synopsis | clandestine meetings came with the life he chose.
"you know smoking is bad for you?"
pairing | idol!jungkook x oc
genre | exes(?) to lovers; mature language(18+); yearning; groveling; angst; celebrity life; second chance
wc: 1.8k
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normal-bts
2022
the atmosphere was loud.
it was a scene that he regularly found himself in. the mingling smell of sweat and alcohol had long since become familiar. more women sat at tables waiting for men to approach them, than on the actual dance floor. men stood across the bar with a practiced indifference, acting like they were too good to be here, despite refusing to leave.
bars were different in korea that the ones he had visited in the west.
over there, people went out to drink and enjoy the company of friends. here it felt like everyone arrived with the same objective—to find someone to leave with before the night was over. jungkook still can't understand when bars became less about having fun and more about finding a one-night stand.
jungkook considered of himself to be a confident man. he never felt the need to impress or chase a women. even so, he wasn't blind. he knew people looked at him. eyes followed him because he simply existed.
he knew he was attractive.
the confidence wasn't arrogance; just a mere acknowledgement of reality.
which is why he finds himself outside the bar with his friends instead.
the cool air was a relief after spending hours inside the suffocating building.
living as a celebrity, while actively trying to experience 'normalcy' was exhausting. every decision came with various precautions inside his head.
don't do anything stupid.
yet here he was, halfway through his second cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke into the air, shifting his gaze across the street.
a camera.
he was used to cameras.
growing up in front of cameras made it hard for the public to accept he was an adult. having a girlfriend, smoking a cigarette, or having tattoos—any reminder that he lived like a grown man sends the public into a frenzy.
cameras don't wait catch his success. they wait catch his mistakes.
something to document.
something people can judge.
"should you even show off that?" his friends asks." what if someone sees?"
jungkook lowers his gaze to his hand that was holding the cigarette.
"someone already has." jungkook looks back to the camera. exhaling another puff of the cigarette
the person behind the camera seems to be taken aback by jungkook's blunt acknowledgement, and proceeds to leave.
they still got what they wanted.
"must be annoying."
"used to be. i learned to ignore it."
despite ignoring it. it was hard to be dispassionate. especially when he passionately feels. when he has strong emotions. impulsive decisions were the ones that were hard to ignore.
"maybe we should head home. who knows if that person would keep their mouths shut."
jungkook appreciated his friend for looking out for him. his suggestion held truth. the paparazzi knew how to stir up buzz. he was upset that it cut his night out short. he definitely wasn't the type to turn in early for the night.
"did you want a ride?" his friend offers.
"im alright, need a walk anyway."
knowing it's the safest option for him jungkook still declines. he wasn't planning on going home, but he for sure couldn't stay here.
he bids a goodbye to his friends and watches them take off.
he looks at the cigarette he was smoking and noticed it was no longer lit.
he sighs, throws the butt of the ground and crushes it with his foot. he begins to walk away from the bar, slipping his hand into his pocket to reach for his cigarette box.
jungkook tries to understand why the world is deluded into thinking he couldn't a social like, and living like a normal person.
he was so tied down to his career—one that was so big—that no matter how he tried to show he wasn't any different from others, he only got smaller.
just as he slipped out a third cigarette for the night, a voice haulted his actions.
"you know smoking is bad for you?"
the voice was soft.
the comment had seemed to be genuine.
it was obviously a woman.
he turned to where the voice and sees a young women sitting on a bench, staring at the ground. she wore a long skit with a gingham babydoll blouse. her hair was just a couple inches past her shoulders.
she looked like a college student.
it caught him by surprise how someone could be so straightfoward with a stranger. like it was easy.
it somewhat annoyed him.
here's yet another person trying to dictate what he should and shouldn't be doing.
she lifts her head.
her eyes widened as jungkook makes eye contact with her, seemingly because she realized who she was talking to.
his eyes widened too as he saw panic growing across her face.
"oh my gosh, i'm so sorry. i didn't mean—" she begins to ramble.
jungkook remained stunned by her.
"it's just i smelled it and—"
it startles him. he was beginning to understand that this girl had no idea who she was talking to when she gave unsolicited advice.
granted how can one know who they're talking to when their looking down.
a glimmer of warmth travel through his body from the concern of a stranger.
"it's—um, it's alright. no need to freak out." realizing the cigarette box was still in his hand, he shoves it back in his pocket.
"you're jeon jungkook." she murmurs with soft shock, as eyes glued to the ground once more.
"i'm aware."
a chuckle escapes him.
"i should get going." she grabs her bag, and frantically stands up.
"wait, um, why the rush?" he asks. "you're the one that started the conversation."
jungkook gained his composure back after it had wavered the moment he laid eyes on her.
"i thought celebrities don't like it when stangers talk to them." she breathes out. still refusing to look at him.
that confused him.
when did he give the impression that he didn't like talking to people? all he tried to do for years was to get people to see him as a person.
"well, i don't mind, believe it or not." he pauses for a moment. "why don't you tell me why you think smoking is bad?"
standing in front of her, he sees her grimace, and can conclude that was probably directed to herself.
his hands begin to sweat, the reason unbeknownst to him.
taking a seat next on the bench she had just stood up from—relieved this bus stop was slightly secluded, he looks up at her, anticipating an answer.
she swallows, hands tightly wrapped around the straps of her tote bag.
"um. well." jungkook looks at her, endeared by her struggling to speak. "doesn't it, like, kill your lungs or something?"
she finally looks at him. with a confused expression, catching jungkook off guard.
"also, aren't you a singer? don't singers have to take care of their voices?" it almost sounds like she was asking herself those questions.
"thats true." he nods. "it's fun though."
"i don't mean to be rude, but how exactly is it fun? it smells and all you're doing is inhaling smoke."
jungkook is amused. she isn't telling him these thing because she believes he shouldn't be allowed to smoke. it seems more that she simply disagree with the concept of cigarettes.
"you can die, too. oh my goodness, who would want to die just for a little smoke."
her hands flew to her head, as she grabs her hair.
"this is stressing me out."
a simple answer to jungkook's question has turns into a rant entirely directed to herself.
"you seem very passionate about this." jungkook comments.
she freezes once more.
she looks embarrassed about the said passion that had taken over the conversation.
jungkook stands up. straightening out his shirt.
"what's your name?"
usually the interactions he had with stangers were very brief, but this girl had made jungkook forget how upset he was that he had to stop his night early.
"yoon eunseo."
"well, eunseo, nice to meet you. i'm jungkook"
jungkook sticks out his hand for a handshake.
she accepts it.
"i'm aware."
her eyes still wide.
he can only asume now it's from disbelief that the current situation is real.
jungkook laughs.
"it—um—feels like we're going in circles now."
jungkook looks around unsure what to do.
"i usually don't do this, for reasons i assume are obvious, but would you like to hang out some time?"
her face twitches in confusion.
jungkook looks at her processing what he had just asked.
"why would i do that?"
the confused expression remains on her face.
jungkook is baffled yet amused at her response.
he had no words.
call him shallow, but he assumed, given he was a public figure, she would say yes right away.
"i'm sorry?" it was all he could manage to respond. he looks at her with a bemused smile.
"well, i don't know you. i mean, i do. but i don't know you know you." she begins to ramble again. her hand moving as she talks. "why would i hang out with a stranger?"
his fondness for her begins to grow.
she was so animated.
he wonders if she realizes that. it felt weird to be referred to as a stranger. those who do approach him act like they've his friend for years.
"you know, that's why people hang out. " he smiles "to get to know one another."
her face cringes seemingly because she becomes aware of how silly she sounds. jungkook continues, "are you in college or something?"
"yeah, i'm in my third year."
"did you just leave that bar?" jungkook points to the bar he left not too long ago.
"yes, actually, one of the seniors in my major wanted to celebrate his graduation, so he invited us for drinks."
"sounds fun. you never really answered my question."
jungkook watches eunseo's body jerks at his comment. he reaches into his pocket for his phone and extending it to her.
"if you don't mind? i would like to be friends."
was an odd situation he finds himself in. it wasn't everyday he wanted to become a random person's friend.
"okay. sure." she replies softly. reaching for the phone. entering her number. as if it were perfectly timed. the bus arrives as she returns his phone.
"do you have instagram?" he asked before she walks away.
"yeah, but i rarely use it."
"will you let me follow you?"
"sure, i'll let you when you text me." she smiles softly as she begins to walk away.
"talk to you soon." he says watching her enter the bus.
jungkook lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
he just did something risky.
he doesn"t know why he gravitated to her, but, just like that, jungkook made a normal friend.
❥ Summary: Why did you have to fall in love with the K-pop star? Things between you and Taehyung should’ve never gone this far, and walking away is the only way to fix it. Taehyung has other plans, though. The constant calls, desperate messages, showing up at your apartment at 2 a.m. He’ll do anything to prove that letting him go is a mistake. Because you may be ready to walk away, but Taehyung isn’t ready to lose you.
❥ A/N: Hellos I'm back luvs! I honestly didn't even think that I would be writing anymore, but after seeing BTS perform in person, something switched on in me. The love for them has always been there; I had just lost my passion for writing, but I've been feeling inspired lately, and I'm ready to give this a go again. I hope you guys enjoy this! It's going to have multiple parts!
"Please don't hide yourself from me," Taehyung begs as he leans on the bathroom door. You could hear the soft thuds echo through your hotel room each time his head fell against the wood.
You knew a day would come when you would feel this way, but you never expected it to happen so soon. Here you were looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror, wondering why he was with you. Every day, there was a new rumor circulating about him linked to Korea's hottest model or another girl group member. It was a constant reminder that the two of you came from completely different worlds.
"I don't know if we should keep doing this, Tae," you softly whisper, fingers gripping the edge of the sink, trying to keep your voice steady. The pained gasp that escapes his lips is hard to miss in the quiet room.
"Baby, please."
Would you be making a mistake giving up after being together for 2 years? You don't want to throw away all the beautiful memories and moments created together, but how much longer would you be a secret?
"I think you should really just go, Tae," you manage to get out.
As you stare into the mirror, you can't help but think your mom was right. If the two of you were in a relationship, why was he always spotted with different actresses or models? You didn't want to come across as an insecure girlfriend, so you rarely questioned him. When you did, however, you'd get somewhat the same range of responses anytime you brought up a new rumor.
Business Dinner.
Networking.
Charity Event.
Music Collab.
It wasn't anything you could really argue about because, at the end of the day, everything was connected with his career, and he didn't exactly have a normal career. He just happened to have the one where you could never be seen with him, or so he made it seem. Then again, he met you while on vacation, and what should have just been a short summer fling turned into more.
He chased you down the beach and asked for your number on the last day of your vacation.
He flew you out to Korea to witness his comeback performance live.
He introduced you to his friends and parents.
He moved you into your own luxury apartment not too far from him.
"I'm not leaving. Can we talk about things?" The desperation in his voice grows with each word.
"There's nothing for us to talk about," you reply, feeling more sure of your decision.
The rattle of the doorknob causes you to turn around as Taehyung continues to struggle with it, except it won't budge. You needed your space from him; it was the only way you could think clearly.
"Y/N, unlock the door for me. You can't just end things like this!" His voice rises at the end, and you can hear the frustration building up.
"Well, this is me ending things, Taehyung. Just leave," you say louder, your voice feeling even more firm and steady as things start to add up in your mind.
"Open this door and stop hidin-"
"Stop hiding?!" Your hand swings the door open and Taehyung stumbles from the sudden loss of support. He quickly regains his balance, hands reaching towards your face.
"You want to talk about hiding?" You swat his hands away from your face as you try to push past him, but before you can get further, his fingers circle your wrist, pulling you to him.
"YOU'VE BEEN HIDING ME OUR ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP!"
You shout, yanking your wrist from his hand, watching his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. You had never said it out loud before, and it even shocked you. It was a small ember that was slowly building in your relationship for months, and it wasn't until this moment that it finally erupted into flames.
Taehyung opens his mouth to respond just as a knock sounds from the door.
"Taehyung? Y/N? Everything okay in there?" Namjoon's voice is full of concern, and suddenly you realize the entire hall must've heard the two of you.
You can see the wheels turning behind Taehyung's eyes as he stands there, tongue pressed against his cheek before turning away from you. His fingertips brush through his honey blonde hair as he opens the door, not to find only Namjoon, but Jungkook and Jimin standing at his sides as well.
"Y/N, hey, are you okay?" Jimin pushed past Taehyung, not even glancing at him as he walked straight over to you. You hadn't realized it, but at some point tears began to fall, and now they were running uncontrollably down your cheeks.
"What did you do?" Jungkook pressed as he walked up to Taehyung.
There was no point in questioning him. Taehyung couldn't take his eyes off you and the way you tried to turn away from him, almost burrowing into Jimin's arms so he couldn't see you.
"I want to leave."
You manage to get the words out softly without your voice cracking.
"Y/N, maybe you guys should talk befo-"
"Please, Namjoon. I can't." The words are so soft and barely above a whisper as more tears begin to fall.
"Oka-"
You flinch, turning around to see Taehyung with both hands against the wall, his shoulders rising and falling quickly with each heavy breath. The clenching and unclenching of his right hand is enough for you to register the loud sound that came from his hand slamming into the wall. You didn't like to see him hurting, but it was unfair for you to be hurting as well.
"Look, maybe you two just need some space to cool down, and you guys can talk later," Namjoon explains to Tae with a reassuring hand on his back. He leans in and whispers something in his ear, but you can't make it out.
All you witness is the slight nod from Tae as he straightens up and runs a hand across his face before turning to face you. He takes a step in your direction, and you can't help but take a step back. You could feel the blood rushing through your veins.
You weren't scared of him, not one bit. You could never be scared of him. You were scared of falling back into his lap, easily giving in to keep the peace and returning to being his secret.
Tae closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly hurt by you stepping away from him.
"We can talk after the concert. I'll give you some space," he breathes out, quickly leaving the hotel room, not giving anyone a chance to speak.
"I'll go talk to him," Namjoon manages to say, giving Jungkook and Jimin a look before rushing out of the room.
"It's my fault. I should've left a long time ago," you say, sliding your body down until you're sat on the floor, arms wrapped around your legs.
"Hey hey, that's not true," Jungkook says, walking over and crouching down to your level.
"Yeah, we all know how much Taehyung loves you. You're all he ever talks about," Jimin chimes in as he runs his hand across your back.
"I just feel like I can't handle it anymore. I've been a secret for so long. It's so hard living in the shadows," you express, resting your head across the top of your knees.
"Okay, how about this? You take a bubble bath, relax, clear your thoughts, and just put on a movie instead of coming to the concert," Jimin suggests as he begins walking towards the bathroom door.
