and the way he says darling makes your pulse misbehave, “You wouldn’t wanna get on my bad side.”
And then his forehead finds your temple, casual like it’s muscle memory. His breath is mint and smoke and maybe sin. “Wouldn’t like to see me angry,” he whispers, and something in you twists, unfurls, blooms black. The thought of making him angry sparks a thrill so dangerous you nearly shiver with it.
You're already planning it. You’ll let your friend set you up on that blind date this week.You’ll let him find out. You want to see what fury looks like on his pretty mouth.
But not yet. Because right now, you're the one who’s supposed to be angry, and you won’t let him forget it. Not when he’s this close, not when arrogance drips off him like perfume. He can charm other girls into softness; you'll make him work for yours. You look at him and say, steady, “I should be the one mad here.”
He hums, his hand lowering, tracing the shape of your spine until you have to clench your jaw to stay upright. You can feel him smirking when your breath catches. His hand creeps to your lower back, and you almost moan from the sensation. God forbid you, because your back almost arches towards his touch, but you hold back with all your might. You know that it means nothing to him and means everything to you, “I know,” he murmurs. “You're the one who should be angry with me.” pause. then, quieter—realer—“I’m fucking sorry, sweetheart.”
His hand stays at your back, heavy and sure, thumb drawing small circles that you swear are meant to undo you. It's almost comical how he knows exactly where to touch, like your spine’s a switchboard wired straight to your lungs. You hate that your body reacts before your pride does—that every inch of you aches toward him, even when every rational thought you have is screaming that this is what he does, this is how he wins.
He says it like he’s narrating something he already knows by heart, that same slow, half-bored drawl that makes everything sound indecent even when it isn’t. “Can see it in your eyes. You’re angry with me.” and it’s not a question, it’s a fucking declaration, like your body language is a language he learned years ago and never forgot.
The way his voice drips through the air should be illegal—lazy, quiet, but too confident. Like every syllable is tugging on a thread between you, like he’s reeling you in just because he can. You hate that it works. You hate that it always works.
“You look even sexier, if that’s even possible,” he murmurs, and you swear the words land lower than they should, sticky and heavy against your skin. He says it the way other people breathe. You should roll your eyes, but your heart has already dropped somewhere it shouldn’t, and you're pretending not to notice it.
“What are you implying? Are you flirting, Jungkook?” the name leaves your mouth too fast, too sharp, and you push at his chest—barely, stupidly, like it’s an excuse to feel how solid he is under that black t-shirt. He doesn’t even move, just looks at me with that small, infuriating smirk that says ‘you think you’re in control, don’t you?’
“I’m not flirting,” he says, so casual it almost sounds believable. His eyes flicker to your mouth and back, and it’s the kind of look that has too much gravity, too much knowing. When you don’t react, when you just stare, daring him to finish the lie, he adds softer—rougher—“No, baby. You’d know if I were.”
The air feels thick after that, heavy enough to drown in. You try to look anywhere but his face, but he’s all over your line of sight—bare forearms, throat, that lazy posture that screams danger without even trying. You should hate how he looks like that, like sin dressed in muscle and leather, but you can’t. You just want him to put the jacket back on so you have something else to blame for the way you're staring.
And then he catches you doing it. “Can't stop smirking, you minx. You like that?” his voice dips—lower, slower—and you feel the words skim down your spine before you can come up with a single clever thing to say.
He doesn’t wait. His hand finds your waist, fingers deliberate, dragging you closer like we’re in orbit and you're the one losing gravity. You gasp—quiet, betraying—and his arms fold around you, his palms pressing against the small of your back until you have nowhere left to go. Your hands end up against his chest, like you've given up pretending to have a choice.
He leans in, breath against your hair, his words a low hum between you. “I know you like the way I call you baby. The way my arms always chase you. My voice—” he pauses, just enough to make you feel it— “deepens only for you.”
And you can feel it. Not just in the sound, but in the weight of it, how the word you lands like a promise and a threat at once.
He always knows where to press, like he’s got a map of you folded behind his eyelids—every nerve marked, every weak spot catalogued for pleasure or destruction. And when his voice drops, low and unhurried, it feels less like speech and more like a secret he’s feeding to you straight from his lungs. “Getting excited, mm?” it curls around you, that question—if you can even call it that—taunting, warm, dripping in that lazy confidence that could burn through walls if he willed it.
And then, suddenly, that switch. The one that lives in him like a second heartbeat, half-feral and half-saint, the flicker of awareness that reminds him he’s human, that you too, that maybe this heat has somewhere dangerous to go. His tone sharpens, a blade laced in regret. “You need to get home before I do something reckless.”
But you can’t help it. You tilt your chin up like defiance itself is a language you've spent years mastering, words shaped by the tremor of your pulse. “You’ve always been,” you murmur, your fingers clutching at the soft black fabric stretched across his chest. It’s not fair, how solid he feels beneath it, how the warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton and straight into your bloodstream. He's this living contradiction—calm and catastrophic at once—and you swear you could write an entire dissertation about the way his muscles move when he breathes. “What kind of reckless?” you add, just to see him flinch, just to stir the flame you shouldn’t touch.
His mouth curves, slow and sharp, and there it is—the smirk that could end wars or start them. “Fuck, I would bet on it,” he says, eyes glinting like sin dressed in midnight. “Certainly would. And you would be the reason behind my recklessness.” His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly, like he’s afraid the air might steal ypu away if he loosens even an inch.
You both turn your heads and realize, absurdly, that you're already beneath your window. Home. The word feels too small for what’s happening here. Your surroundings blur like background noise, and it’s just him—the way his presence rewrites gravity, the way every molecule of air seems to bend toward him. “Get yourself home, sweetheart,” he says, but his hands linger on your waist, reluctant, like they’re memorizing. And you know—God, you know—that as soon as he walks away, all this heat will evaporate, leaving you hollow and too aware of the night.
Your lips part, maybe for a goodbye, maybe for something worse. You feel the pout before you realize it’s there, that soft, stupid giveaway of emotion, and his gaze catches on it like a hook. “And don’t you dare pout like that,” he warns, voice rough enough to scrape. “It drives me crazy.”
“You're lying,” you breathe, but it comes out fractured, the kind of sound that has no authority, just hope dressed in defiance. because the truth is standing right in front of you, in the way his pupils dilate, in the way his jaw twitches like he’s holding back a thousand things at once. And you know, in this swollen, dangerous silence between you, that every word he’s said tonight might be a lie—except for the ones his body can’t stop telling.
His hands are trouble. The kind of trouble that knows exactly what it’s doing — the kind that skims over your clothes like he’s mapping out sins, like fabric is a personal inconvenience. You imagine the weight of his fingers without the barrier, skin to skin, and something inside you hums, low and traitorous. You should stop thinking like this. You should, but you won’t. Because of the way he looks at you—God, he knows. Of course he does. Jungkook always knows. His gaze burns straight through the seams of your clothes, through every excuse you try to stitch together. “It does, and you know it,” he murmurs, voice all smoke and velvet, that half-smirk curling his lips like he’s about to ruin something. “I can see the way your face heats up, sweetheart.” he says it like a diagnosis, like he’s proud of what he’s caused.
“You keep noticing everything about me,” you try to hide the smile crawling up, bite your lip until it almost hurts.