You look up at Jimin, not expecting that response at all. Tae would be expecting you there and probably looking out for you in the crowd. Even during previous fights, you would always show up, standing in the same designated spot for him to find you.
"Wait, Jimin, I don't know if Tae would be okay-"
Before Jungkook can finish his sentence, Jimin is already cutting him off with an explanation.
"They need a little bit of space; missing one concert isn't going to ruin things."
Jungkook hesitantly nods before standing to his full height and reaching his hands down to help you up.
"Grab your clothes, and we'll run you a bubble bath before we leave," he smiles before rubbing your head, ruffling up your hair, and chuckling as you rush to fix it.
You watch as he follows Jimin into the bathroom and softly closes the door. As you move to rummage through your suitcase, the steady sound of water falling into the tub fills the room. You settle on some fluffy pajama pants and one of Tae's old oversized T-shirts you slept in every night.
Even though the running water echoes through the room, you can still hear the quiet mumbles of Jimin and Jungkook. It sounds like they're going back and forth, and you can't help but step closer to the door.
"Come on, Jimin, you know it's not right!"
The roughness in Jungkook's voice takes you by surprise. What could cause such a reaction from him?
"It's not our place at all. It's not our relationship," Jimin's voice sounds seconds later, just as rough.
It's Jungkook's next sentence that causes your heart to drop. It feels like the wind is blown out of you as a truth is revealed. Your head begins to spin as question after question clouds your mind.
"Management told him two months ago he could go public with their relationship. So why hasn't he?"
❥ Don’t forget to like, comment and reblog! I love to hear your thoughts ✨
author's note: hi, IT'S A LONG ONE, i kept rewriting everything here bc i kept coming up with new things i wanted to include so i hope it's not a mess❤️ it's almost 3am as i'm posting this so all of it better be intact
also i miss bangtan sm, take me back to paris d1 PLEASE
summary: you've known jeongguk since before you debuted. he quickly became a big part of your life but at some point a rumor of you both dating breaks out and the company wants to keep the situation under control in the worst way possible.
warnings: autor is projecting, angst, smut (praise, bit of mock sympathy, oral f receiving, fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT, hickeys, cream pie) , bit of fluff ???, yearning, abuse of power, mentions of struggling with mental health, miscommunication or just straight up lack of communication, kinda bribery ???
(LETS PRETEND JK DIDN'T HAVE TO SHAVE HIS HEAD FOR THE MILITARY)
wc: 10,1k
you know the drill, english isn't my first language, kiss kiss, juls
Jeongguk was incredibly shy when it came to girls. There were many girls that he found insanely pretty and interesting, but he could never bring himself to talk to any of them. Living in a small dorm with other members he would always listen to them talk about their love lives, how they approached girls, what gifts to buy and what flowers to choose.
Young Jungkook was terrified at the mere thought of making eye contact with a girl.
He’d spend most of his time practicing dances and singing anyway, so he just came to the conclusion that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend. He wanted to become the best idol that he could be, that was his main focus.
As said earlier, he’d spend a lot of time in their shared dorm, refusing to go out if the situation involved many people (which was most of the time).
The rest of the members went out to the city, while he stayed in the room, cleaning it and singing something quietly under his nose. While organizing stuff set by the window, he noticed a figure sitting in the open window in the building opposite.
You had a laptop sitting in your lap, headphones plugged in, looking at the screen with an intense focus. Your hair softly moved under the wind.
He knew you were one of the other trainees, a solo one. Sometimes he wondered how he would navigate becoming an idol on his own, without his hyungs and how difficult it would be. You caught his attention immediately, cleaning completely forgotten as he stood in the window, staring right at you like a creep. He heard the door open, signaling him to turn around but he couldn’t. You rapidly typed on the keyboard, eyes quickly roaming around the screen analyzing what’s appearing. You looked so calm yet so focused and motivated. He assumed you were probably writing lyrics or in the process of producing an instrumental, but he couldn't tell. He saw Yoongi working a million times, yet he still wasn’t able to grasp the whole process as it looked really difficult.
“Is there a ghost Jeonggukie?” - he heard Jin’s voice behind him along with a few chuckles coming from other members.
He turned around to greet them, showing the clean dorm.
“There’s someone in that window, over there-” - he pointed, turning around to see the window closed and empty. - “Actually, never mind.” - he dropped the topic.
For the rest of the day Jeongguk hoped you’d appear in the window again, but you didn’t. He didn’t bring you up to the members. Just ate dinner with them, talking about the schedule.
For the next few days Jeongguk would catch himself standing by the window, just like he did when he first noticed you sitting there. The thing was, you weren’t there. Days passed by without your presence on the other side of the road. You were probably busy with your own trainee schedule. His mind made up scenarios of watching you in your dance practice or hearing you sing. Those did not help with the empty feeling that built up in his chest. There were moments when he thought that it was imagination playing with him, and that even though you were a trainee at the same company, you lived somewhere else, and that he never really saw you in that window.
Then a warm Sunday evening came by, other members were out in town, he stayed in his room. He sat on his bed, drawing and softly humming a made up melody. As he got up to take a drink from the desk he froze in place. You were there, sitting in the window, laptop in lap with headphones playing loud.
For the first time Jeongguk worked up the courage to talk to a girl. He thought about opening up his window and yelling to get your attention but it probably wouldn’t work since you were wearing headphones. He had to think quickly because he had no idea when other members would come back and he had no idea when he would get another chance to catch you.
He looked around the room in panic, acting like the walls would come up with a plan for him and tell him what he should do. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t about to happen.
He found a piece of paper laying on the floor and tried his best to make a paper plane out of it. It had to be pretty sturdy and needed to fly pretty well, so he put all of his artistic effort into it. When the plane was ready he gave it a quick fly test inside the dorm and ran back to the window. The second he opened it, he froze in place. Was he really doing this? If it did reach you, what would he say?
Before more thoughts could form inside his head he threw the plane out the window, praying that it would make it to yours.
As Jeongguk was probably good at everything he tried, the plane made it safely to the other side and landed on your keyboard immediately catching your attention. You took off your headphones and looked right at him, brows furrowed in confusion.
“Hi” - a shy, nervous noise escaped his lips the moment you made eye contact.
“This yours?” - you asked, a smile forming on your lips as you held the small paper plane between your fingers - “I’m reader.”
“Jeongguk. Nice to meet you.”
You talked for what felt like hours after that. Getting to know each other from across the narrow road. You held up most of the conversation, since he was really shy but you didn’t mind, it was kind of cute.
And Jeongguk?
He was insanely grateful that you were talkative. He found out that you are a year younger than him and that whenever you sit in that window you mostly write lyrics and sometimes put together melodies - just like he thought.
When you told him that you have to go for your dance practice, he gave you an honest smile and a small wave. Just as he was about to close the window he heard your voice again.
“Same time next week?” - you asked, a glimpse of hope in your eyes.
He gave you a shy nod, for which he received a big smile from you.
The window conversations became a regular thing for the both of you. Getting to know each other more and more. Jeongguk was truly impressed how you managed to fulfil all of the trainee responsibilities, write music and take care of yourself all at the same time, all on your own. He had his hyungs with him most of the time and he knew he could always count on them, he couldn’t imagine doing this without them.
You told him many times that being a trainee on your own is better for you, that you have more control over the situation and if you fuck something up it’s only you to blame and no one else. He understood your point, the scenario still pretty terrifying for him especially since you’re younger than him.
Eventually you met the rest of them.
You were in the middle of your regular conversation as they entered their dorm room. At first they were confused at what’s going on, but then they got used to the situation. They loved to tease how he could barely let out a coherent sentence in front of you and how he’d blush every time you fixed or played with your hair.
They weren’t there for every meet you’ve had with Jeongguk, but they would show up every now and then.
He didn’t mind their presence, but he preferred having you all to himself.
Without realizing he’s gotten a bit possessive, he wouldn’t really show it but he felt it deep inside.
Then he invited you over. You baked a batch of cookies for him (which was insanely difficult because of your tiny dorm room) which he instantly fell in love with and demanded that you should come over more often.
Your hangouts got regular and the window talks would happen only when you had little time during busy days. You’d come over with your work and show it to him, sometimes to his hyungs too. Yoongi would give you producing tips every now and then, showing you different software and all round helping you get better with the process. You’ve grown close with him too, he saw a lot of potential and you and he couldn’t let it go to waste.
Jeongguk had grown quite jealous of Yoongi paying this much attention to you, but he refused to acknowledge it.
As soon as the other members would leave the room he’d invite you over. Sometimes you wouldn’t even talk, just focus on your own tasks and enjoy each other's presence. You still had the habit of sitting in the window while working, and Jeongguk found it adorable. He liked the way the sun rays landed on your face, the way your hair would sway slightly in the wind when the window was open. He could stare at you for hours.
His notebook for “important notes and schedule” turned into a museum full of sketches of you sitting and working. All of them were almost the same, but he kept drawing them either way.
That’s how it all started, about ten years ago.
Around a year ago, a rumor broke out that you and Jeongguk were dating. In reality, it wasn’t true. Your relationship stayed as a close friendship and nothing more. The only romantic occurrence that happened was that one, awkward kiss about a year into your friendship. It wasn’t even something really romantic, just a “I haven’t had my first kiss and I feel like I should've” kinda situation.
throwback
“I just feel like… it’s lame you know?” - Jeongguk shrugged, standing awkwardly in front of your bed in your dorm.
“Why? We’re still teenagers, this kind of stuff takes time.” - you replied, not looking up from your laptop. He was overthinking it in your opinion.
“Easy for you to say, you’ve already had yours, all of the hyungs probably already slept with a girl by that point and i’ve never even kissed one! How embarrassing is that!” - he slightly raised his voice, pacing around the small space.
You closed your laptop and sat up properly on the bed. You looked at him, brows furrowed, thoughts racing in your head.
“If it bothers you that much, I could help you, you know?” - you said nonchalantly, looking at him with focus.
“Y-you can help me? But… How?” - his whole body stiffened as he looked at you nervously.
“I could kiss you, if that would make you feel better. I know I’m just your friend and not your crush or something but I’m always here to help.” - you said like it was nothing.
Not your crush Jeongguk thought to himself. Yeah sure…
He could feel his cheeks heat up, heart pounding. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to be his first kiss. He was going to lose his mind.
“So…?” - you pushed for an answer.
“I don’t want to- to force my… insecurities on you. I don’t want you to feel obligated to help me…” - you heard the frustration and slight panic in his voice but stayed calm.
“It’s okay Gguk. We're friends, we should help each other out, right?” - you tilted your head slightly, looking him deep in his eyes.
His legs turned into jelly and brain into mush. He watched you stand up from the bed and head towards him. You stood right in front of him as you both stood in the silence awkwardly. You signaled him with a nod to answer. He nodded, agreeing to your suggestion. You took his face into your hands and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His breath shook afterwards, face full red.
He thought about this kiss every night for the next 3 months. He even had dreams about it.
One night Jin woke him up in the middle of the night, shaking him by the shoulders.
“Wha-What do you want?” - he asked, confused, still half asleep.
“Can you shut up? You keep chanting reader's name like a mantra. Control yourself Gguk, I don't want to hear your wet dreams.”
end of throwback
Deep inside though, it awakened something in you, something that you decided to never say out loud in fear of messing something up. He was someone you really wanted to keep close forever, and didn’t want to risk losing in any way. So you shoved those feelings away and focused on important things.
You’ve seen him flirt with other women, taking them to his hotel room. The thought of him being with someone else made you nauseous. Still, it was probably better to stay silent.
Little did you know, he felt the same way and he had the same worries.
The thing that was probably getting him the most was probably seeing you change, grow up. You weren’t that silly teenage girl from the window anymore. You were a gorgeous, intelligent and insanely talented woman. Your voice changed, matured. Your producing skills were now perfected and you were creating songs that received many nominations and awards.
He was so in love with you in every stage of your life he’s seen you in. And those feelings never died down, if anything they only got stronger.
He watched you get into relationships, get cheated on, get your heart broken and then the whole cycle repeating. He would always be your shoulder to cry on, always stopping himself from killing the guys who hurt you, stopping himself from telling you that he’d treat you better.
He wanted to be the one who kissed you goodnight, he wanted to be the one who cooks you dinner, he wanted to be the one who got to touch you and see your face twist in pleasure.
But he was just as afraid as you were.
He thought of himself as a coward.
His hyungs tried to talk some sense into him, pushing him to confess his undying love for you. And every single time, he refused.
“Is reader coming over?” - Jimin asked.
“No, she’s with her fuckass boyfriend.” - Jeongguk snapped, rolling his eyes.
“You’re so jealous, it’s getting annoying.” - Hobi huffed out.
Then both of you were single for a while. No relationships, no situationships, nothing. You would hang out more, just like the old times. You stayed up late at night, talking about things that weren’t important, you started bringing him cookies again.
“At this rate, I’m gonna be 300 kilos by next month!” - he fake-complained when he saw you making another batch.
“You’re not supposed to eat them all in one sitting, Jeongguk!” - you laughed at him.
You’d spend more time at his place than your own, everything got so cozy and comfortable. At some point you started acting like a married couple, but refused to acknowledge it.
Then the rumors broke out, plastered all over headlines, social media drowning in pictures of both of you walking by the Han River late at night sharing a cigarette.
A relationship and smoking? The fandoms were freaking out.
Then you both got called into a meeting at the company. It was short, serious and honestly? The biggest nightmare for the both of you.
No contact, they said. Something about a small font in your contracts and not being able to change the situation. The whole situation was a blur.
You left the room, tears in your eyes.
“Jeongguk?” - you asked, not sure what for.
“We’re gonna figure this out.” - he promised. He grabbed your hand and placed a soft kiss on the back of it.
You looked at him, tears slowly spilling from your eyes. He’d never seen you like that. You’ve cried in front of him many times for various reasons. Somehow, the look in your eyes that day spoke to him. He saw the love in your eyes and was too scared to act on it. That became his biggest regret.
A year later, you haven’t contacted each other. You both tried and failed each time. The company kept an eye on both of you. After 2 months you gave up, depressed, losing hope. You weren’t sure if he did too or if it was the company doing a great fucking job at keeping you apart.
At about a 6 month mark of no contact both of you attended the same award ceremony. The company people made sure that you wouldn’t cross paths at any point that night. Then you won one of the major awards. Tears in your eyes you expressed gratitude towards your family, your team, even the company that was controlling you. When you were standing on the stage you saw them. The whole group cheered loudly for you. Yoongi gave you the “I knew you would make it” look.
And you saw him.
Tears in his eyes as he stood there mesmerized.
“Go talk to her.” - he heard Jimin’s voice beside him. - “Congratulate her. Do anything.” - he added, full of courage.
Later that night Jimin made sure to put the two of you near each other. So he went up to you himself and talked to you. At first he made a normal conversation with you. Then at the end he added.
“I need you to see him, please. Go to the emergency exit 4, I’ll figure this shit out.” - he said and disappeared into a sea of people. You stood there, not sure what to do and what to think. Then it felt like your legs grew a mind of their own and you made your way to that exit, gathering your heavy dress in your hands, trying to be quick so no one would notice what was about to happen.
You pushed the door, not sure what to expect, heart beating so hard you could swear it was about to leave your body.
He stood there, cigarette between his lips, hands in his pockets. His head shot up when he heard the sound of the door opening. A sigh of relief left him. He had no idea what to say, stunned by the fact that you were standing right in front of him. He wasn’t sure if it was another one of his dreams about you or if it was real.
“Gguk?” - you called, looking at him like he was the most gorgeous piece of art ever created.
Without a word Jeongguk threw the cigarette on the ground and rushed towards you smashing his lips into yours. He poured all of his emotions into the kiss, knowing that he couldn’t express them with words properly anyway. Your lips moved in sync, the kiss full of yearning, exposing how much you missed each other. You put the palm of your hands softly on his face as his hands traveled down to your waist. There was nothing lustful about the kiss. Just two people trying to show each other their unconditional love without saying it out loud, scared of consequences, knowing that their public image still matters.
Jeongguk could swear he was getting lightheaded. Not because the kiss was so intense and he didn’t want to break apart to breathe, but because he couldn’t believe this was happening. The woman of his dreams, the woman who he adored for so long finally in his arms, kissing him like she was afraid he might disappear. He for sure was afraid you were about to disappear.
You broke the kiss first, panting, trying to catch your breath and collect your thoughts at least a little. You looked up at him, his lips all swollen and cheeks flushed. He looked at you with hope and so much love. He softly brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, giving you a warm smile, the one you missed so much. You leaned your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso.
Both of you stood like that in silence for a moment, you listened to his quick heartbeat and he put his chin on top of your head, the smell of your hair products filling his nose.
You were about to pull away and say something when you heard the door slam open. Before you could even turn around to look who it was you heard the low voice of your manager.
“The car is ready for you.” - he said, not acknowledging the situation that he walked into.
“But I was supposed to leave later-” - you said, confused but he cut you off.
“The car is ready.” - he said firmly.
“You can’t just-” - Jeongguk raised his voice, stepping forward.
“You have other people to worry about Jeon.”
You turned to Jeongguk, gave him a small nod, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.
“We’re gonna figure this out.” - you promised as you left with your manager.
Jeongguk stood there, looking at the door like he had to be sure you wouldn’t walk through them again any second now. He could feel his chest physically aching for you. For some reason though, this time he had more hope than ever before.
With that hope in mind, next week he started packing for the military. He was scared, of course, but the thought of Jimin going with him raised his spirits.
So far he called you about 30 times in the past week. None of the calls went through. He had no idea where you were, what you were doing and if you tried to contact him too. From what he last gathered, you moved apartments and everyone from your circle refused to help Jeongguk, afraid of the consequences they might face (or money they could lose).
During the preparations for the military, Jeongguk packed a small picture of you and Bam, from the day he took his lovely son home for the first time. He remembered how excited you both were, and how you constantly reassured him that he’s going to be a great dog dad. Now he wasn’t sure if Bam still remembered your face or your smell. That thought made his heart hurt a bit.
The days in the military were long and brutal for Jeongguk. He cooked meals for the unit, spent most of the day with a knife in his hand, his nostrils filled with various smells, constantly sweating which was caused by different broths boiling in the kitchen. Each morning he would follow his usual routine and follow it by checking to make sure if the picture of you with Bam was in the pocket on his chest. During the tougher nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he would take out the picture and look at it for a while before putting it under his pillow. Logically, it wouldn’t change anything, but he could swear it helped him fall asleep on those nights. He didn’t really have any connection to the outside world beside a small radio in the corner of the kitchen which (apparently) was put there for better communication but in reality served more of an entertainment purpose. Every now and then he could hear one of Bangtan’s songs playing, or if he was lucky and landed the night shift he could hear your voice, because for some reason that’s when they played most of your songs. He would always smile to himself when he heard your voice and Jimin loved to tease him about it.
“You’re blushing and she’s not even here.” - Jimin said, softly poking his side.
“Can you focus on the task at hand?” - he replied with a fake-annoyed voice, rolling his eyes at him.
Both of them let out a small laugh as your song ended and the man on the radio started speaking.
“And that was reader’s award winning single! Her career is blooming just like her love life!” - the man said melodically.
Jimin and Jeongguk looked at each other as the older one turned up the volume on the device.
“Her and her partner announced their engagement today! Congratulations to the happy couple!” - he added with excitement.
Jimin looked worriedly at Jeongguk who dropped the small spoon into a pot full of stew. His shoulders slumped as he could feel his chest starting to ache. Thoughts rushed through his head trying to put the pieces together but none of it made sense to him.
About 10 months ago you made a promise to him that you’ll figure this out. Every day, during his breaks he would try to come up with a plan for you both to finally be happy. Those 10 months he spent thinking about you constantly, counting down days til he gets discharged and has a chance to see your pretty face again. All those days of you occupying his mind and you’re out there… engaged?
Even though this was public knowledge now and you were probably on every headline, for some reason he didn’t believe it.
He imagined the instagram post you made to announce it. Probably wore a gorgeous dress, your hair framing your face perfectly and a person you were in love with. Maybe it was the jealousy speaking, he wasn’t sure, but he had no intention of believing in this announcement.
A specific memory of you flashed before his eyes.
throwback
You were sitting on the freshly mowed grass in Jeongguk’s backyard. Both of you watched as Bam was running around, enjoying the slightly cold breeze of the evening. You sat there in comfortable silence, until Jeongguk decided to break it. You could tell by his face that whatever he was about to tell you made him nervous.
“Would you ever get married?” - he asked, playing with his fingers.
“I don’t know… I guess, yeah?”
“You guess?” - he looked at you, confused.
“I mean…” - you sighed. - “This may sound silly, but… I’m terrified of losing myself in a relationship. I’m scared that when I get married I will be just reduced to a wife.” - you sighed, looking up at the sky as it started to get darker. - “You know how hard I’ve worked for everything I have today. I just don’t want it all to get lost along the way.”
Jeongguk nodded as he listened to your confession.
“It’s not silly, but if you marry the right person, surely it won’t happen.” - he said, poking your side trying to cheer you up.
He admired the amount of respect you’ve had for your work, your time, the sleepless nights. You’ve made a name for yourself and you took good care of making sure everyone else put respect on it because you’ve worked your ass off, just like he did. He couldn’t imagine someone seeing you just as a wife, only focusing on your marital status. He admired you not only as a girl he was in love with, but also as an artist, as a creative mind, there was so much more.
That night he realized he had to make sure you always knew that even to the people who didn’t know you personally, you were much more than whatever relationship was happening in your life. He wanted you to know that to him especially you were a beautiful soul.
end of throwback
“Gguk? You there?” - Jimin asked, waving his hand in front of his face.
“It’s not real.” - he answered in a serious tone as he took the picture out of his pocket. He slowly traced his finger across your face as he stared at it. - “Someone’s behind this.”
“Gguk I know it hurts, but you can’t just deny it because you’re against it. We’re not sure, we’ve been stuck here for almost a year, we don’t know what the situation looks like.” - Jimin said, putting his hand on Jeongguk’s shoulder. He could feel him being all tense under his touch.
“You’ve seen her! You know what the situation looked like! We kissed, Jimin! She said we would work this out and we will.” - he said, his voice raising.
Even after the announcement he kept the picture of you in his pocket. The hope you gave him was stronger that whatever shitshow was happening on the outside while he was stuck in the military kitchen.
And while he was working his ass off in the military, you felt like you were slowly losing control over your own life.
After getting caught at the award ceremony you got really… lost. You were meant to follow rules that your team dictated, you were supposed to keep up the image especially after winning the award. At the moment though, the award felt worthless in your hands as you realized that your life wasn’t even yours anymore.
You called Jeongguk the same night that you kissed. For the first time in what felt like ages, the call went through.
“Gguk, oh my god.” - you let out a sigh into the microphone.
“Don’t call him again, I mean it.” - a female voice said harshly. - “Don’t contact Jeongguk ever again or we’re taking it to court.” - she added before hanging up.
You had no idea who it could be and why she was the one to pick up the phone. Tears welled in your eyes as you put your phone back on your desk. You let out all your emotions, sobbing, covering your face with your hands. You dropped to the floor, the dress from the ceremony that you were still wearing, spilling around your exhausted figure on the floor.
That night kept replaying in your head for a while. It was a mess. Why would he meet you there if there was someone else? Was he a cheater? Jeongguk would never do such a thing.
You had to move on, at least to some extent. You still didn’t quite believe that he wouldn’t want to contact you, and you refused to believe he was dating someone. You decided not to call him, at least for a while, just to stay out of trouble for now.
A few weeks later a notification came through on your phone about Jeongguk and Jimin enlisting in the military. There was no way of contacting him now. After that, you kept thinking about him before bed, wondering how he was doing, if he was tired and if he was keeping the spirits high over there as he would here.
The big mistake that has led you to the position that you were in now was agreeing to a collaboration song with a “rising star” - Hajoon. He seemed sweet, really ambitious and had a huge talent. Everything was going well, you did everything to keep the relationship as professional as possible for the sake of your own mental health. You had no energy for a rumor, not now or ever probably.
The truth is that, when the promo for the song started you were mentally exhausted and the company kept pushing you to write another album, when you wanted to take a step back for at least a few months. They said that there was no time for it and that you should keep appearing in the headlines. Your mind was all over the place and writing another album was the last thing on your mind at the time.
The company then came up with a different idea to keep your name trending.
You sat at the table, opposite of your manager, the whole team gathered in the room. A piece of paper slid across the wood along with a pen.
A contract. You and Hajoon. PR relationship.
You weakly looked around the room. Then you looked closely at the document, reading it carefully.
“So if I do it, you let me rest for a while?” - you asked, without looking up from the desk.
“Pretty much.” - someone on your right answered, you didn’t care who exactly.
What you didn’t realize when you signed that document, was the fact that the rules would change as the year went on. At some point you ended up engaged. And Hajoon didn’t mind the whole situation at all. You wouldn’t really say he fell in love with you along the way, but he became really possessive of you, even when you two weren’t in public. It concerned you a little.
“I don’t understand why you’re so bothered, I just talked to my friend and you’re acting all baffled. This whole thing isn’t even real.” - you said, standing outside the club.
“You’re trying to embarrass me! We’re supposed to act like a happy couple! You’re mine out here.” - he said firmly.
“No, I’m not yours at all. You sound insane. I was supposed to get some rest, and instead I have to deal with you out here!” - you started to get annoyed.
“Why won’t you give me a chance, huh? What does he have that I don’t?” - he asked as he stepped closer to you.
Hajoon has brought up Jeongguk in your conversations before, but every time he refused to say his name. Maybe it was an ego thing, you weren’t sure.
During this whole situation of you “dating” Hajoon, you never stayed at his place and refused to let him into your apartment. You only gave him a small kiss when it was necessary and restricted the physical touch to minimum. You never really opened up to him emotionally either.
It wasn’t the fact that Hajoon was exactly lacking something. It was the fact that even after all that drama and after all these years, your heart still belonged to Jeongguk. You couldn’t move on. And neither could he. All you wanted was for him to come back from the military and help you resolve this situation once and for all.
“Can you stop?” - you asked, taking a step back.
“No, because I’m out here, working my ass off to make all of this work and you’re out here making it difficult. It’s been years, move on. I’m trying so hard for you, baby.” - he said, stepping closer to you, caressing your cheek with his fingers.
You slapped his hand away quickly. An uncomfortable shiver ran down your spine as you decided to head back home.
What you didn't know was that Jeongguk and Jimin left the military this morning.
As soon as they were done with their comeback live he went home and went through all of the papers stacked in his desk. He searched for any address, name or a phone number that would help finding you. What he found was probably the most helpful thing he could but it was about to be a real challenge.
Hajoon’s phone number.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” - he mumbled under his nose.
He had to swallow up his pride for now and do what had to be done. Even though he hated the thought of him being near you, he had to be respectful during this conversation or it would make the situation even worse.
He had to be really careful.
He typed the number in carefully, checked 4 times to make sure it was the right one. His thumb hovered over the phone, hesitation starting to kick in.
What if you really moved on and he was about to make a fool out of himself? What if that kiss was meant to be a one time thing? Maybe you just kissed him out of pity? Maybe you were hoping he’d forget your promise of figuring it out? His mind quickly started racing with no intention of stopping. Before he could spiral completely he pushed the green button.
beep, beep, beep…
“Hello?” - Hajoon’s voice echoed through the room.
“Hi, I- eh… It’s Jeongguk here. I uh.” - he stumbled over his words. He should’ve prepared better for this phone call, think through literally anything. Now he was here and had no idea how to ask him for any information properly.
“Oh! Didn’t expect a call from you eh… Can I help you with anything?” - he could hear the annoyance in his voice.
“Yeah… Uh, is reader there with you?” - he asked quickly, hoping that he would be kind enough to let him get through to you, even though he owed him nothing.
“She’s about to leave, why?”
“Could I maybe… Talk to her for a second?” - he asked, terrified.
“Well, I’m not sure…” - Hajoon trailed off. His voice wasn’t filled with worry, he wasn’t hesitant because of what consequences he might face. He wanted something in return for letting Jeongguk make contact with you.
“What is it? Just tell me.” - Jeongguk asked, his voice softly laced with defeat.
“Well, first thing first. How are you so sure she hasn’t moved on? You haven’t seen her in ages. Do you even know her at that point?” - Hajoon attacked him, questioning everything he ever had in common with you.
He was making a fair point - Jeongguk thought. He had no idea if you wanted to talk to him, let alone see him. He let out a heavy breath.
“Look man, I don’t want to be mean or anything but I’m engaged to her after all.” - Hajoon added, a smile on his face could be heard in his voice.
Jeongguk wanted to throw the phone out the window, punch a wall, find that fucker and knock all of his teeth out one by one. He wanted to say something aggressive, attack Hajoon, say that there was no chance that he knew you how Jeongguk knew you.
The thought of Hajoon touching you flashed through Jeongguk’s mind and it made his blood boil, but he had to keep it cool. He was on a mission to make it all work and he wasn’t going to get disrupted by his imagination.