“Just observing, darling. Your eyes—” he pauses, tilts his head like he’s studying a painting, “—they always give you away too fast.” his voice is the kind of deep that makes you dizzy. It scrapes at the air, fills it. He's been calling you ‘darling’ more often lately. You don’t know when that started, but you've started craving it like a secret drug. You want to believe he only talks like this to you. You want to believe you're the only one who drags out this softness in him, but that’s the dangerous part — thinking you’re special when you’re probably not.
And then, suddenly, his hands are gone. The absence is sharp, almost indecent. You feel the cold creep back in where his warmth used to be, and your body protests before you do. “Can't have you freezing,” he says, that casual masculinity coating every syllable, and you want to roll your eyes, want to kiss him, want to do a hundred stupid things at once.
“Your jacket,” you protest, halfway through peeling it off, but his hand catches your wrist, halting, warm, final.
“Keep it,” he says, buttoning it again himself, like it’s his choice, not yours. “Car’s close.” he grins when you pout, the bastard. Laughs under his breath, and then his hand lands heavy and easy on your head, ruffling like you're his favorite kind of chaos. “You keep acting up.”
“Jungkook, I want my wish,” you say it with arms crossed, chin up, pretending you're not melting under that stupid grin.
“No, baby,” he says, and the word baby hits harder than it should, rough and warm and entirely too easy for him. “I remember. I owe you one.” his fingers graze your hair again, tuck it behind your ear with this maddening gentleness, and you hate that it feels like a confession.
His hand drags from your crown to your cheek—barely a touch, just a promise—and you swear you stop breathing. “See you around, darling.” he turns, walks away, doesn’t even look back until the last second, just to flash that cocky smirk that’s been living rent-free in your head for weeks. “Might bring you something to keep you warm. Stay on the phone,” he calls over his shoulder, makes the ‘call me’ sign with his fingers, and disappears like he never existed at all.
Later, you're lying in bed, fresh from the shower, hair damp, the glow of the tv flickering against the walls. It's raining now, soft and relentless, and his jacket sits there on the chair like a memory that won’t behave. You stare at it like it personally wronged you, like it’s mocking you for how easily you let him get under your skin. You tell your best friend about it, about him, about how weirdly gentle he’s been lately—too good, too careful, too much—and she keeps trying to speak but you keep talking over her, the words spilling out like you're trying to drown the truth before it forms. Because you know something’s changed. You just don’t know what. All you know is that his jacket still smells like him, and it’s driving you insane.
💕: Bang Chan [Dad!Bangchan ] x Reader[ Mom!Reader]
✍️Synopsis: Parenting is Teamwork. Especially when Y/N and Chan juggle family life and upcoming birthday party preparations for their energetic toddler, as they balance work, parenting, and their relationship, they find joy in the simple, everyday moments that make their little family special.
🔢Wordcount: 3,8k
📖Genre: Marriage AU, Family AU, Domestic Fluff, mildly suggestive
❗Warnings: The romantic/sexual innuendos are mild and non-explicit. food mentions, parenthood/parenting themes/ mentions of family planning and pregnancy, Chan calls the reader "sweetheart", reader is called "eomma" by the kid, mentions of sharks
☕A/n: This started with imagining Bang Chan holding a toddler while also holding a grocery bag, biceps, and forearms…. Can you blame me?
Reader is an Event Manager (who recently started working part-time again) and a former idol! Chan (now music producer for the new Generation of Idols), their son, Dae-min is a toddler and likes sharks.
-[Masterlist]-
The distant squeak of the semi-broken shopping cartwheel told you that Chan and Dae-min weren’t far off, that and the race car noises, your toddler omitted from their lips, while your husband pushed the cart through the aisles of the grocery store.
You glanced up from the instructions of the vanilla butter crème mix, checking the ingredients you needed to add, and decided to add it to your shopping. Just in case, a backup if your homemade recipe didn’t work in the early August heat.
It was Sunday, barely past noon and since your husband was home and not stuck in the studio producing the newest hit for the recently debuted girl group, you decided to use his muscle strength to get the monthly groceries done early before you got busy during the week to prep for your little boy’s big day next weekend.
The bouncy castle would arrive the day before, and the grandparents were flying in the same day to help with preparations. You need to check on the guest rooms and possibly call the pool guy to confirm the water quality by Wednesday, and also deep clean the second freezer.
Party planning had been your livelihood before you had Dae-min, and what use would that be if not for your son’s birthday party?
“Sweetheart,” your husband’s voice got you out of your planning reverie, overthinking, he calls it. He had momentarily stopped turning the grocery store into the Formula 1 Grand Prix and looked at the Items in your hands, “Are we almost done? It’s his nap time soon, and we have yet to have lunch…”
“Right,” you said dropping the Items in the carts and ran a hand over Dae-min messy curls he got from his father, “we don’t have any freezer items that could go bad…so I was thinking we could get some of that rotisserie chicken from the shop outside …and Dae can start his nap in the car on our way back…”
Chan's eyebrow rose for a moment. “Rotisserie chicken?”
“Yeah, hadn’t had that for a long time…”
His lips tugged into a sheepish smile, amused, “Sounds good, babe.”
A few moments after paying, your little family settled into a cozy booth nestled in the corner of the food court. Now that he had won the Grocery Aisle Grand Prix, the almost three-year-old suddenly discovered another urgent sensation: hunger. And once that realization struck, there was no stopping him.
Dae-min, once he spotted the chicken rotating, kept yelling, “Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki” flailing his limbs around with wild enthusiasm, conducting a chaos orchestra….
” Uncle Bboki, Uncle Bboki!”
Uncle Seungmin probably had taught him that…
As you reached for Dae-min’s toddler legs, which were bicycle-pedaling now, as he still kicked to join his father, to fit into the horrendously impractical kids' seat.
Whoever designed them didn’t think that kids thought sitting down to eat was the worst thing on earth.
Chan got your guy’s order, of chicken, drinks, fries, and…coleslaw, you didn’t remember telling him that you wanted some…but he somehow knew you’d like.
Dae-min’s excited eyes glowed when he saw the spread, ignoring the chicken for the fries his appa was cutting into smaller pieces for him, holding out his arms, pudgy hands opening and closing in rapid motions that matched his kicking feet, “Gimme Gimme Gimme”
“Bahng Dae-min, how do we ask appa nicely?”
“Appaaaaa” Dae said, lengthening the last syllable sweetly and using a combination of his boba eyes and dimples, “may I please have Flies!”
Chan chuckled at his mispronunciation.
“Yes, Baby, you may have Flies.” he mirrored his inflection and added, “I’ll give them to you once they are cool enough so you can eat them.”
You use the time to get on your phone to put some things from your mental checklist into your notes app. There was still so much to do and organize before Dae-min’s first day, and in addition, you had to coordinate something for an upcoming wedding of a client until Thursday, too.
Getting back to work as an event manager after having an active child that kept up most of your brain’s capacity captive…that and the heat of summer was making the cogs in your brain turn even slower.