“I just wanted to talk to her. You know I just came back from the military, all that hard training and all.” - Jeongguk tried hinting that he got stronger in order to intimidate Hajoon. - “Wanted to see how she’s doing, a little catch up and all, it’s been a while.” - he tried to play it cool.
He couldn’t tell if Hajoon could see through him, catch his real intentions.
“What will I get in return? I mean, you’re trying to get through to my girl for god knows what. Not sure if I could trust you with her.”
My girl. My girl. The words echoed through Jeongguk’s mind, bouncing around like a tennis ball.
“What do you want?” - Jeongguk asked, frustration apparent in his voice. - “Money?” - he added, even though the thought of someone demanding money for your presence like you were some kind of prostitute made him sick to his stomach. - “Just tell me where I can find her, I’m willing to pay if that’s what you want.”
“You’re that desperate?”
“Answer my question, I don’t have time for your stupid games.” - Jeongguk was losing his patience.
“You know, I can’t believe I have the Jeon Jeongguk at my mercy right now. All over some girl. You’re really that easy? That weak?” - Hajoon decided to play with his patience even more. - “Fine. You can find her *here*. I’ll text you the bank info. Don’t disappoint me Jeon. I know my worth.” - the phone call ended.
Jeongguk could swear he was on the verge of having a heart attack. He never put on his motorcycle jacket and helmet so quickly in his life. He sped through the streets almost like a lunatic, hoping no police patrol was near.
In the meantime, you’ve entered your apartment and taken your heels off. You looked into the fridge, not necessarily hungry, just out of boredom. A few minutes later, you heard a knock on your door. You thought Hajoon drunkenly stumbled here to try to get into your bed again (and fail).
“Go home!” - you yelled at the door.
The sound of another knock bounced off of the walls again. You let out a frustrated huff and went up to open the door.
“How many times do I have to-” - you cut off yourself as you open the door. - “Gguk?” - you asked, completely caught off guard.
“Hi” - he stood there, trying to catch his breath. He looked like he ran up the stairs. - “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” - you open the door wider, gesturing to him to go inside. - “You’re back from the military.”
“Yeah…” - he trailed off. - “Sorry, I know we haven’t seen each other in ages and everything, but can I get some water? The elevator broke down on the 20th floor and I ran up the stairs through like 15 floors…” - he let out a small chuckle.
You reached into the fridge to hand him a bottle of water and watched him as he chugged it. His visible Adam's apple bobbing in the process, making your imagination run wild. Even after all this time he still had the same effect on you without even trying. You admired him as the low kitchen lighting reflected on his face, accentuating his sharp jawline and big nose. You would think back to the times when you both were teenagers, insecure about your looks and now he was standing before you, all grown up. The black shirt hugging his broad shoulders tightly, his biceps flexing slightly, making heat crawl up into your lower stomach quickly. You played with the hem of your dress, nervously, hoping he wouldn’t notice the state you were in.
“So…” - he snapped you out of your thoughts. - “You’re engaged?” - he added, pointing at the ring on your finger.
You look down at the piece of jewelry, mixed feeling sitting deep in your chest. You weren’t sure what to say, the whole situation was complicated and you weren’t sure where to start.
Hey so actually I’m on the verge of breaking down so I gave into this stupid deal in order for the company to leave me alone for a while?
You let out a heavy breath, trying to collect your thoughts.
“It’s really complicated. I uh…” - you play with your fingers, feeling his burning gaze on you.
“Then tell me about it.” - he said, crossing his arms over his chest, veins on his hands popping out in the lighting. You could feel that he was tense. - “We were supposed to figure it out, no?” - he added, not trying to attack you but his frustrations were getting the best of him.
“Well, you didn’t even mention you’d go to the military so quickly.” - you snapped back, you brows furrowing in annoyance.
“Yeah, but I didn’t promise something to someone important to me and then ran off with another person the moment I was alone again.”
“Then what do you want? Why are you here Jeongguk?” - you asked, throwing your hands in defeat. - “I thought you’d come up with something better to say than whatever the fuck you’re doing right now.”
The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Both of you giving each other a sharp look, heat creeping up your neck. He walked towards you and pinned you against the counter, the solid marble pressing hard into your lower back.
“I don’t believe it.” - he snapped, his breath hitting your neck making you let out a gasp. - “Whatever show you’re putting on with that joke of a man, whatever you’re trying to sell to the public eye, I don’t buy it. You don’t love him, do you?”
“Gguk…” - you say breathless, trying to form a coherent thought but his body being so close to yours made it difficult.
“Please tell me it’s not real.” - he begged, not as frustrated anymore. He sounded… scared.
He was scared it was too late. He was scared that in reality he really didn’t know you anymore. He was scared that you moved on. He was terrified that you fell in love with somebody else. He felt like a coward, he could not forgive himself for waiting for so long. He was scared of your rejection through all those years and now he was terrified that he was about to lose you completely.
He rested his forehead against your shoulder while he waited for your answer. You took his chin between your fingers and made him look you in the eye. You could see the raw emotion in his gaze, eyes open wide, scared, full of regret but also begging you to say what he wanted to hear. You caressed his cheek with your fingers, tracing his scar.
“It’s not real Gguk.” - you sighed. - “It’s all a contract. The company wanted people to talk about me but I refused to write another album. I was so exhausted Jeongguk. I just wanted a way out and I made everything worse.” - you confessed, tears spilling down your cheeks as you finally faced the truth. - “I just want to be with you again.” - you added, quietly, almost like you didn’t want him to hear.
“I’m here now, pretty girl.” - he tried to calm you down, laying your head on his chest, the pet name making your heart skip a beat. - “You don’t have to face it alone, we’re gonna make it work. I’m not gonna leave you with all of this.” - he said, smoothing out your hair.
You let the warmth of your body embrace you, your breath calming down, tension is your muscles now gone. You pull your face away from his chest to look at him, his eyes filled with worry.
You disappointed each other in the past, leaving the other one with a messy situation without any explanation. You believed him but the worry about the future still sat deep in your chest making it ache slightly. There was no fear about the feelings anymore, it was about the both of you going against every battle and every obstacle that would step in your way in the future.
You traced the scar on his cheek again, admiring his face.
Jeongguk on the other hand couldn’t believe that all of this was actually happening. His friends called him insane for denying your relationship. All of this made his heart race at the highest speed it could. You still didn’t admit how you truly felt about him, but you saying that you want him next to you was enough for him. If you weren’t ready to say it out loud now, he was willing to wait even more if that meant you’d be happy by his side (hopefully for the rest of his life). He didn’t want to push you, but he wanted you to know how he felt.
“What’s on your mind?” - you asked, seeing his face twist in wonder.
“This is the last time I promise you to work on this mess.”
For a moment you were thinking it was him giving you the last chance to pull your shit together and actually make it work. You thought it was him giving you a sign that if you fuck this up he’s going to leave forever and move on with his life after waiting for you for so long. You realized that it was your last chance and that you gambled with your luck one too many times.
“I will stand by your side, I’m not going anywhere. I’m so in love with you, I don’t think I could stay away even if I tried” - he added, taking a slight step back, looking at the kitchen floor like it’s the most interesting thing in the world now.
His sudden confession caught you off guard, not because you didn’t know but because you didn’t expect him to say it like that out loud.
“I’m glad you couldn’t because I’m so in love with you I don’t think I could live my life without you like that ever again.” - you said looking up at him.
Jeongguk took a quick step towards you again, smashing his lips into yours, which caught you off guard. Your hands found their place in his hair, softly pulling at his roots. The action caused a small noise to slip through his lips, which he hoped you didn’t hear. You just confessed his feelings for him out loud and that alone made the need for your body against his grow. His hands landed on your waist, holding you in place carefully but possessively. His lips moved against yours in a slow rhythm, letting his feelings pour out as his yearning for you was finally satisfied. You let out a low hum against his lips, signaling that you were slowly running out of breath but neither of you really cared.
Not long later you pulled away, gasping slightly for air, looking at Jeongguk. His cheeks flushed pink, lips swollen and mildly wet from the kiss, his hair dishevelled. He stared at you, pupils blown wide.
“Gguk…” - you said, breathless. - “Please… I need you.” - you looked up at him doe eyed.
He wasted no time as he connected your lips again and started walking you back to the living room. His hands explored your body, his fingertips grazing your skin carefully. The back of your knees hit the edge of the couch as his lips trailed down your neck, sucking a hickey under your ear. You let out a quiet moan in sensation. You fell back on the couch as he stood tall above you, taking a sight of you in. His gaze trailed down your body, making a shiver run up your spine, your face turning hot. His lips found their way back to your neck again leaving wet kisses.
“Are you sure pretty girl?” - his voice barely above a whisper. He earned a small nod from you. - “I need you to use your words, where’s that smart mouth that I missed so much?”
“I’m sure Gguk, stop teasing.”
“Oh she’s getting brave now.” - he chuckled as he unzipped your dress, sliding the straps slowly down your shoulders. His thumbs ran along the hem of your bra, tracing the soft lace. - “So beautiful.” - he murmured to himself.
His hands trailed down your sides to take off the dress completely, as his lips made his way lower down your body, peppering kisses over your bra and between the valley of your breasts. You let out a small whine when his fingers started toying with the edge of your panties, your hips squirming in search of friction. He smiled to himself as he noticed a wet patch on the fabric as it stuck to your skin. His fingers softly rubbed against the slightly darker spot on the panties making you let out another moan. He took it as a sign and slid off the barrier separating his hungry touch from your drenched core. His gaze landed on your wet cunt. The sight made him lick his lips, his stare turning almost predatory. His finger made light contact with your wet folds, gathering some of your wetness. The action made you let out a whimper, your body covered in goosebumps.
“Look at you, poor thing. All needy for me.” - he says, mocking the state you’re in. You only nodded in response.
He licked up a long stripe up your heat, letting out a low growl. His tongue traced messy patterns, his whole face quickly covered in your arousal. He kept your tights open firmly with his strong hands as he plunged his tongue in and out. You buried your fingers in his hair, caressing the scalp and pulling at the ends.
“Gguk- it’s… ah!” - you try to form a cohesive sentence as you throw your head back against the couch, but fail as one of his hands makes his way down to your centre, slowly sliding inside with a wet sound, curling up to hit the right point.
“I know baby, I know. Just let me take care of you.” - he mumbles between your thighs.
You reach out to grab his other hand, trying to stabilize yourself, your loud noises filling the room. He slides his fingers between yours, feeling the heavy ring of your finger, a reminder of something that was about to be terminated by the morning, if not sooner.
“Did he not treat you the way you deserve?” - he pulls away, his fingers still working inside you in a steady rhythm. - “Did he not satisfy you?” - he adds, his other hand playing with the ring on your finger.
“He- ah! He never touched me, Jeongguk. I-ngh!” - you try your best to answer him as your mind gets hazy. - “I never let him.” - you finally confess, your words followed by a loud moan as his fingers abused the soft spot deep inside of you.
The moment Jeongguk hears your words, something unlocks in him. Hajoon was never in the equation, you never ever tried to give him a chance. Your confession only proved to him that you didn’t even think about being intimate with another man after that award ceremony. Your noises get even louder, face twisting in pleasure giving him a sign that you’re about to cum, your whole body squirming trying to escape his grasp but chasing the high.
“I’ve got you, pretty girl. Let go for me. Let me see you.” - he says, leaving soft kisses on your inner thigh.
He takes you right over the edge, your legs shaking, vision blurring. His eyes never leave your face, admiring the view - your brows slightly furrowed, mouth opening wide in a silent scream. He could watch you like that for hours. While he works his fingers through the climax, he takes a moment to gently slide the ring off your finger and hide it in his pocket. You’re too focused on the pleasure to notice it happening. He chuckles to himself as he feels the piece of jewelry dropping down, deep into the pocket. The ring sparks an idea. He shakes those thoughts off now, focusing on you laid out in front of him.
He leaves wet kisses up your thighs, slowly crawling back up your body. Your chest rises and falls heavily, trying to catch your breath. His hand slips behind you, unclipping your bra, letting it fall loosely before dropping it on the floor. His knee comes up higher, your slick falling onto the fabric of his pants, making you let out a quiet whimper from the sensitivity. His lips make contact with your neck again, sucking the skin into his mouth, leaving a mark behind.
“You still with me?” - he asks quietly, his voice dripping with care. You give him a small nod, not trusting yourself to speak properly.
His fingers come up, tracing along your ribs, his touch hot on your skin. Then they climb up, outlining your nipple, while he bends down to take the other one into his mouth. The sensation of his warm mouth along with the coldness of his piercing makes you arch your back off the couch, pushing yourself further into his mouth.
“Jeongguk!” - you yell out, your state still vulnerable. - “I-I’m sensitive.” - you admit, a pout forming on your lips.
He sucks the nipple harder, before releasing it with a quiet pop. He moves his attention to the other one, licking around the area and carefully grazing his teeth along it.
“You can do it, beautiful. So perfect for me.” - he praises, his voice low.
You tug at his shirt, desperately wanting it off. He raises up to pull it over his head, revealing his toned body and the colorful sleeve covering his arm. You let out a small moan at the sight, tracing your nails down his abs to then playfully tug at his pants.
“Getting greedy, are we?” - he smirks, sliding his jeans down along with his boxers.
His cock sprang free, slapping against his lower stomach. You reach out and wrap your hand around him, stroking it slowly. He hissed out at the sensation, biting his lower lip. You move your palm up and down his length before he stops you, pinning your hands above your head.
“Slow down, we’ll have time for that later.” - he says, his breath unsteady.
“Is that a promise?” - you ask playfully.
“There’s that smart mouth of yours. I missed it.” - he says, smiling while leaning down to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss.
You can feel the weight of his cock on your inner thigh as he slips his tongue into your mouth, exploring and claiming every part of it. You feel him push inside of you, the stretch having a delicious sting to it. He groans at the sensation, feeling your arousal coating him, your warm walls slightly clamping down. Behind your closed eyelids, your eyes roll back as your jaw falls agape letting out a sinful moan. He stills inside you for a moment, trying to collect himself and not cum right away, but it’s difficult to him when your pussy hugs around him so tight.
“You’re so- fuck! You’re made for me, pretty girl. Squeezing me like a vice.” - he says through his teeth, his head falling forward on your shoulder. He pushes his palm down on your lower stomach, feeling a bulge. - “Look at you.”
“Jeongguk, please…” - you beg him to continue.
He pulls out and snaps his hips back forward in a harsh manner, making you let out a high-pitched moan. You squirm beneath him, feeling so full.
“So responsive.” - he whispers, as he licks a long stripe behind your ear. - “My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”
The name sends a shiver down your spine as he continues to rock his hips in slow but firm thrusts.
“I- Gguk..” - you trail off, trying to form a sentence.
“I know pretty, I know” - he responds in between the thrusts, his hands gripping your hips to keep in place.”
“I- I love you- ah!” - you manage to say, tears escaping your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure and intense emotion sitting deep in your chest.
He leans down again to capture your lips in a kiss. This one full of intention and much more intimate. It wasn’t filled with lust or need but with love.
“I love you my sweet angel.” - he breaks the kiss, his eyes filled with emotion and hope.
His hips start to stutter as he feels your velvety walls fluttering around him, your core throbbing.
“Ngh- fuck!” - you moan as your vision goes blurry and your legs feel weak.
Your cunt clenching down onto him hard, pulling him in even closer if possible. The room filled with wet sounds. His hips lose rhythm, now moving in frantic motion. Small whimpers make their way past his soft lips as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You can feel the warm liquid covering your insides as he comes inside with a loud groan. He works his way through his high, making you even more sensitive causing you to squirm and whine. He softly drops on top of you, careful not to crush you.
You both lay there in silence, trying to catch your breath, still riding the high. He turns both of you over so you lay on his chest, your finger softly tracing random patterns on his toned chest. You can feel your body getting slightly numb, the exhaustion kicking in.
“I’ve got you baby. We’re in this together now.” - he says quietly, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead.
The next day you wake up in the bed, thankfully. Jeongguk takes care of the breakfast, to show off his cooking skills and also providing you with a little catch up on how the military was. You feel like your life came back to the one before the rumors broke out. The morning felt safe and slow in the best way possible.
“I need to stop by the company, take care of something.” - he says as he takes the plates back to the kitchen.
“Everthing okay?” - you ask.
“Yeah, never been better.” - he responds with a wide smile.
Later that day, Jeongguk makes his way to the company building. While in the elevator he plays with your "engagement" ring between his fingers. The elevator plays a melodic sound while announcing that he arrived at the 11th floor. He made his way down the hallway and without knocking barged into the room.
Inside, behind the desk sits Hajoon with his manager and a music producer he didn’t really recognize, not that he cared anyway. Not acknowledging the company, he stepped confidently through the room.
“Jeon, you're being rude. No knocking? Being an idol doesn’t exempt you from having manners.” - Hajoon complains.
Jeongguk stood tall in front of him. Without a word he put the ring on the desk. The manager looked at it with wide eyes and even let out a small gasp.
“I thought you might want it back, we really won’t need it. We’re even now, so don’t contact her ever again.” - he says, his voice low and steady.
I really want to read some added member or an oc girlgroup where one of the member is dating bts jungkook I'M CRAVING IT and couldn't dont any good one so please help a girl out and give me some recommandations.
afterimage - a jjk isekai story! by expectevenless
idol!jjk x student!reader.
tags! 🏷️ character death | reader is a phd student | isekai! | reader travels back in time | angst | confusion | oc!jaemin | she is in denial for a while | jeongguk is a sweatheart | he just wants some friends | fluff | f2l? | kinda idol life? | some time skips | kinda texting fic | slice of life | we take our studies seriously | more to be added
summary: After grieving the sudden death of global star Jeon Jeongguk, a thirty-something university researcher falls asleep-only to wake in Seoul in 2014, seventeen again and living a life that somehow already belongs to her. Even stranger, Jeongguk is alive, young, and apparently already part of her world. As she struggles with the loss of her old life and the mystery of the girl she seems to have replaced, she slowly realizes she may have fifteen years to prevent the death she remembers - without knowing what changing the future might cost.
wc: 21k
taglist: @bjoriis
*** [part one] [...] ***
I.
Blinking is a habit that one never really thinks of - it just happens and we move on. Life has always been about the act of letting go and moving on. The same goes for many other aspects of the human body - and life, in any matter - all that seem to go unnoticed until they stop functioning altogether. that one fine detail that seems to change everything.
Your eyes burn as you continue to trace each letter on your display one by one, the inside of your chest begging for some air. Each letter presses a new dagger into your heart, followed by a weight that settles over your chest. Has your heart always had this dull beat inside your ears, as if it was wrapped in bubble wrap and thrown into the wild ocean? The uncomfortable sensation of prickling on the bottom of your feet creeps up your legs, spreading goosebumps across your burning skin.
JEON JUNG KOOK (JEONGGUK) - (32) - BELOVED GLOBAL BOY-GROUP MEMBER DIES IN TRAGIC CAR ACCIDENT.
It was supposed to be a normal break from your usual research routine. Your laptop on top of the worn-out table in your office suddenly blurs out of your vision, the bold red letters are the only thing your dry eyes seem to notice. It is a normal break, the one in which you sip your watered-down iced latte and run your hand over your face in vain as you try to write down a new paragraph for your paper. usually, the smell of your candle would drive a sense of comfort through your heart; instead, it makes you feel dizzy. too sweet, too ashy, too-
It seems that this break stays true to its purpose - the origin of its existence - it breaks you.
What are you supposed to do anyway? You almost scoff, as if the article in front of you is just a bad paper submitted by a lazy student that has not done enough research. That you already have started to pack your belongings into your bag, not in your usual fashion of carefulness; instead in a rushed manner to leave the building to escape into your own, you don’t notice. That you don’t stop to bid goodbye to the janitor or some of your colleagues as you rush past them, you also seem to ignore.
The beat inside your head threatens to spill out your ears, and you don’t even know where to look at. what are you supposed to do? just go home? go somewhere else? do you even have any right to express such reaction?
the sound of the cars passing by, people passing by your vibrating body, the wind - it seems like your body blends it all out. the streets are busy, to no surprise. everyone has a life to live, meetings to finish and dreams to chase. you do too. you should head back, actually. it seems that every fiber in your being longs to move back into the comfort of your office. your heart seems to overpower this urge, forcing you to continue with your escape.
as time passes and aching inside your heart spreads across your entire being, the door falling into its lock leads you to slide down to seat yourself on the hard floor. you barely register how it creaks under weight.
Jeongguk. Jeon Jeongguk has passed away. And you have no idea what to think - can you even do that? whatever you are going through right now; is it even valid? you force yourself to blink once again, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as a reminder that your body’s natural functions have been limited for the past hour or more. each breath you force yourself to take enters your body shakily, your airways burning as if they were filled with glass splinters. your lungs are about to cave in yet you can’t seem to take a deeper breath - it won’t allow you to.
you shake your head once, twice until the soba spill from your throat like soft butter. you feel your shoulders brush against the hardwood of your door with each strong shake; every sob scraping away. gathering yourself to get off the floor and move into your living room takes longer than you’d like to admit, as your limbs feel heavier than ever - almost lifeless as you drag your feet to your couch. your bag full of the papers and books you need to prepare for the following day laugh at your state in mockery, almost shaming you for having such an intense reaction.
shaking off this feeling, this shame, you fall onto your couch like a sack of potatoes, grateful for the soft embrace. all the moving around to change your place inside your own home has left you drained of any kind of energy you have gathered, your eyes once again losing all focus as you continue to stare ahead.
quiet.
for the first time in months, your head has turned void of any thought. as if it has finally decided to add a closing hour; you don’t think of any deadline, any research questions, not even about how you are supposed to explain yourself the following day as you have just got up and left. everything is just quiet and it terrifies you immensely. like an endless hole that refuses to be closed, the only aspect of your brain that you feel is the pounding against your forehead.
dead.
the very same person that has grown up in front of a camera for the majority of his life - whom you also followed for many years. he has died. and somehow it feels like a part of you has been ripped out of your chest and lit on fire. you try to calm your nerves by taking deep breaths and exhaling through your mouth, though your lower lip quivers with each exhale, your eyebrows rise slightly to suppress your tears.
take a deep breath through your nose, slowly count to four. hold your breath for seven more seconds and then exhale through your mouth. repeat.
and as you try to keep up this pattern, a gentle smile, wide eyes and a soft voice find place inside your mind, finally breaking through the darkness surrounding your thoughts. the voice starts singing familiar tunes that you know oh so well, the dark eyes reflecting a light you have never seen before. and for the first time in forever, you drift into a slumber without your thesis as your last thought.
for the first, and perhaps only time, it is him.
——
the screeching of your alarm sends goosebumps across your skin as you sit up hastily, your mouth dry and eyes surrounding by crust.
groaning, you feel around your bed, its warmth almost lulling you back into a second round of sleep - almost. like a pen slowly rolling down the table, the fog inside your head seems to clear up, and the realization that you are in your bed and not on your couch makes you open your heavy eyes.
have you been sleepwalking?
scoffing, you look around the colorful room, the blinds are up, allowing the gentle sun to illuminate your room-
wait.
a colorful room? in this size? your eyes shift down - white sheets and a twin sized bed? what happened to your king sized one? and to your expensive hand-made wooden bed frame? have there always been that many high buildings outside your own apartment?
adrenaline pumps through your veins as you take a better look around, your feet hitting the fluffy -leopard patterned- carpet, trying to leave your- well, not your bed. your chest heaves and eyes begin to dance around all the decorative pieces fast, wanting to piece together any kind of information you could extract.
your head snaps towards your phone - an iphone 4? - as your second alarm blares through the speakers.
where is your phone? where are you even?
the view outside your window feeds into your confusion, the small alleys and huge buildings defamiliarizing you even more. where the hell are you? suddenly, your name is being yelled through the door, with a familiar force and even more so known voice - your mother?
“get up already! you will be late for school again!”
huh? school? you shake your head. does your mother still confuse the university you work at as your former highschool? you already told her that you are not a teacher but a phd student and lecturer at your university. a huff leaves your mouth, the confusion suddenly all forgotten as you move towards your door to greet your mom and tell her that her jokes aren’t funny. you couldn’t have anticipated that you would choke on your spit as you are met with your mothers younger looking face.
“did you get botox?” you ask instead, your voice softer for some reason.
kissing her teeth your mother raises the spatula in her hand in mock threat, eyes wide, “stop joking around and get ready already. jaemin will be here soon.”
she turns to work on some lunch box, muttering over her shoulder, “i told you your cat pyjamas need to be washed first before you wear it.”
your head snaps down to take a look at yourself. when did you ever buy this set? with your heart in your throat, you quickly turn to look at yourself in the mirror, confused features replaced with relief as you truly see yourself in the reflection. taking in a deep breath, you walk backwards to sit down on your- eh, the bed and try to make sense of your situation. you are in a different room, in a different apartment placed in a foreign area all together. yesterday, you tried to get through your stack of paper that needed to be graded but then saw the news-
jeongguk is dead.
the back of your eyes start to sting as your throat closes up once again, all the pain from the previous day washing up and crashing against your fragile walls. your hands cool down and the bottom of your feet start to tingle again.
breathe breathe breath-
your hand shakes as you take a hold of the strange phone, hoping to call someone from your department to tell them that you won’t be able to attend any of your courses, the threat of crying at any moment too big for you to control for the time being. though you don’t get all too far as your eyes stuck on the date.
24.10.2014.
twenty-fourteen? fourteen?
must be a system error. you swallow down your dry cough and continue to search for your secretary’s contact, the perplexed part of your mind taking over. where are all your contacts who are these people taking their place?
who is jaemin? who is your mother, why is she looking so young? who even are you right now?
you look the same - or at least a bit younger than before. it seems like the creases on your forehead and around your eyes [thanks, academia] have faded away, and even your cheeks look fuller. your eyes are red from all the tears that left them yesterday; your lips stretch into their normal smile you note as you try out different faces on the phones black screen.
it is you.
but, it is also not? blinking away whatever confusion you can, you get up and get dressed for, well, school. it is only when you cringe at your own clothes that you accept that something is truly wrong.
a bad dream? can one even understand that they are dreaming? in such detail at that? as soon as you step out your room to greet your mother, she beats you to it as she groans and pinches your cheeks, suddenly having appeared in front of you.
“stop messing with me and put on your uniform!” she places her hands on her hips with a scoff, eyebrows furrowed. “i spent almost an hour ironing all your dress shirts last night!”
like a fish pulled out of water, you open and close your mouth, not even answering her ash she pushes you back into the room.
“don’t forget your lunch!”
before you even realize what happened next, you find yourself at the front door of the apartment, your white converse tied a bit too tightly and your uniform scratching your neck.
well, what now? having no idea where you are and where your mother, well, the woman who looks like a younger version of your mother, wants you to go, you can’t help but wonder if anything that has happened so far is real. you feel lost, confused, hurt, oddly familiar and yet strange, jeon jeongguk has died-
tears well up in your eyes. fuck.
a shaky breath leaves your mouth. maybe you should go out and find a place where you can calm your nerves for a second. try figuring out what the hell is happening and how you can get back to your own place - or just away from here, to be honest - and just forget about it. you want to cry, want to grieve and just, be anywhere but here. alone. as you always have. your eyes trail down the hallway to the staircase leading downstairs to the entrance, at least you think. it is the only logical answer.
closing your eyes for a second to gather yourself once more, your feet move on their own, as if in a trance even. you don’t even bother looking around the halls as you love two stories down, don’t even worry about the heavy door that seems to open with a special technique that you aren’t supposed to know. the only time you are able to wake from this hypnotic sensation is when a person appears in front of you out of nowhere, your body colliding with theirs. you tumble backwards but manage to regain you footing, eyes immediately snapping to look at the person; a guy.
he looks around your, well, not really, age and wears the same uniform that the mother told you to wear. what was the name again?
“jae…” your own voice sends a shiver down your spine as you try to remember his name.
scoffing, the guy turns his head. his long black hair frames his round face, eyes rolling as he shifts in his place, “what? why are you late again, huh?”
his arm moves towards you and even though you don’t feel threatened in any way, you push him away, glaring at his actions. his eyes widen and his expression shifts slightly, as if he has not expected you to react this way.
“you good?”
his head tilts down to look into your eyes, but you simply turn your head away, something inside your chest burning.
inhale.
“yeah- yeah. just- i don’t know. missed my alarm and woke up with a sore throat.” you try to look at him, really. you can’t explain why it feels so wrong, so intimate. as if you are fooling someone, playing with their trust.
“let’s just go.” you gently slap his arm in hopes to ease the situation.
waiting for him to take the lead, you clear your throat and look at his forehead. this way, it will only seem like you are looking into his eyes - hopefully.