A cool touch to your cheek made you come back into reality, and you saw Chan holding a cold drink to your face
“She’s back again…” he smiled, and put the drink in front of you, with a small command, “hydrate…” Before pulling off part of his chicken for Dae-min, “Y/n I don’t want you stressing so much, darling…. Remember, it’s going to be fine…we outsourced a lot of the side dishes to our friends…my parents are going to help with the prep… Dad’s even said he’s gonna prep the barbecue…you know that he doesn’t let anyone else go near his meat prep.”
“Yes…I know“ you said starting to eat from your chicken, dang this tasted good, “But it’s Dae-mins’s first birthday, he’ll actually remember.”
“Yes…” Chan added and pushed the coleslaw towards you, “but I also want you to enjoy the day…and not crash, after our guests left on the sofa like last year….”
He sighed, “I’m helping you this year…remember that…we all are….. Hyunjin and Jisung even volunteered to do the Balloon Arch.
“They are gonna fight like they are their pre-debut selves again.”
“They are adults…they can handle arguments now.”
“Well… They’re gonna cry…..just warning you…”
“I’m used to dealing with crying…. Aren’t I buddy?” he glanced at his son, who looked up, clearly not having a clue about the conversation they had just had, but nodded, beaming because it was his dad he was looking at.
“Yes, appa…. May I have Uncle Bboki?” he gestured to the chicken.
Chan laughed, “We really have to stop letting Seungmin teach him those things when he babysits.”
As predicted, his belly full, Dae-min fell asleep just as he was buckled into his car seat, despite his protest that he wasn't tired at all, another thing he got from his dad. Chan showed you the demo of the newest song he was working on the way back, wanting your opinion on the matter. You left the AC in the car running while bringing in the grocery bags with Chan, the heat outside making you start to sweat.
“Sweetheart, why don’t you go inside and start putting things away while I get the last bags and Dae…..get inside you look like you’re melting…”, he said and tapped your behind for good measure, “I got this…”
While putting away the groceries, your mind drifted back to lunch, the taste of the chicken still lingering in your mouth, making you want more; maybe you should go back there tomorrow.
“Say babe…” You said when you heard the shuffle of Chan getting back into the house, “We used to have this chicken a lot a while ago….why did we stop having it again?”
You lifted your head and watched as your husband came into the room, Dae-min nestled against his neck on one arm, while he patted your son’s back. In his other hand, he carried grocery bags, carefully balancing as he moved.
His Muscles? ….bursting
Him?…..subtle flexing
The veins in his forearms?….popping.
Your brain?..... rotting
He caught your gaze, and the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. “Care to help me out so I don’t drop our son?”
“Y-you’d never do that anyway,” you murmured, but took the bags from his hand so he had it easier to carry Dae.
“Never,” he said sincerely but softly, shifting so Dae drooled on his shirt and not into his neck, “I’ll be right back…” He said, and then went to put his son down in his room.
Halfway through the groceries, you decided to fix a refreshment and put pineapple and watermelon into the mixer to get some juice.
The buzz of your phone, a confirmation about the delivery and setup of the bouncy castle, and the people around you made you go into planning mode again. You still had to get the party favors for the few kids that would be there from Dae-min's playgroup, and had to make sure that the members of Stray Kids also got some shark-shaped water guns Dae-min carefully selected to be part of the favors.
A gentle hand on your lower back called you back to reality, “Daydreaming again, my sweet?”
Chan was back and set the baby monitor on the kitchen counter.
“Yeah, sorry, I think this weather is doing something to my head…” You said and offered him a glass of freshly made juice.
“Yeah, you looked kind of thirsty…” he smirked and sipped. “This is nice…especially after the food…” He glanced over the shopping, half of it already put away, “Let’s get this done…”
It was a comfortable quiet with the two of you putting away the chaos, tag teaming in silence, only occasionally disrupted by the sipping of juice. You caught his glances, watching you with a careful interest, probably trying to catch you in the moment of daydreaming again.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, pushing back the hair that fell into his face.
“Lunch,” you said honestly, “The chicken was so delicious.”
Chan laughed, “Dae said the same thing when I tucked him into bed….glad we don’t need a DNA test to prove he is yours.”
“Good since he is a mini-you…” You murmured, “Ditto-copy dimples and all...”
His eyes softened when he looked at your son in the image displayed on the baby monitor. Dae turned in his sleep to hug his Sharkplushie, which he recently got.
“He was pumped to go swimming in the pool with you,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around Chan’s waist, digging your nose into his back, “So better be ready to hop in after his nap….
He turned around, arms embracing you, “Aren’t you gonna join us?”
“You and I know that we bought this house with a pool for you and you only…. I might dip my feet in, but you and your son are part aquatic animals after all….”
You sat on the little piece of carpet right by the coffee table in the living room, laptop between your legs, hair up in a bun, and some files scattered around you like petals in spring. Your work phone, regularly buzzing with updates, and next to your private one, receiving messages now and then from people who ask if they could help you out in any way.
Naa you were good, AC in the house plus sitting to proximity to the cooling tiles….a drink…you were fine, this was fine. The tapping of little (and big) feet let you know that your son and husband were making their way over to you, and you glanced up to look at Dae, in his post nap glory, dressed and ready for his pool afternoon with his appa. Behind him, in hot pursuit, Chan, swimming trunks on, as per usual, was allergic to any type of shirt in the vicinity of the house.
Not that you minded.
You ogled.
God forbid, a girl had hobbies.
“Dae-min-ah,” Chan said, struggling to get the clasp on Dae-mins swim vest to open, “Come here so I can put this on you buddy…”
“Nooo…I can swims…harabeoji taught me,” the toddler insisted. Fair, having your swimming coach grandfather teach you since he was small was a bonus.
“It's not about ability, Daeminnie …but about safety.”
“But its…its…” Dae stopped his little mind trying to find the words to formulate the issues he was having with the garment, lips pouty, and you saw that he was struggling to find the words in both Korean and English.
“Deep breaths, Sarang,” you gently encouraged him…” What's wrong with the vest?”
“It does this…” Dae-min said, his thumb and pointer finger moving towards each other like a crab’s claws would. “Here!” he added, pointing below his armpit and neck.
“Oh, it pinches you,” you said and took the jacket from Chan’s hands, overseeing the straps, then held it out in front of Dae. “Yeah…this might be a little tight….I think you grew again….”
“With the amount he eats,” Chan kneeled to observe the size issue with you, “You are growing so quickly you might stop being fun sized buddy…”
“Snack time is important,” Dae-min defended himself, kicking his feet, “Can I go into the pool now?”
“Not yet, Buddy…” Chan looked at you,“ I think it's time….. I know the surprise was for his birthday but… I’d rather buy him something else next week than have a toddler that's too hyper to go to bed tonight because he didn't get his energy out during his swimming time….we have plans tonight…”
You sighed, ignoring the blush caused by Chan uttering the last sentence in a very Christopher way, “Yeah, we might as well…. I just have to remember where I hid it….”
You tried to remember where you had hidden Dae-min's birthday presents from the curious toddlers' hands…there were several places in the house, but your mind wouldn't let you access the memory storage.
“It’s either in the sock drawer in our closet….or behind the pasta….” Chan helped. “That’s where you last stored the Christmas presents….”
“Right….it's in the sock drawer… Keep him occupied and happy.” You snapped your finger and moved to retrieve the item.
Chan saluted.