“whatever.” he rolls his eyes and starts to walk; to school, you think.
you take this as an opportunity to finally look around your surroundings, surprise painting your features as you take in the clean streets and foreign architecture. why aren’t there any cars parked along the road? why is it so, how should you word it, cramped? house after house, apartment buildings tall and grey, almost like those in a futuristic film. there aren’t many trees planted along the sidewalks, and it is quiet even though working hours have already begun. following quietly after jae… whatever, your gaze shifts back onto his tall figure. his uniform sits a bit too wide on his shoulders, his pants are rolled up to avoid dragging in the dirt and his bag hangs on one shoulder.
this could be your chance to find out more about, uh, everything. but what are even supposed to say? everyone acts like it is a normal day, no one questions you. you seem to belong, though have never felt more lost than you have today. all you wanted to do was stay at home and grieve.
jeongguk. a car crash. before you even allow your body to give out, you clear your throat and rub your eyes with the heel of your hand. you need to understand before you can lay down. need to find your way back. home. or at least somewhere familiar.
concentrate.
“say,” you begin, fastening your steps to walk beside him this time, “what is the plan for today?”
he looks down at your for a second and glances back straight ahead, his hands now inside his pockets in a lazy fashion. he seems like a kind guy, you note. like a best friend that would never say it out loud, but who loves you deeply. you feel like breaching someones trust. and even though you have no emotional connection to the guy in front of you, shame seems to heat up your face.
“after english class you mean? thought you wanted to hang with that one guy-“ he groans as he cracks his neck, jaw flexing slightly, “forgot his name.”
huh? you try to keep clam, keep it casual. you were a high school student not too long ago - you just need to find your groove back.
“yeah, i promised him.” your laugh sounds like a mixture of stormy nerves and a broken engine, worsening the urge to slap yourself across your own face. fucking hell. just stay cool. it should not be this hard. you work with students all the time, all day long.
“have you studied for lit?” he runs a hand through his long hair, “swear i have no idea what that bordieu guy wants.”
your mouth dries. a test? an exam? bordieu? you could work with that. so, you nod, looking ahead as a new building appears. large gates and trees peeking from behind.
“uh, yeah. stayed up all night, and, yeah. you know me.”
halting in his tracks, jae turns to look at you. really look at you. his dark brown eyes muster your face, tongue wetting his lips as he seems to think about your answer.
“you understood?” his hand reaches towards your ear [you almosy flinched back, again], “and just ignored my pleas? do you want to die?”
he pulls at your ear, not too harshly. whining, you try to duck away from his grip, you own hand holding his wrist, “listen! hey- stop that and listen!” you finally push him
away. upon seeing his sly smirk, you feel a familiar form of rage storm inside you. whoever jae has been to you- or well, this person, must have had a teasing relationship with this guy. and for some reason, amongst all the fear and confusion you have felt for the past hour, this seems to comfort you. you find comfort in this stranger who seems to evoke these intense feelings inside you. for once in this very short time of feeling lost, you feel seen. you feel belonging.
“i just- well.” you should tell him the truth. get it out of your system. “my favorite artist passed away, and-“
“fucking justin bieber? no way!” he cuts you off, his hands immediately on your shoulders as he gently squeezes them. you shake your head as your own hands rest on his wrists, fighting off the amused scoff threatening to leave your mouth.
“no! no! that would be a global disaster! but, ugh. i guess this one’s too? remember bts? my favorite member has passed away in a car accident.”
it feels, how should you describe it. like reality has really been set in stone.
jeon jeongguk has died. and this is the first time you have said it out loud. and even though the dagger inside your heart continues to twist around, you feel like a tiny weight has been lifted off your chest. the first step has always been acceptance. you can’t deny the truth. and as you feel proud of yourself for finally admitting to the truth, jae seems not to understand the importance of this statement. instead, he tilts his head to the aide, eyebrow raised.
“who the fuck are you talking about?”
Confused, you take in a breath to answer him, he cuts you off before the first sound leaves your mouth. his hands wander down to the back of your shoulders, pushing you to turn towards the entrance gate.
“tell me later about that game. ms. choi will demolish us if we come late again.”
that name tastes sour, but you have to get him to understand. how can he just brush that off?
“but-!”
he seems to be fully immersed in to arriving to class on time, his hands immediately pulling your wrist towards the lockers as soon as you enter the building. fuck. your eyes widen and your heartbeat picks up its pace. what are you supposed to do-
someone utters your name. it’s quiet, like a gentle breezeway in the air. though the tone, the voice seems to pull you out of your bubble wrap state. it’s too, how should you word it, grounding. it’s familiar. you need familiar. you look at jae first, though he looks at something, someone, past your shoulders. his gaze no where near as friendly and teasing as you have seen it before. he looks annoyed, almost. shoulders tense and brows slightly raised.
you turn your head to the other side, slowly, as if preparing yourself for another quest you needed to conquer, eyes immediately landing on the person wearing the same [ugly] yellow school uniform as the two of you. you don’t even register the name tag as you look at the face- what. the air is knocked from your lungs, your ears ring and for some reason you can’t move your mouth to produce any kind of sound, any kind of acknowledgement or shock to the sight in front of you.
what. the. fuck.
what is he doing here? right there, you have jeon jeongguk in the flesh standing in front of you; cheeks full, eyes wide, yet laced with a certain shyness that runs deep into your heart, and reddish hair, covering his forehead and the majority of his eyebrows. his nose sits too big on his face, though you can’t help but find it endearing.
he calls your name once again, stepping closer timidly, head tilting as he tries to read your face. even you can’t tell what expression you must have right now. behind you, jaemin - you finally remember his name - slams his locker shut and walks off with his slippers scraping along the polished floors. you don’t know him, only having met him ten minutes ago, though you already wish that he came back. you need someone help you calm down.
you. need. to. clam. down. exhaling deeply, you breathe out jeongguks name, feeling exposed almost.
“uh, can i- can i help you?” you ask, mentally slapping yourself for the crack in your voice.
what are you even doing. here you are in an ugly uniform, standing in a foreign place - korea, it seems - talking to one of the biggest artists ever. or, well, at least his younger version. the version filled with hunger and fear, desire and anger. the version that yet has to achieve all his dreams, realize his whole purpose and potential.
giggling [he giggles because of you], jeongguk steps even closer than before, eyes twinkling, “you came late. i was concerned.” he nods his head to the side, silently asking you to follow him.
and you do, without hesitation. your legs move before you can register it, your mouth still and eyes wide as you step into the classroom. looking around the rows of desks and scattered chairs, your head turns from one side to the other, eager to take everything in.
it is bright in here, more so than you are used to from your old classrooms. students sit on tables and talk in their friend groups. others film themselves, while some freshen up their make up on their phones. your heart picks up its pace, and you can feel your bladder press uncomfortably against your abdomen.
where was the restroom again? with a tug on your uniforms sleeve, you are pulled towards what you assume is your desk, jeongguk continues to lead you as if it is a natural thing. he doesn’t even question you, doesn’t ask you who you are and where you came from.
“i did the exercise you gave me last week,” he gently pulls on the fine hair along his face, “ah, what should i say. i don’t have any excuse. i was too lazy to finish it.”
his eyes shine with mischief, the left corner of his lip twitching. sitting down, you decide to freak out later and just get through with this day first. it is not your first time seeing a member of the biggest boy group ever anyway. just pretend he is one of your students that need help with a complex theory that took even you a while to grasp.
you saw taehyung once when you were vacationing in france. though as any other fan would, you turned away and let the man be. easy as ever.
however now you have your favorite member - alas, his younger self - talking to you, as if you had been a part of his life. a normality. familiar. not even just talking, but apparently being your friend, someone he feels comfortable talking to. someone he wouldn’t mind dragging around. you look down at his paper, your hand writing on it. it seems that ‘you’ have written some words and sentences in english for him to translate and learn. half of it is left empty, whereas the other half is poorly worked out. you scoff quietly as you think back of the well-known fact that jeongguk sucked in english back in highschool.
well, he barely attended his classes, his life as a trainee first, later his rising popularity standing in the way of his high school diploma becoming a priority.
believing that your scoff is directed at him, his foot hits yours under the desk, pulling a surprised gasp from your lips.
“stop making fun of me! i told you that i wouldn’t have much time this week. at least i tried.” then, a tad quieter, looking down at his hands on his lap and biting the soft pink of his bottom lip, “i am trying.”
his tone pulls at the strings of your heart. shoulders sagging and voice unusually soft, you shift in your seat and point at the first mistake on the sheet, hoping to encourage his learner’s motivation. easy. you worked with various high school students, acquiring some kind of skill and feel on how to make them want to learn.
“you start well here,” your finger traces his hand writing, feeling oddly sentimental, “you used ‘did’ already. therefore, you don’t need to put the second verb into the past.”
you recite the old rule that tour own english teacher would drill into your twelve years old mind. it is hard to believe that the person you would curse out back in high school is now the one you go back to teach someone else .you continue to work through the exercises to the very last second until the bells rings, signaling that the lesson starts. chairs scrape against the tiles as everyone moves to their seats, the chatter dies down.
you feel foreign yet so normal as you follow the other students as they get up their seats to greet the teacher, feel so relaxed as you sit back down and open your notebook. though you cant help but bite along the skin inside your cheeks or bottom lip, struggle to fight against the bounce of your right leg, brushing against jeongguks under the desk. your muscles tense up from the subtle touch. your bites along the inside of your cheeks intensify. it is warm, it is soft, it is him.
though it is boring, not enough to distract your sharp thoughts crawling around our mind, their claws digging deep. you answer when the teacher picks you to answer a question in english, keep your voice steady as if you have done this before.
and you have.
in your class, almost fifteen years ago. with people you almost always have had around. grew up with. shared memories and insiders with. the flicker of the lights above your head doesn’t bother you as it would have back in your office.
your throat closes up again.
the only time you seem to wake up from your trance is when jeongguk daps yours waist, making you squeal. rapidly blinking, you quickly apologize to your teacher with a bow of your head. your gaze shifts towards the guy next to you, glaring at his teasing smile.
“you okay?” he leans in to whisper, eyes wide with concern. his warmth closes around you comfortably. your gaze shifts down to his sloppy handwriting on his notebook, the way he has three different colored pencils on his desk even though they aren’t needed.
are you okay? the short answer is no.
the longer answer would be that you feel incredibly uncomfortable and insecure; feel lost and yet familiar in this foreign place. your body seems to work in an automated fashion, making you blend in perfectly with the people around you. the smell
of someones convenience store sandwich curls around your nose, the giggles from behind you are a usual occurrence. though the gears in your head turn in light speed, your heart feels like jumping out of your chest and run away. breathing has never felt more like a task than it has for the past few hours.
“yeah,” you nod instead, matching his quiet tone, “just tired.”
you turn your head to look at the blackboard, feeling no need to copy whatever the teacher has written down. you used to teach in english. used. or, still do? ugh. jeongguk hums, pencil doodling on the blank sheet of your notebook, “are we still on for lunch? your exercises really help, and rap-mon hyung wants me to keep up my studies.”
wetting your lips, you try your hardest not to choke at the mention of the leader of bts. instead you nod again, flashing a smile you hope is convincing enough.
convincing to whom, you have no idea. it blurs. not only your vision from the tears that tried to push through at any given moment - especially when you and jeongguk shared a class and you couldn’t help but watch him from your peripheral vision - but also the entirety of the day. it seems that you are in a constant state of lulling in and out of consciousness, though your body continues to move through the hallways, answer the questions directed to you not only from teachers but also the future superstar that seems to be your friend.
lunch has been a different experience. back then, at your high school, you would simply go out and buy something from the local kiosk. here, you hastily follow jeongguk to the cafeteria, copying his actions of getting a food tray and fill the space with whatever you craved - which is nothing.
it seems as though your appetite has left you for the time being. it’s loud inside, you note, your eyes dancing around the room which slowly fills with groups of hungry students. each friend group finds their own table, laughter spilling from their mouths with ease, while other pairs and individuals decide to leave the crowded room, holding their drinks and snacks in their hands.
as you continue to look around while you wait for your friend to finish deciding which dessert he would like to eat, your eyes meet jaemin. for some reason, you can’t help but feel relief run down your spine, jaw finally unclenching. he, too, seems to notice your gaze, smirking as he nods his head to you as a greeting. and his smirk continues to stay on his thin lips until jeongguk appears next to you, the smell of his softener invading your space. you tilt your head in confusion as jaemin rolls his eyes and looks away, though decide to talk to him after you finish your business with jeongguk.
speaking of him, you notice that he barely speaks up unless you talk to him first. instead, he simply exists next to you, guiding you through the school with practiced ease. he hums to himself when working, bows his head to teachers when passing, and fiddles with his hands when working on the questions in front of him. you find a quiet [well, as quiet as it gets] within the busy cafeteria, placing your food tray on the metal table.
your eyebrows shoot up when jeongguk decides to sit downright next to, not in front of you as you have thought he would.
this is it.
you bite down your anxiety and decide to talk to the boy you have seen only on the screen before, your hands clammy.
“say,” you clear your throat, setting down your chopsticks, the clang against the metal table subtle, “you won’t have much time to come anymore, right?”
you spread your hot hands against the tables cool surface. you feel weird, talking to him, looking at him. if it has been the case back at you real place, you would have left a while ago. scared of bothering him. but here, jeongguk seems to be the one wanting to be close to you. yeah, you think to yourself, after all, their next comeback will help the group to gain more popularity and attention. this results to them working longer, more intense than before, if that was even possible. he won’t have time, will be touring and continue to live out his future set in stone.
this seems to open his inner gate. jeongguk suddenly sits up right, eyes wide and cheeks filled with rice he tries to swallow before answering. this is the first time you have seen him look awake. you shift in your seat and try your hardest not to look away. you need to stay calm, act normal. look at him, smile at him, actually react to whatever he says instead of blending it out. his warmth next to you becomes suffocating, his little habits that you previously only ever watched on the screen, you [try to] ignore. it wouldn’t be fair to him. it feels invasive.
god, you don’t want to be invasive in any way.
jeongguk looks down after swallowing his food, chopsticks playing with his food, “i guess i feel a bit more pressured with the comeback.”
he sighs. you decide against replying to him immediately, wanting for him to continue. and he does, eyes briefly looking up at yours before he turns back to look at his tray, tip of his ear blushing.
“i hate and love being at school, i- i think it helps me to calm down?” his voice rises slightly, he tilts his head with a scoff. “but the teachers are annoying. not only here, but also our dance teacher back at the agency. and- and a member from the group is also very thorough with our choreography! he- well, we all want to do well, but he is so harsh!”
your heart squeezes in your chest. he tries his best to be as lowkey as possible about the comeback, about his members. and yet, here you are, totally understanding whom he is talking about, what his agency expects from them. you lean your head against the palm of your hand, eyes never wavering from jeongguks face. he doesn’t seem to mind - his rambling continues on and on, jumping from one topic to the other.
you must be a close friend of his, seeing that he trusts you enough to talk to you about whatever crosses his mind. your gaze shifts towards your phone placed on the table, the time signals that you only have about ten minutes left. clearing your throat, you sit up, unaware that jeongguk seems to copy your movements, though in a timid manner. he places his utensils down, plate cleared and lips coated with a tiny shimmer of the oils of the food.