When you returned a few minutes later, your husband and son were breaking it down to the sound of Baby Shark, the cursed song that has been on a loop in this house ever since Dae-min was small. No wonder he loved Sharks so much.
“Look Dae-min-ah,” you said, holding out the vivid blue swim fin swimming aid, “This can help you stay afloat in the pool and looks…
“Awesome!” Dae-min yelled out, beaming, “I can be a real shark now! Hunt appa!”
“Right…but remember no biting…” you chuckled and moved to put it on him, “This will be a little different from the vest Sarang….so you need to get a feel for it in the water….its usually for big kids but appa and I know that you can swim well and would tell us if you get tired or feel weird right.”
“Safety first,” Dae-min parroted the phrase he had heard lots of times, but the wiggling of his toenails told you how excited he was.
“Remember, appa will keep you safe,” you said, adjusting the strap of the swimming aid.
“Always,” Chan added, ruffling Dae-min's hair…” Now sun protection….I’ll get you while eomma gets appa’s back…what about it?”
“You could just wear a UV shirt, you know…” You sighed but reached for the sunscreen nonetheless.
The joyful screams and splashing distracted you from your work, so you eventually succumbed and closed the laptop, put away the work phone, and came out to sit in one of the lounge chairs after fixing a snack for your boys.
When you got out, you were balancing a tray with an assortment of snacks.
Dae-min was in hot, sharky pursuit of his father, paddling through the pool with fierce determination. As soon as he reached him, Chan scooped the boy up and, with a grin, tossed him gently a few feet away, back into the water. Dae-min landed with a splash, erupting in gleeful giggles.
“Oh no, you almost got me…” Chan cried in mock horror. “These shark-infested waters are terrible!”
“Would the sharks mind a little refreshment?” you asked, hands on your hips and dipping your foot into the water. “I got blueberries, watermelon, and goldfish crackers.”
“Shark-min likes goldfish,” your son exclaimed, and paddled himself to the shallow end of the pool to the edge and lifted his arms, “eomma….uppies?”
You grabbed a big towel before kneeling and lifting him out of the water, embracing him in Turkish cotton.
“Did you have fun?”
He giggled, pressing a kiss onto your cheek, curly hair dripping with pool water as he shook his head like a dog, trying to get dry, “Lots …appa didn’t have a chance, I am too fast…”
He made race car noises again, gesturing wildly.
“Your appa is getting old,” you nodded, carrying Dae-min over to the lounge chairs, and sat down to pat him dry.
“Betrayal by my own wife and son,” Chan said, getting out of the water, the UV tank he somehow bothered to put on, clinging to his body. When he caught your gaze, he smirked, and did it even more slowly, and you realized that it had been for this exact moment he put it on in the first place.
“How did he do?” you said after Dae was busy devouring his snacks, and you made sure Chan got the wrap you plated for him. “With the new aid and all”
“At first, it was a little strange for him to move…. This gives him a lot more freedom to move than the vest, but he’s a tough guy and tried it out, and it worked. Usually, kids older than him have trouble swimming with that…. He’s a great kiddo…but I am biased.”
He sighed, running his hand through his hair. It was getting long again.
Yeah, you are biased too…
Later, after some snacking, rest, and reapplying sunscreen, the boys returned to their aquatic habitat while you watched from the safety of your lounge chair. Eventually, you went inside to start preparing dinner while Chan and Dae rinsed off by the pool. After dinner, you tucked Dae into bed for the night.
His eyes were fighting to stay awake, arms tight around the shark plushie.
“Eomma….may we have Uncle Bbokki again when I wake up…and play sharks with appa?” he murmured, squishing the plushie to his chest, “and cuddles with eomma…. Sharks are cool…”
He kept babbling until his breaths slowed into that familiar rhythm that told you he was fast asleep for the night.
Baby monitor in tow, you made your way back to the kitchen, where Chan was cleaning up the dishes from dinner. He looked up from the plate he was putting away.
“That was quick…he usually takes longer.”
“Baby Shark was exhausted,” you said with a yawn, and stretched, “He kept babbling on how much fun today was…”
“Yeah, he does that,” Chan chuckled, “His tired babbles are the best…only second to yours.”
“I don’t babble when I’m tired…”
“Sure Y/n…”
You rolled your eyes, glancing around the kitchen, “Damn…you’re all done…”
“What can I say… I am efficient…” he reached out to pull you close by your belt loops, “I see someone else being very tired…”
“It’s the weather….” You yawned against your will. It was hot, and the fatigue made you want to just crawl into bed…. Maybe you should do afternoon naps too…Dae seems to like it. That sounded like a good plan for tomorrow. Work from home, getting some rotisserie chicken again, then napping…
Chan’s eyes observed you carefully, “Are you thinking about chicken again?”
Your eyes widened, caught “Yeah…Dae wants a do-over of today…chicken and pool.”
“Sounds good…” your husband chuckled and nuzzled your neck, “But now I want attention and cuddles from my wife…you keep being distracted and not paying attention to me.”
“Gosh, you are so much like Dae-min…same pout…”
“Meanie….” he murmured against your neck, “And no, he might look like me, but he is like you…. Proof one...you both are obsessed with rotisserie chicken. Proof two, I’m obsessed with both of you…Proof three….you both snort the same way when you laugh.””
“Now you’re the one being mean,” you said, wiggling out of his grasp, giggling, and snorting when his tight hold proved true.
“See…and now I need your attention,” Chan moved swiftly to pick you up to carry you to your bedroom. “I was thinking since we have a visual mini me…how about a mini you next…”
“I just started to get back working again,” you laughed, squeezing his arm.
“Boo, work is bad for your health…quit…” he complained, finally setting you down on your bed and stepped a bit away.
“Says the workaholic,” you reached for him, your hands opening and closing in rapid motions, …then paused because Chan was looking at you. Again, curious and calculating.
“Say…sweetheart….you asked me earlier today…why we didn’t have rotisserie chicken for the longest time…”
“Yes….it really was a long time ago we had it…and at the time pretty frequently….when was it…”
The energy shifting into something uncertain made you nervous, causing you to fold your hands in your lap.
“You’re a smart girl…try to remember…”
You tried to fight through the discombobulated swirl of thoughts. It had been a while… and that particular rotisserie chicken? You’d only had it when Dae was tiny… wait, no…. Dae hadn’t been born, actually…not yet.
Oh.
“This was a craving I had when I was… pregnant with Dae…” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, rubbing the soft fabric of the duvet, “I craved it quite often actually and suddenly didn’t anymore when he was born….”
Your hand paused mid-motion, eyes widening as the realization hit.
You slowly lifted your head to face him.
Chan had dropped to a casual kneel in front of you, arms resting loosely on his knees, eyes studying your face. A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gave a single, slow nod, “Yeah…”
“You think?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, uncertain and breathless.
He pushed off the ground and sat beside you, his expression softening as he put an arm around you, grounding you against his warmth, “I’m assuming... the fatigue, the distractedness,” he said gently, rubbing your shoulder. “Could be a coincidence...but we should make sure.”
Your pulse quickened. You stepped back with a nervous laugh, your hand going instinctively to your belly, “I’m gonna check in the morning… I think I still have a test!”
Excitement tangled with a thread of fear, and a swirl of nervous energy bubbled up in your stomach.
“We just got out of the diaper changing age….Dae finally sleeps through the night…. Are we ready to do it all over again?
“With you and me...we’ve got this,” he said softly. “Us against the tantrums and the chaos and...whatever else comes with it. We’ve had plenty of practice in that department.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling with quiet hope, and added, “I’m secretly hoping for a girl next…”
A sudden doubt clouded your mind, “What if it's just a coincidence? What if I am not…”
Chan’s lips curved into a sly smile as he leaned in closer to kiss you behind your ear. “Then we’ll just try… we’ve had plenty of practice in that department too...”
You snorted, he laughed, and pulled your head into his lap.
“One way or another, “Chan mumbled, stroking your hair. “We got this….”
The quiet stretching around you, air filled with future possibilities. More little feet running, grocery aisle Grand Prix, plushies, giggles, lullabies, and dance moves to nursery rhymes.
Chan let out a happy sigh. “Sounds like our shark tank might have a new little fish soon.”
And you were excited about it.
-[ Reblogs, comments and/or keyboard smashes are appreciated]-
AN: Hi this is my third fic on this blog. I hope you all enjoy All Bark And A Little Bite.
Paring: Jungkook x reader (fluff with slight angst if you squint)
Warning: brief mention of panic attack, saesang, desperate Jungkook, carrots (let me know if I forgot anything please)
Summary: You decided to make your boyfriend his favorite food to welcome him home when an unexpected visitor shows up for dinner.
**
The smile on your face was as permanent as the excitement you’ve felt for the past few days. Your crops are watered, your bed is warm, your pillow is cold, and more recently, your favorite person has been released from military duty. And what better way to celebrate his coming home than to make his favorite food?
After confirming you had the necessary ingredients, you set to work cutting the veggies first. With a yellow shirt too big to be yours and Butter playing in the background, your hips swayed as you prepped to make japchae. As the song ended and another began, you chopped the last of the veggies and set them aside to check on the meat, you left to marinate overnight.
House sitting for Jungkook for the past week had been very interesting, from having to navigate the many mattresses throughout the apartment, down to clearing away the laundry Jungkook left sitting on the dining room table. But the best part would definitely be the good boy who has kept you company the entire time. Bam refused to leave your side for too long, lest you get lonely or his dad decided to video call you again. Speaking of Bam, however, he was comfortably lying on the couch watching you work and praying that you would drop something he could taste.
The moment was short-lived, however, as Bam perked up, focused, and trained on the front door, much to your obliviousness. The socks on your feet slid against the ground as you launched yourself into the chorus of That That. A deep growl from Bam brought you back to reality, and you turned down the music playing to check on him.
“Bam? What’s wrong, baby?” you went to check on him when you stopped in place, noticing his hackles were raised. Something wasn’t right.
Before you could investigate further, a deep bark echoed through the house as Bam stood his ground, ready to defend his home. The beep of the keypad, followed by the wrong code alert, sounded, causing Bam to bark more.
Weird….
Jungkook wasn’t the type to forget the password to his own house, so what was going on here?
“Bam….s-stop. Calm down.” You kept your voice low and steady, one hand hovering near his back as you held his collar gently, trying to ground him with your calm.
But his barking got louder as whoever was outside tried code after code to open the door. Through the chaos of sounds floating through the house, your phone’s ringtone rang through, startling you further. Checking the caller ID revealed the man of the hour himself was calling you.
Jungkook’s frantic voice made your ears ring.
“Y/n-ah don’t answer the door! I need you to go into my bedroom with Bam and lock the door.”
“Jungkook? What? What do you mean? Isn’t that you at the door, trying to come inside?”
“No!” His voice was frantic as he spoke; “I’m still at the company, and with what’s happening, I can’t leave yet. Listen Carrot, and don’t freak out too badly, but right now there’s a saesang at the door trying to get inside, and I’m terrified she’ll hurt you if she sees you.”
The desperation in his voice grew as he continued, “Please, I’m begging you, take Bam and lock yourselves in my bedroom. There's a bat in there if you need it.”
As if someone threw a bucket of water on you, everything around you froze. The room grew colder as a ringing in your ear grew louder. Your breathing picked up, and it felt like the world around you had started spinning. Someone potentially dangerous was at the door, and if they got in, then….. Your chest tightened , thoughts racing of what might happen if the door gave way, you let go of Bam’s collar momentarily, he shot forward his bark sharpening into a savage snarl.
“I can’t get Bam to move away from the door. He’s been barking at it nonstop.” You ran a shaking hand over Bam’s head, he looked back at you, then at the door, determined and protective , which only encouraged him to bark more.
A curse escaped Jungkook’s lips, and you can picture him running a frustrated hand through his hair, “Alright, put the phone on speaker.”
The line crackled in the silence. You fumbled to hit speaker, and only then did Jungkooks’s voice cut through, low, firm and steady, “Bam house.”
At the sound of his father’s voice Bam lets out a whine, calming down instantly and turning to you to confirm he heard correctly. When the command came again, he made his way into Jungkook’s room and straight into his kennel.
“Incredible…” you aknowleged.
“Compliment me later.” Jungkook interrupted, “For now, get into my room and lock the door. The police are on their way, but if they don’t arrive in time, then under the bed you’ll find a shiny metal bat. I want you to swing the bat full force if it comes to that.”
“Jungkookie, no…” your voice cracked, the phone trembling in your hand. “I… I can’t do that.”
“Hey, hey, listen to me, Carrot.” His voice softened, each word slower than the last, like he was coaxing your pulse to settle, “You’re a beautiful and strong woman, so I know you can do this. You waited 18 months for me to leave the military, and I’m not letting some intense fan stop me from holding you while we sleep tonight. Just imagine you’re having a pillow fight with me and swing.”
HIs efforts didn’t help much as your breathing picked up, which didn’t go unheard by Jungkook, “No, no no. I can’t.”
“Baby breathe. Calm down. Let’s talk about that dress you sent me yesterday. The one you wanted to buy but didn't. The pretty white one with the flowers. Go lie on my bed and get comfy, then tell me why you want it. Lock the door behind you.”
Like on autopilot, you followed his instructions, momentarily distracted from what’s outside. Once Jungkook heard the click of a lock, he sighed, slightly relieved that you were a little safer than before.
“Carrot? Get comfy. I left your favorite blanket of mine on the bed. Make yourself a cute burrito and tell me all about that pretty dress.”
“Well, it’s a summer dress, but you can tell by the sleeves.” You shuffled under the blanket, wrapping yourself up tightly. “I thought it would be cute to get dressed up and move the coffee table in your living room so we could have an indoor picnic. Well, that’s what I thought about when I saw the dress.”
“You’re cute, you know.” Jungkook chuckled, straining his ear to hear anything else happening in the surrounding background. “We can do that. I’ll get you that dress as a gift. Which shoes would look good with them? Oh! And the purse. Can’t forget the purse Carrot.”
“Well, one of the flowers is red …so maybe some… red flats and… a pretty red bag.” Your timid mumbling sent a pang of sadness straight into Jungkook’s heart.
“It’ll never be prettier than you.” He joked, hoping it could lighten the mood a bit.
“You flirt too much, Jungkookie.” You snorted, smiling for the first time since the saseang arrived.