“that means we also won’t see each other much, right?”
you can’t really tell if you are hopeful or disappointed. you are aware that jeongguk won’t have time to attend classes, will be busy with so much more than you could ever imagine. you should be glad; being next to him even for the day has been nothing but stressful for you. having to be careful with what you are supposed to say, what to say, is complicated. you also can’t help but deflate at the thought of never seeing him again. he is as endearing, as gentle as it gets. his teasing, his dedication to kinda do the exercises you prepared for him have all already caved a tiny spot inside your heart.
not jung kook of bts, but jeongguk. the guy with dark red hair, wide eyes and the ugly colored school uniform.
with whatever bravery jeongguk could muster, he reaches towards your phone and turns its display for you to unlock, never letting the device leave his hand. you don’t question it, rather perplexed at his doings but too intrigued to ask him for an explanation. his fingers move along the small screen - that you had yet get used to again, since you are used to the bigger screen of your iphone 16 pro max - and you can’t even tell what he types in. it is only when he presses something and waits patiently for-
as his phone rings inside the pocket of his dark pants, he leaves out a satisfied sigh before handing you back your phone.
“even if i can’t come here,” he sits up a bit, nose scrunching as he tries to back down the smile pulling on the corner of his lips, “we can meet somewhere else!”
your jaw slacks at the bold move of the guy that was supposed to shy, according to different sources and stories of his group. blinking down at your phone and then back at him, you scramble to get up with your tray and follow his steps as he has already gotten up to pit back his stuff, everyone else inside the cafeteria apparently following suit. the voices pick up again, slippers squeak against the floor and utilizes falling into the bins ring through the air. you decide to copy the others, having lost jeongguk from your sight.
what was that?
———
“what was that?” jaemin asks as you both walk home.
school day is over, thankfully its friday so you won’t have to stress about tomorrow. if there even is anything to stress. releasing your lip from your teeth, you glance up at the tall boy, meeting his stern look.
“what was what?”
this time around, the streets seemed to buzz with life. cars drive past faster than you are used to, people walk with their colleagues and friends to get some drinks and food, and in the midst of it all, jaemin and you keep walking towards the street of the building you came out from this morning. the sounds die down with each meter you leave behind, the neighborhood swallowing any kind of noise.
jaemin runs his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, “you-! are you sure you’re just tired?”
his question hits you, not physically, but in a way where you feel the air inside your lungs vanish instantly, in a way that makes you unsure about how to proceed. from what you gathered so far, the two of you must be friends, very good friends. whenever you feel his gaze, it seems that he isn’t looking at you but instead looking into you, as if everything inside you is an open book for him to read.
you swallow your spit in hopes to soothe your throat, “uh, yeah, wha- why are you asking?”
“you act like pop boy is one of your best friends or whatever.” he deadpans, coming to a halt in front of what you recognize to be the front door of the apartment building.
“you even gave him your number. you told me that you only help him out because you felt sorry.”
what?
“well, i guess i kinda like him now? as a friend!” you try to save yourself, hands stretched out in front of you. why does your face feel so hot, ugh.
“it’s just, y’know? giving him my number so i can give him better advice and such, ha ha, yeah! y’know?”
someone please make you shut up.
even though jaemin sharpens his gaze while watching you make a clown out of yourself, he seems to decide that he will leave you be, at least that’s what you hope. instead, he pulls you into his chest, arms tightly wrapped around your shoulders. he smells neutral, you guess. after spending the entire day inside a school filled with students who sweat, spill drinks, and eat different kinds of food, it is actually quite refreshing. you are supposed to feel protected, you think. it seems that jaemin and, uh, the previous you, aren’t too unfamiliar with hugging and other kinds of physical contact. it eats you from the inside, using his strong hold to feel comforted in the midst of this entire situation you are living through, even if he thinks it is about something else.
“i get it. you miss your one guy and try to close the gap with pop boy-“
“jeongguk.”
“-but just, let yourself heal first, ‘kay? we- i will talk to you later, or whatever.”
you are abruptly pushed off his body, his hand pinches your cheek as a goodbye. scoffing, you slap his wrist away and watch him leave with a teasing grin dancing along his lips, eyes shining with something you can’t actually pinpoint. as you turn to walk inside the building, your feet stay stuck as you recall what jaemin has just said.
that one guy? what did he mean?
shaking your head, you press against the heavy door and climb up the stairs, two stories if you remember correctly, the third door on the right. your hand finds the correct key before you can properly look through the small bundle your mother had shoved into your palm this morning.
of course it does.
you don’t allow yourself to think about that. the apartment is quiet when you step inside. it has a faint smell of that one soup you like, curling around the air in a way that almost makes you believe that you are back home. almost. as the door falls into the lock, so does your composure. heavy bag sliding off your shoulder, you kick off your shoes and follow it down the floor, eyes already burning.
“hello?” you ask into the room, desperately trying to not choke on your own words.
you receive no answer, taking it as your sign to finally let go.
of what exactly, you can’t tell. of everything, you guess.
first it is a tear rolling down your cheek, followed by more. then, the first sob escapes, almost embarrassingly. though it seems to break every other string you have held on to, your cries rolling off freely now. your shoulders shake with each sob, your mouth waters and your tears start to burn your skin. your chest hurts, your head starts to pound, numbness taking over your lower body.
you squeeze your eyes shut, though immediately open them to push yourself off the floor, almost crawling to the toilet. your stomach cramps and you know this feeling all too well as you push your hair out of your face. you lean over the toilet bowl, todays lunch barely making it in. it happens like a routine, a sob followed by your stomachs content into the toilet. you don’t even care about your blurry vision and hair getting into the way; don’t care about touching the toilet even though you used to loathe it.
nothing matters.
chest heaving, you only sit back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall when your stomach empties entirely, not even its acid coming up anymore. your entire body folds forward until your forehead nearly touches the floor, one hand gripping the fabric above your chest as though you could physically pull whatever hurts out of there.
fuck. you had done so well.
you had sat through classes. answered questions. eaten three spoonfuls of rice because jeongguk had been sitting beside you and you didn’t want him to ask why you weren’t eating. you had walked through hallways you had never seen before as though you had done so hundreds of times. you had smiled when people smiled at you, bowed when they bowed, laughed whenever it seemed appropriate. your throat hurts, you feel disgusting and dizzy. you want to leave.
you want to go home. it’s almost funny, you think to yourself as you get up, almost diving straight into the floor as you trip over your own feet.
home? you want to go home? you take a look around the strange apartment. apart from its layout, this whole place echoes your mother’s and your taste. even the carpet on the floor of the toilet that you used to hate but your mother forced you to accept was there. there are shoes beside the entrance. several pairs. some smaller than yours, some you vaguely remember seeing your mother wear years ago. a jacket hangs from a hook on the wall. beneath it sits an umbrella with a curved wooden handle. the couch is covered with blankets, hiding its actual beige color your mother wants to keep clean. you remember making fun of her arguments, claiming that a couch was there to be sat on.
the wall is decorated with your paintings and pictures of you two. ordinary things. that’s almost worse. you step into the bedroom you woke up in this morning. your stomach drops as you continue to look around. it is so you but also so not. the walls are decorated with boards and pictures, something that your own bedroom doesn’t have. instead of your cool color palette, this room is filled with different colors, different pieces of furniture that don’t match but also gives these four walls a certain personality.
it is the room of a typical seventeen-year-old girl. another girl. not you. never you. you dig the heels of your hands into your eyes, almost as if this would help you wake up from this nightmare.
this room - you don’t know whose it is. that thought gets you moving. the first thing you reach for is the school bag lying beside the desk. not your school bag. the girl’s. you pull it open and are immediately met with different colored binders and pencil cases. so, even in this scenario, the girl - or you, or whoever - likes to keep things organized with a color scheme. it almost paints a small onto your face.
your eyes stumble on the notebooks and papers scattered on the desk. you take the notebooks into your hands, one by one.
mathematics, korean, english. your fingers stop. the handwriting is familiar. you saw it earlier today, scattered in corrections across jeongguk’s worksheet. you open the notebook.
sentences fill page after page in neat writing, interrupted by notes in the margins and words underlined several times. some pages are cleaner than others. others have doodles squeezed into empty corners. you turn another page. and another.
you understand everything. not only the english. the korean. your stomach drops. it makes sense. you feel like crying and laughing all at once. you aren’t even in your own country anymore. you close the notebook.
“no.” as if it burns your hand, you throw the notebook onto the bed. not your bed. the girls bed - well, just someone else’s bed.
your attention moves toward the photographs. there are more than you noticed this morning. small prints are tucked around the mirror, some held up by pieces of tape that have started curling at the edges. your mother appears in several. you recognize relatives. you can’t fucking believe it; even your relatives look like themselves. well, they are themselves but, you don’t even know what to say. younger. so much younger, livelier. your mind reels back to those moments of when the pictures were taken. but it wasn’t you there, it would never be you.
then there are people you don’t know. girls with their arms wrapped around one another. classmates making faces at the camera. someone holding up a peace sign behind the girl’s head. you can’t seem to recall any of these people, any of these moments shared with them. you recall the same uncomfortable feeling you had when you were in class today. all these strangers, non whom you recall from your actual life.
behind your head. you move closer. there you are; rounder cheeks. longer hair. a smile you recognize because you’ve seen it in mirrors your entire life. except you also don’t remember the photograph being taken. it’s like different fragments, some clearer than others while others are straight up blacked out. your fingers hover over it. you don’t touch it. you shouldn’t.
another photograph. jaemin. younger than he looks now, his hair shorter, his face scrunched up while the girl beside him laughs. she looks like you, though you don’t share the same soul as hers, the one jaemin knows better than anything. this picture proves it; their close bond, their mutual understanding and trust. you pull open the first drawer of the desk.
pens. hair ties. old receipts. yeah that’s you. the second. papers. you dig through them faster now. a school document catches your attention. your hands shake as you flatten it against the desk. there is your name; your full name. you read it once. twice.
date of birth. your date of birth, in the year of twenty-fourteen. it still sends shivers down your spine. you calculate automatically.
seventeen. “fuck off.” you laugh. the sound comes out wet and broken.
“fuck off.” your vision blurs out once more, throat closing up. you reach for something else, hand shaking. student identification. same face. same name. another document. same. you start opening drawers without putting anything back. back home, your mother would have killed you. it is a trait you carried on. you would never leave out stuff without putting it back into its place.
wardrobe. clothes. none of them yours. you recognize your taste in some of them and absolutely despise others, but that doesn’t make them yours. it feels bittersweet. there are fragments of you, but it will never be you. desk, scattered with books and papers. this reminds you of home. your own office. but it is not yours. shelves. cheap perfume that makes you turn away from its stingy scent. not yours. it makes you feel even more out of place than you did in the first place. a little jewelry box, gold. you usually mix it up with silver, never been a huge fan of yellowish gold to begin with. photographs. not your memories.
you pull open another drawer too hard and it catches against the rail.
“come on.” you yank it, growling aggressively. “come on!” it jerks free.
half its contents spill onto the floor. “fuck!”
you kick it away. your breathing has picked up again. you stare at the mess surrounding your feet. someone’s life. an entire fucking life. and every piece of it insists that it belongs to you. “it’s not mine.”
your voice barely carries through the room. you look at the photographs.
“none of this is mine.” your gaze catches your reflection. red eyes, swollen cheeks. hair sticking to your face and dried vomit securing it. usually, you would have run to the sink and washed it all off, though you can’t find the energy to do so.
a seventeen-year-old face you remember having, but not like this. not here. you step closer to your own reflection, hoping. for the reflection to move on its own. maybe that way, you’ll feel less crazy.
“who the hell are you?” you flinch when you hear the front door open, heart beating in your ears. fuck.
you spin around. keys clatter into the small bowl in the hallway. then your, or well her, mother’s voice carries through the apartment.
“i’m home!”
your entire body stills. for one stupid, desperate second, relief overwhelms everything else. mom. your feet nearly move again, ignoring everything you felt before. then you remember. not your mother. she would not comfort a stranger with her gentle voice and soft touch as you know she would with you. not like this.
you look around at the open drawers, the clothes, notebooks and photographs scattered across the floor. footsteps approach down the hallway. she calls out your name, cautiously. you cannot answer. the footsteps stop outside the room. and when your mother appears in the doorway, whatever she had been about to say disappears from her face.
her eyes move over the mess, then toward you. those same eyes that would crinkle when she laughs at your funny choreographies, the ones that would scold your with a stern gaze whenever you left the house with wet hair.
“what happened?”
you stare at her. at the woman whose voice you know better than your own. at a face you have loved your entire life, only stripped of more than a decade you remember living beside her. your lower lip trembles. and suddenly, horribly, one thought rises above everything else. you don’t know how long it has been since you last saw your actual mother.
“mom?” you feel weak, ashamed and just want to be seen again. you want to be seen, not this shell carrying your consciousness. her expression changes instantly. you hate how relieved you feel when she crosses the room toward you, arms stretched to pull you in immediately.
you lose it all over again, ugly sobs, shoulders shaking, and hands clutching her cardigan. she gently strokes your head, muttering sweet words and kissing the crown of your head. instead of lifting up your mood, it just adds fuel to the fire.
you want to go home. “is it about him again?”
you still. there it is again. him. who is he, and why is now even your mother mentioning him.
sniffling, you slowly detach your iron grip from her cardigan and look at her face. as much as it hurt you to see it before, it also helps you to calm down. at least you know that your mother is this wonderful woman in every dimension. you feel better, seeing that she seems healthy and content with her life here.
so, you tilt your head, “who?”
only when your mother furrows her eyebrows you realize that you have made a mistake. you open your mouth, though no sound comes out despite the efforts.
fuck. what now? you watch her stand up, her hand on your cheeks as she slightly bends her spine, “let’s wash up, okay? then we can eat and watch that one show with that one japanese actor.”
“he is chinese, mom.” you hear yourself correct her automatically. your mother clicks her tongue.
“same thing.”
“that is literally racist.”
the answer leaves your mouth before you can stop it. silence. your mother looks at you, straightening her back. you look at her. then she rolls her eyes.