Jungkook laughed, “I don’t hear any complaints from my girlfriend.”
The conversation between you two continued, lighthearted, the storm outside fading to nothing more than background noise. Time passed by as Jungkook continued making you laugh until a loud knock frightened you. A gruff voice outside confirmed the police had arrived, and you were finally safe at last.
“Go answer the door, Carrot. I’ll start heading home now.” Jungkook sighed, then the line cut, leaving you staring at the dark screen before you could reply.
You left Jungkook’s room, careful to leave Bam inside so you could answer the front door. After a few questions and reassurances, the police left, their taillights fading down the street. That’s when a sleek black car pulled up to the curb.
“Carrot!” You heard him before you saw him.
His voice reached you before he did. The door flew open, and Jungkook sprinted toward you, pulling you into a crushing embrace. His warmth closed around you, and only then did the weight of everything hit, your chest heaved, tears welling faster than you could blink them back. You tried to fight it, but the sobs broke free anyway.
“You’re so strong, Carrot.” he murmured, brushing away the tears before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “ And you went through such a scary ordeal all by yourself. I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you.”
“It’s ok. It wasn’t your fault.” You tried to reassure him, but you knew better. “I was just scared, is all.”
“I was so worried about you. I’m glad you’re safe angel.” Jungkook confessed, squeezing you tighter, taking in your scent to ground himself “I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if something had happened to you.”
He buried his face against your hair like he needed proof you were real. His hands traced every inch of your face as if relearning the shape and feel of you. In one last desperate attempt to convince himself you really were ok Jungkook kissed you tender yet desperate again.
He exhaled, steadying himself, then eased back just enough to look at you, “Come on, let’s go inside.”
Jungkook took your hand in his and dragged you inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. He looked around, noticing someone was missing. Before he could ask, a scratching at his bedroom door caught his attention, and he opened it, revealing Bam wagging his tail in excitement, and dramatically flopping over ready to receive praise.
“Bam! Good boy protecting your mom like that.” Jungkook laughs, complimenting Bam while rubbing his stomach, the pups tail wagging with even more excitement.
Both of them jumping aroung while you had gone back to salvage dinner
Wait….You glanced up from the stove, spatula in hand, eyes narrowing at him. Mom? What did he mean by that? You two had been together for months, sure, but that didn’t suddenly make you the mom of his dog.
“Um….mom?”
Jungkook’s hand paused on Bam’s head before it continued showering the beloved pooch in love. A flustered smile spreading on his cheeks as he giggled nervously.
“Sorry it slipped out. I didn’t mean anything bad by it, though.”
“Well, actually…” you swallowed before finding your courage to continue, “I don’t mind you calling me his mom. I know he’s your dog, but I do love him a lot. And he did protect me today.”
You scratched Bam’s ear as the apples of your cheeks twinged a bit. Were you blushing?
“So you don’t mind?” Jungkook asked, moving over to where you were in the kitchen.
He took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand, and searched your face for the third time today.
You shook your head in confirmation, then giggled at the thought before continuing to make dinner.
Jungkook stared at you fondly, then leaned in, slotting his lips over yours while mentally creating a checklist for himself:
1. Buy the pretty white dress you want for your picnic.
2. Buy supplies for said picnic, and
3. Buy the shiny diamond ring he’s had his eye on.
cw: smut (the whole thing basically); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!); blue hair lee know (that’s the biggest warning)
summary: you come home after minho’s been teasing you all day about his new hair, and before you know it the two of you are on the floor, showing him how much you like his new look
a/n: basically if you read my silver hair bang chan one shot you know what this is about 🥵 for me this is top 3 lee know’s hairstyles alongside purple and silver lee know so I JUST HAD TO
your phone buzzes for the fifth time in less than half an hour. you already know who it is before you check, and you already know what it’s about.
minho.
and his new hair.
another photo lights up the screen, this one a little blurrier than the last, his face turned just enough so the streak of blue catches in the light. underneath, the message:
“don’t faint when you see me in person. i can’t carry you and your bags”
you bite back a laugh, standing on the crowded train. he’s been at it all day - one smug text after another, each one paired with a picture. not even proper selfies, just glimpses of him - his reflection in the mirror, the tilt of his jawline, a teasing flash of colour threaded between black strands of hair. making sure you could see something but not everything.
your thumbs fly before you can stop yourself.
“you’re insufferable”
the reply comes almost instantly.
“and you love it”
you glare at the screen, though you can’t help the way your stomach flips. you do love it. love him, love the way he knows exactly how to get under your skin.
the next message makes heat bloom low in your stomach.
“be quick. i don’t like waiting when i know how badly you want me”
you close the app, cheeks warm, and try to focus on the blur of the train windows until your stop. you can’t wait to be home.
by the time you reach home, your pulse is unsteady, every step fueled by the anticipation he’s been feeding all day. you push the door open, half-expecting him to jump out and smirk at you immediately, but the apartment is quiet.
then you hear him.
“took you long enough”
he’s leaning against the doorway of the living room, arms crossed, casual in a way that feels deliberate. the streaks of blue in his hair catch the low light, more vivid than in the pictures, and your breath catches before you can stop it.
he notices, of course he does. his mouth curves into that familiar, infuriatingly confident smirk.
“already staring? i knew this would be dangerous”
you roll your eyes, dropping your bag by the door, “you’ve been tormenting me all day, and you’re proud of yourself”
“very”, he says without hesitation, pushing off the doorway to walk towards you. his gaze drags over you slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring the way you shift under his eyes.
when he stops in front of you, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne wraps around you, he tilts his head, letting you see the blue more clearly.
“so? worth the hype?”
your hand twitches at your side, aching to touch. instead, you lift your chin, pretending you’re unaffected.
“it’s fine”
he chuckles, low and knowing, his hand reaching up to catch your jaw, tilting your face towards him.
“liar”
your breath stutters at the contact, his thumb brushing slowly along your skin. the smirk doesn’t fade. if anything, it deepens when he leans in, close enough that his lips almost graze yours.
“you missed me, didn’t you?”, he whispers.
the words make your stomach flip, heat crawling through your veins. you hate that he’s right, hate how easily he pulls the truth out of you.
“maybe”, you say, but it’s thin, wavering.
he grins against your mouth, “then prove it”
his words hang in the air like a dare, like a spark waiting for fuel.
you don’t answer him right away, though you want to. instead, you lean in and kiss him - a soft press at first, just to wipe that smug grin off his face. but the moment your lips touch, his smirk only grows against your mouth, and his hand slides from your jaw down to the curve of your neck.
“that’s it?”, he murmurs between kisses, voice low and teasing, “all day and you give me that?”
you huff, biting lightly at his bottom lip just to spite him, “you’re insufferable”
he laughs, the sound rich and close, before kissing you properly this time. no more half-teasing brushes - his lips move against yours with certainty, his hand tilting your chin to deepen it until your knees feel unsteady.
when you finally pull back for air, you’re already breathless, your pulse quick and uneven. he studies you for a beat, eyes flicking down the line of your throat before dragging back up to your face.
“you really did miss me”, he says, softer this time, but the mischief never leaves his tone.
you don’t trust your voice, so you only grab the front of his t-shirt and tug him closer again. he lets you, lets you kiss him like you’ve been starving for it, though the control never really leaves his side. his hands are steady, deliberate, sliding over your waist, down to your hips, pulling you flush against him.
the contact makes heat coil low in your stomach, and you can’t hold back the moan that slips from you. he hears it instantly - of course he does - and the smirk returns to his lips as he breaks the kiss.
“there it is”, he murmurs, his thumb tracing slow circles into your hip, “i was waiting for that sound”
your cheeks burn, but the ache in your body overshadows the embarrassment. you press into him more firmly, needing friction, needing him.
he doesn’t move right away. he watches you squirm against him, his gaze heavy, deliberate, until you almost whine from the tension. only then does he lower his head, kissing along your jaw, down the side of your throat.
“minho-”, his name comes out cracked, urgent.
“what?”, he answers against your skin, the word half a taunt, half a caress, “this is what you came home for, isn’t it?”
you shiver under his mouth, your hands finding their way into his hair almost instinctively. the strands are soft, the streak of blue vivid between your fingers, and the sight of it sends another jolt through you. he feels your grip tighten and laughs low against your throat.
“you like it that much?”, he teases, “me, on my knees with my new blue hair? is that what you were thinking about on the train?”
you gasp at his bluntness, but the heat that rushes through you makes it impossible to deny. your silence betrays you, and he hums, satisfied, his lips grazing lower.
“i knew it”, he says, his voice darker now, edged with something rougher.
minho moves down, until he’s sinking in front of you, his hands braced firmly at your thighs. he looks up once, catching your gaze with a mixture of mischief and hunger that makes your breath catch.
his mouth hovers close, his smirk daring, but instead of diving in right away, his fingers toy with the hem of your t-shirt.
“too many layers”, he murmurs, tugging it up slowly, deliberately, “i want to see you”
your breath catches as he pulls the fabric over your head with your help, discarding it carelessly on the floor. his gaze lingers on you, dark and hungry, before his hands trail lower, slipping to the button of your jeans.
he looks up once, his brow arched, “take these off. or should i?”
your stomach flips at the weight of his voice, but your fingers fumble at the button anyway. when you don’t move fast enough, he clicks his tongue and pushes your hands aside, doing it himself with sharp precision. the denim slides down your legs in one swift motion, leaving you bare except for the thin scrap of fabric between his eyes and everything he wants.
“better”, he says, his tone almost satisfied, but his smirk only sharpens “much better”
you reach for him too, tugging his t-shirt over his head, eager to feel him against you. his skin is warm under your hands, the lines of his shoulders solid and grounding.
he doesn’t give you time to think. one moment you’re catching your breath, the next you’re pressed back against the couch, his hands on your thighs, spreading you open for him, moving your underwear to the side.
“hold still”, he says softly, though his grip makes sure you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
then his mouth is on you, hot and deliberate, his tongue dragging slow against your skin until your head tips back. the first sound that slips out of you is unguarded, raw, and his smirk deepens against you.
“so needy”, he mutters, his breath hot against your most sensitive spot, “and i’ve barely touched you”
your fingers thread through his hair, tugging at the streaks of blue as if to anchor yourself. he groans at the pull, the sound vibrating against you, making your hips jerk.
when his finger slides inside you, slow but firm, your body clenches around him immediately. his grin widens, shameless, as he presses his tongue harder against you.
“already?”, he says, his tone laced with satisfaction, “i’ve missed this”
his mouth and hand move in perfect rhythm, each flick of his tongue matched by the curl of his finger inside you, coaxing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you could make. the pressure builds sharp and fast, your hips moving helplessly against his mouth.
you cry out, clutching at his hair, your body shuddering as the tension finally snaps.
the release crashes through you, raw and overwhelming, your body clenching hard around his fingers.
he doesn’t stop immediately, his tongue steady until the tremors ease, until you’re boneless beneath him. only then does he pull back, his lips glistening, his smirk both wicked and reverent.
“look at you”, he says, voice low, almost a whisper, “a mess just from my mouth”
before he can climb back over you, you push lightly at his shoulders. the movement surprises him enough that his smirk falters, just a little, though the gleam in his eyes only sharpens.
“what’s this?”, he asks, voice teasing but curious.
you sit up, your hands finding his chest, pressing him down until he’s lying on the floor. for once, he lets you move him without resistance, stretching out beneath you like he’s amused to see what you’ll do.
“your turn”, you murmur, climbing into his lap.
his mouth curls into a grin, but there’s a flicker of something else too - anticipation, interest, the thrill of giving up just enough control.
your fingers trace over his bare skin, down the hard lines of his chest and stomach, until they rest at the waistband of his jeans. he’s still half-dressed, and you fix him with a look before tugging pointedly at the fabric.
“off”, you echo his earlier command, though your voice comes out breathless.
he laughs low in his throat, the sound reverberating against your skin where you’re straddling him.
“bossy”, he says, but he doesn’t fight you. he lifts his hips just enough for you to strip the trousers from his legs, dragging his boxers down with them.
when he’s finally bare before you, heat coils low in your stomach all over again. he’s already hard, the sight of him making your mouth go dry, and his smirk returns full force when he notices your stare.
“like what you see?”
you roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn, and instead of answering, you lean down to kiss him hard enough to wipe the smugness off his lips. his laugh breaks into a groan, his hands gripping your hips, but you don’t let him steer. not yet.
“you look good down there”, you murmur, letting your fingers trace over the lines of his stomach.
he huffs a laugh, his grin lazy, “don’t get used to it”
your lips trail down, over his jaw, the line of his throat, lower still. you take your time, nipping lightly at his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. his breathing grows heavier the further you go, his hand tightening against your hip as though he’s reminding himself not to drag you back up.
“teasing me now?”, he mutters, his voice rougher.
“payback”, you whisper against his chest, kissing your way down.
when you finally wrap your hand around him, his breath catches, sharp and unguarded. his composure cracks for the first time, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back against the floor.
“fuck”, he breathes, the word bitten off.
you stroke him slowly, deliberately, savoring the way his body reacts under your touch. he’s warm and heavy in your hand, and the small sounds he makes - low, restrained groans he tries and fails to hide - send heat pooling inside you all over again.
you lean down, lips brushing the head of him before you take him into your mouth. the hiss he lets out is instant, his fingers digging into your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself as you explore him.
“shit”, he says, voice cracking slightly now, “you-”, his words cut off into another groan, his control unraveling with each slow movement of your mouth.
he looks down at you, and the sight alone seems to undo him - you on your knees between his thighs, his blue-streaked hair falling into his face, his lips parted in awe.
“you’re gonna kill me”, he says hoarsely, though the smirk fights its way back onto his face, “but don’t you dare stop”
you hum low around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk up against your mouth before he catches himself.
“shit- don’t-”, he groans, his voice breaking, “don’t tease, i’ll-”
but you do tease, taking him in deep only to pull back with excruciating slowness, your tongue dragging along the underside of him. his head thumps back against the floor, his laugh breathless now, cracked open with disbelief.
“you’re trying to kill me”, he says again, his words fractured by the sharpness of his breathing, “fuck, i can’t-”
your pace quickens, your hand working in sync with your mouth, and the sound he makes then is nothing like the controlled, smug minho from before. it’s raw, low, pulled from the center of him.
he curses, his hips bucking despite himself, his voice ragged as he groans your name. the tension in his body coils tighter and tighter until finally it snaps, his release spilling hot across your tongue as his whole frame shudders beneath you.
he’s undone, completely, his breath coming in broken gasps, his hand still tangled in your hair as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
you swallow, pulling back slowly, your lips brushing against his hip before you sit up.
minho drags a hand over his face, laughing weakly, his chest still heaving. when his eyes find yours again, they’re wild, a little glassy, but his smirk is there too - softer this time, a crack of admiration breaking through.
“you’re fucking dangerous”, he says hoarsely, his voice a rasp that makes your stomach flip.
minho’s chest rises and falls, still uneven, his hair sticking to his forehead in damp strands of black and blue. you watch him try to collect himself, his arm flung over his face like he’s surrendering, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays him.
you lie down beside him on the rug, your head resting against his shoulder. his skin is hot, his heart thudding under your cheek, but there’s a warmth there that isn’t just from the rush.
“you’re quiet”, you tease softly, “did i break you?”
he lowers his arm enough to glance at you, and the look in his eyes is equal parts amusement and awe.
“yeah”, he admits without hesitation, his mouth curling into a crooked smile, “you broke me. happy?”
you laugh, the sound easing the sharpness of the air between you, and he reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. the gesture is small, almost careless, but it makes your chest ache.
“you’re dangerous when you get like this”, he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone, “all soft eyes and sharp teeth”
“says the one who spent all day teasing me just to look smug on the floor”, you shoot back, nudging his side with your elbow.
he groans dramatically, rolling onto his side so he’s half on top of you now, pinning you down with his weight, “you make it sound like i didn’t almost die just now”
“you looked like you enjoyed it”, you whisper, biting back a grin.
his laugh is low, breathless, and it melts into a kiss that tastes more like affection than hunger. his lips are warm, unhurried, brushing against yours as if he’s reminding you both that this - this - is at the center of everything.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his smile softer than you’ve seen all night.
“i love you”, he says, so simply, like it’s the easiest truth he knows.
your chest tightens, and you cup his jaw with your hand, thumb stroking the line of his cheek. you smile at him, eyes full of love.
“i love you too”
for a moment, it’s just that. love, steady and quiet, woven into the mess of limbs on the floor.
but then his grin tilts sly again, mischief sliding back into his voice as he kisses down your neck, his hands already wandering.
“and now”, he murmurs, his tone roughened with promise, “i think it’s my turn to ruin both of us again”
minho shifts above you, the weight of his body pressing you into the rug, anchoring you in the heat of the moment. in him. his lips trail down your throat, over your collarbone, down the curve of your stomach, leaving a path of warmth that makes your skin shiver.
“i should make you beg”, he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin lightly, “after everything you just did to me”
you arch against him, your voice breathless, “then why don’t you?”
his laugh is quiet, dangerous, “because i don’t want to wait either”
his hands slide lower, tugging away the last barrier of fabric still clinging to you. when you’re completely bare beneath him, his eyes darken, his gaze roaming over you like he’s trying to memorise every inch all over again.
“so beautiful just for me”, he says softly, the playfulness breaking just for a moment. his thumb brushes over your hipbone, tender in contrast to the heat in his stare.
you reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. it’s messy, hungry, both of you gasping against each other’s mouths, hands desperate to touch more, feel more. your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, needing him pressed against you.
his hand slips between your thighs, parting you easily, his fingers sliding through the slickness he left there earlier. the sound he makes - low, guttural - sends sparks racing down your spine.
“you’re so wet”, he whispers, his voice thick, “all for me”
you whimper when his fingers press inside again, curling just right, his thumb circling your clit where you’re most sensitive. the pressure builds fast, your hips rocking helplessly into his hand, but before you can fall over the edge again, he pulls back, his fingers leaving you empty.
“minho-“, your voice breaks, half frustration, half plea.
his smirk returns as he positions himself over you, his forehead resting against yours, “i know, baby. i know”
the first push of him inside is slow, careful, and your breath catches hard, your nails digging into his shoulders. he pauses once he’s buried just halfway, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure.
“you okay?”, he asks, his voice strained.
you nod quickly, but the word still comes out as a whisper, “yes. please”
he groans low, pressing the rest of the way in until he’s fully seated inside you. the stretch is sharp at first, but the fullness makes you gasp, your body clenching tight around him.
“fuck- y/n-”, his curse breaks against your lips, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, “you feel… you feel so damn good”
he stills, letting you adjust, his breath ragged against your skin. when you shift your hips just slightly, testing, both of you moan at the sensation.
“don’t move like that”, he warns, his voice rough and uneven, “i’ll lose it”
“maybe i want you to”, you whisper back.
that’s all it takes. his restraint snaps, and he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, driving deeper until your body tightens around him in response. the sound of skin against skin, the broken moans spilling from both of you, fill the room.
your hands clutch at him, desperate, pulling him closer. every push sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you, every drag of him inside making your walls clench tighter.
“god, you’re-”, his words dissolve into a groan, his head falling into the crook of your neck, “so tight around me. i can’t-”
“don’t stop”, you breathe, your own voice fractured, “please, don’t stop”
he doesn’t. his rhythm grows faster, harder, each thrust angled to hit the place inside you that makes you cry out. your sounds are raw, unguarded, and each one drives him wilder, his own groans spilling against your skin.
his hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit again, his thumb circling as he drives into you. the double sensation makes you arch off the floor, your voice breaking on his name as the tension coils unbearable inside you.
“minho-”
“i’ve got you”, he rasps, his lips brushing your ear, “come for me”
the words unravel you. your release crashes through you, sharp and blinding, your body clenching around him so hard that it drags a strangled groan from his throat.
“shit-”, he curses, his pace faltering as he thrusts deeper, harder, chasing his own end. the tightness of you around him, the sound of your cries, pushes him over.
he spills inside you with a broken moan, his body shuddering as he buries himself to the hilt. his voice is wrecked when he breathes your name, his weight slumping against you as the last tremors run through him.
for a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breaths, fast and uneven, your bodies pressed together on the floor, sweat cooling on your skin.
minho’s still catching his breath above you, chest pressed to yours, when you reach up and push a damp strand of his blue-tipped hair off his forehead. your fingers linger there, twirling it lightly, and your lips curve into a grin.
“so… the blue looks good”, you murmur, teasing, “but i think i like it best messy like this”
he smirks, voice low and rough from the aftermath, “messy because of you, huh? guess that’s one way to test a new look”
you laugh softly, the sound muffled against his lips as he kisses you again.
“i don’t remember agreeing to be your test subject”
“oh, you agreed the second you walked through that door”, he fires back, nipping gently at your bottom lip, “besides, i’d say our… little experiment went pretty well”
“little?”, you repeat, raising a brow, “that felt like the most intense exploration of my life”
his grin sharpens, the mischief sparking right back in his eyes.
“good. because i was just thinking i wouldn’t mind another round - call it… double-checking my results”
your laugh bursts out, warm and unguarded, and he catches it with another kiss, both of you smiling too much to keep it serious. your lips move together, laughter spilling into each other’s mouths until the world feels lighter, softer.
and in that messy, tangled kiss - half love, half laughter - you know this is exactly where you belong.
my other works
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