“you always say that.”
your stomach drops.
always. you stare after her as she disappears into the hallway, still muttering something about how she could never remember all the names anyway. you remain exactly where you are.
you always say that. not her. you.
apparently. your eyes fall toward your hands. they look like yours. the same small scar beneath your thumb, the same crooked nail you have never managed to grow properly.
you turn them over. even those? you don’t remember getting the scar here. you remember getting it when you were nine, trying to open one of your father’s stupidly difficult packages with scissors even though your mother had explicitly told you not to. your breath catches. that happened. you remember it as if it has happened yesterday. you wanted to help, you father was weak and barely stood up anymore.
back home. your old kitchen, drawers easily accessible. your mother’s angry face. the little white scar that remained afterward. you remember lying about it, telling your friends that you had a fight with a street cat. and yet it is here too. on this hand. this body that actually does not belong to you. in korea. in 2014.
you rub your thumb over it until the skin turns pink. why, you don’t know. you guess you hope that it is a stain that you got over the day, or maybe just your eyes playing a tasteless prank. whatever the reason might be, you just don’t want that scar to be true.
“come on!” your mother calls from the bathroom. “before the food gets cold!”
you rise without answering. your feet carry you down the hallway, it is a no brainer, really.
——————
you know before you open your eyes. perhaps that is the cruelest part. there is no confusion this time, no blissful stretch of unconsciousness where your mind allows you to believe that yesterday had been nothing but an unusually elaborate nightmare.
you know. the mattress underneath you is too small.
the pillow too soft. somewhere outside, a car passes through the narrow street below, followed by the distant sound of something being dragged across concrete.
your eyes remain closed. just five more minutes. five minutes in which the bed underneath you can be yours. five minutes in which the ceiling above you is the familiar white of your apartment and the clothes scattered somewhere nearby are the ones you had been too tired to fold after work. five minutes before your alarm rings and you complain about having slept too little.
you’ll get up; brush your teeth, make coffee you will inevitably forget to finish because coffee on an empty stomach makes you nauseous. you’ll complain about your back while getting dressed and spend far too long deciding whether you can get away with wearing the same trousers you wore two days ago. you’d just rotate it with a new sweater. your laptop will still be sitting on the table, battery not charged because you are always too lazy to get up and retrieve it. your papers will still need grading. your students must be cursing you out for taking this long. someone will have sent you an email beginning with dear professor despite you correcting them for the hundredth time. your thesis will still be unfinished. you would give anything for it to be unfinished.
your throat tightens. slowly, you stretch one leg beneath the blanket. the flesh is softer than you remember, less scars due to your hasty shaving. your foot reaches the end of the mattress far too soon.
no. you curl it back toward yourself. don’t open your eyes. your expensive bed isn’t underneath you. you know, feel that. the handmade wooden frame you had spent an embarrassing amount of money on isn’t surrounding this mattress.
there will be no pile of books on the nightstand. no used tissues because your nose seems to be an endless well built up there. no charger hanging uselessly from the socket because you forgot to plug your phone in. no familiar crack in the paint above your window that you kept promising yourself you would finally fix. you have to admit that you have grown an emotional attachment to that one crack. a constant in your turbulent life.
still, you don’t open your eyes. maybe knowing isn’t the same as seeing. maybe you can remain here long enough for whatever mistake brought you here to correct itself.
your nose begins to sting.
“please.”
the word disappears into the pillow. you don’t even know whom you’re asking. god? the universe? your own brain?
“please.” you repeat, lighter this time. nothing happens. of course nothing happens.
when you finally force your eyes open, the first thing you see is color. too much of it. photographs, boards. the edge of that ridiculous leopard-patterned carpet. morning light spilling through blinds that aren’t yours. your chest caves in. you turn your face into the pillow. a sound leaves you that you immediately hate.
it is small, pathetic, broken. yesterday wasn’t a dream. it didn’t end. you aren’t waking up. the realization shouldn’t hurt this much. you already knew. you had known when you ate dinner with your mother. known when she complained about the mess you had made. known when you washed your face with the blue cleanser your hands apparently recognized before you did.
you had known when you crawled into this bed. but some stupid part of you had waited anyway. sleep had brought you here once and perhaps sleep could take you back.
it didn’t. you are still here; seventeen, in korea. 2014. you press both palms against your face. your voice is hoarse, “fuck.” you don’t want to get up. there is nothing to get up for; no university, no office and no research in said office. no students waiting for you. no colleagues wondering why you left without saying anything. no thesis.
you almost laugh at that one. yesterday morning you would have committed several minor crimes for an excuse not to look at the thing for an entire weekend. now the thought of never opening that document again makes tears slip silently into your hair.
what happens to it? the question arrives without permission. what happens to your work if you never return?what happens to your apartment? your students? your mother?
your mother. you shut your eyes again. does she know you’re gone? has she called you? perhaps she has already noticed. perhaps nobody has.
you don’t know which possibility hurts more. your phone could still be lying somewhere in your apartment. your bag might still be on the floor beside the couch. the candle from your office-
your breathing catches. did you blow it out? you can’t remember. you sit upright so quickly that the room tilts. your heart pounds, your fingers cool down.
the candle. you had left work. no, you packed your things. did you put it out? of course you did. probably. you always did. didn’t you?
“stop.” you grip your hair. you used to like it when people would tug at your head, the sting a nice stimulant. now it is useless, it won’t calm you down.
you can’t check. you can’t call anyone. you can’t go back and make sure the fucking candle isn’t burning down your office because your office does not exist here.
not yet. the thought makes you nauseous. your life exists somewhere fifteen years ahead of you - perhaps. you don’t even know that. because if this is actually 2014, then the woman you were yesterday doesn’t exist.
not here. not yet. you look toward the black phone lying beside the bed. 24.10.2014 had become 25.10.2014 sometime while you slept.
time moved. that frightens you more than the date itself. this place isn’t waiting for you to understand it. it simply continues, with or without your permission. you pull your knees toward your chest and then another thought arrives.
jeongguk. your eyes close.
alive.
the word should make you happy. somewhere in this city, jeon jeongguk is alive; probably sleeping or practicing. knowing him - knowing what you know about him - probably practicing. his heart is beating, his lungs are working. his ridiculous reddish hair is still attached to his head.
yesterday he sat beside you, his knee touched yours. he complained about choreography. he ate lunch and he laughed, nose scrunching up in the way you have seen on many pictures before. he took your phone directly out of your hands as though touching something that belonged to you required no permission at all. alive.
your bottom lip trembles. how?
you look around the room as though someone might finally answer. nothing. because that’s the part you cannot reconcile. you remember the headline, remember every letter that burned itself into your retina. you remember sitting in your office.
you remember the weight in your chest when you understood what those words meant.
JEON JUNG KOOK.
dead.
you had cried for him. you had gone home because you couldn’t work. you had fallen asleep grieving a man who would never know you existed, and then you woke up in a life where he apparently already did. your stomach twists as you bury your face between your knees. you don’t understand why.
why 2014? why korea? why this girl? why does she have your face? why does your mother exist here? why does your body know things you don’t? why does jaemin look at you like he has known you for most of his life? why does jeongguk say your name like it belongs naturally inside his mouth? and why-
your breath shudders. why him? you don’t want that question to have an answer. because somewhere underneath all the confusion sits a possibility you have deliberately avoided since yesterday.
you know when he dies. fifteen years from now, you know exactly what waits for him. your fingers tighten around your legs. no, you don’t know why you’re here. you don’t know whether yesterday can be changed. you don’t even know whether there is something to change. all you know is that yesterday, jeon jeongguk died at thirty-two.
and today-
your phone vibrates. you flinch, its unexpected vibration against your mattress reaches your leg. the sound is offensively loud inside the quiet room.
once. then nothing.
you stare at it. the screen illuminates - a message. and for several seconds, you don’t dare to move. don’t want to. moving would make the realization hit harder. you are still trapped, still in the unknown and somehow can’t escape. taking a deep breath, you roll back your shoulders and then you reach for it.
jeongguk
your heart sinks, you can’t bring yourself to open it. this is not real. it won’t be, you can’t allow it. you simply sit there, staring at his name until the screen turns black again.
fifteen years. you have fifteen years before a dead man dies.
the thought sits heavy inside your stomach. you stare at the black screen long after jeongguk’s name disappears from it, your own reflection barely visible against the glass.
fifteen years. fifteen whole years. you would be thirty-two again by then and he would be-
“no.”
your voice cuts through the room, the first time it sounds so clear. you throw the phone onto the empty space beside you, perhaps a little harder than necessary. it bounces once against the mattress before settling close to your pillow.
no. abso-fucking-lutely not. you aren’t doing this.
you aren’t going to sit here and convince yourself that some higher power, some strange crack in the universe, has ripped you out of your life and thrown you fifteen years into the past so you could prevent a car accident.
that would be insane. you aren’t some chosen protagonist from one of those badly translated fantasy novels you used to read during your teenage years. there is no mission. no prophecy. no convenient explanation waiting underneath your pillow.
hell, you don’t even know whether you are actually in the past. maybe you finally snapped. oddly, the idea almost comforts you. a psychotic episode could be treated. a brain tumor could be detected. some strange neurological condition could be diagnosed and written down neatly on a sheet of paper with words you would spend three weeks googling despite the doctor explicitly telling you not to.
those things have explanations.
this? doesn’t. your phone vibrates again. your entire body tenses, you look at it. don’t. you really shouldn’t. the screen lights up, weaker than your old phone.
jeongguk
again - you don’t reach for it, a hidden power holding your hands tightly against your body.
“stop.”
as though he could hear you. as though the boy somewhere across seoul has any idea that seeing his name makes you feel like somebody has reached directly between your ribs and squeezed. the screen turns black and quiet returns.
you pull your knees against your chest and for several minutes, you simply breathe. outside, the city continues without you. cars pass underneath the window. a door slams somewhere in the building. somebody laughs loudly enough for their voice to travel through the thin walls, followed by another person telling them to keep quiet.
normal. everything is horrifyingly normal. you wonder what saturday sounds like back home. your home. maybe your neighbors are vacuuming. the woman living underneath you might be watering the ridiculous number of plants covering her balcony. maybe the bakery around the corner has already sold out of those pastries you always claim you don’t particularly like before buying two anyway.
your office would be empty. your desk- you squeeze your eyes shut. don’t. your mother had already found you crying twice within less than twenty-four hours. you don’t want there to be a third. not yet. you need air.
—
your mother barely looks away from whatever she is doing in the kitchen when you appear dressed some time later.
“where are you going?”
you stop. hm, good question. your hands disappear into the pockets of a jacket you found hanging behind the bedroom door.
the jacket, not yours.
“out.” you cringe at your own answer. you know that she hates short answers, know that she will pinch your cheeks if you continue.
she turns her head, her stare could have been taken directly from your own time. you almost laugh. “out where?”
“just…” you gesture vaguely toward the front door, making a fool of yourself. “outside.”
“with jaemin?”
“no.”
“then with who?”
“myself?”
your mother slowly lowers the knife in her hand. “why are you answering everything like a question today?”
you open your mouth and close it again. you clear your throat and rock back and forth on the heels of your feet, “i don’t know?”
her eyebrows shoot upward. fuck.
you straighten your spine and still any kind of movement. try to stay normal, just be yourself. “i’m going for a walk.”
better. the suspicion doesn’t disappear entirely, but she eventually turns back toward the vegetables on the counter.
“take a scarf.”
“it’s not that cold.”
“take one anyway.”
“mami-”
“you were sick yesterday.” you flinch. well, you weren’t really, but apparently your sore-throat excuse has developed consequences.
sighing, you round your shoulders a bit. “fine.”
“and answer your phone.” your hand stills halfway toward the scarf hanging beside the entrance, eyes widening at her request. huh?
“what?” you voice comes out stiffened. great way of staying normal, really.
“your phone.” she points the knife toward your pocket without even looking at you. “it has been vibrating the whole morning.”
heat immediately crawls up your neck. “right.”
“jaemin?”
you hesitate. “uh, no, he- yeah, no.”
your mother hums and you wait, holding onto hope that your fuck ass acting was convincing enough. you used to be better at lying than this, ugh. when nothing else follows, you sigh and thank god quietly, head thrown back into your neck. you tie the scarf around your neck badly enough that she eventually walks over, clicks her tongue and fixes it herself. for a second, her fingers brush beneath your chin and you go very still. she doesn’t notice.
“there.” she sends you one of her smiles, the one that expresses more than words could ever.
your mother pats your cheek. “don’t stay out too long.”
you look at her, really look at her; the faint line between her eyebrows hasn’t appeared yet. there are no grey strands hiding amongst her hair. her hands look smoother. even the perfume she wears is different, something she stopped buying years ago because, according to her, they changed the formula and ruined it.
you remember laughing at her. you would give anything to hear older her complain about it now.
swallowing the frog in your throat, you just nod. “okay.”
though your voice cracks slightly. before she can notice, you open the door.
—
you realize rather quickly that leaving without knowing where you are going creates a new problem. you stand outside the building for almost an entire minute.
left. right. left? right?
you look between both directions. nothing. no recognition. the street that seemed strangely familiar yesterday now looks exactly as foreign as it should.
a man passes you carrying two plastic bags, making you step aside. a group of children runs past, one of them nearly hitting your arm with a school bag. you continue standing. well… great.
you could go back upstairs. you crane your neck to look up the grey building you just came out of.
absolutely not. left it is. your feet disagree. you take one step toward the left before stopping. something feels wrong. not danger, not fear. nothing, really. it just feels wrong. your brows furrow as you turn around.
right. the tension disappears. you stare down at your shoes.
“seriously?” you deadpan, almost like the universe has told you a bad joke.
nothing. obviously. you start walking right this time and then continue straight up. you reach the end of the street and slow down again. uh, you don’t know where you are, but your feet apparently do. they turn left before you consciously decide to- you stop.
a woman behind you almost walks directly into your back. you squeal in surprise, “sorry!” you bow automatically and she continues without giving you another look.
you straighten slowly, right. you had bowed- properly. without thinking. your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek.
“creepy.” you shake off the goosebumps and keep walking.
the more you pay attention, the worse it becomes. your mind recognizes nothing, yet your body hesitates nowhere. you cross one street, move through a smaller alley and take another turn beside a convenience store. when a bicycle approaches from behind, you step aside before its bell even rings. you know where the pavement becomes uneven. you know which staircase cuts through two streets.
you know that the pedestrian light at the next crossing takes annoyingly long.
you know - you just don’t remember learning. your pace slows and the city around you suddenly feels less like a place and more like a memory somebody has erased badly. traces remain, not enough to understand, just enough to haunt you. you pass a small bakery and your stomach twists before you even look through the window.
sweet bread. you know you like something from there, you just have no idea what. you stop once more, eyes dancing around the finer details of the veranda of the bakery. the woman behind the counter looks up, recognition crosses her face. though your blood runs cold at the thought that she might talk to you.
you decide walk away before she can say anything, shaking your head to no one in particular. “nope.”
your steps become faster. you don’t need another stranger knowing your name today, you have had quite enough of that. eventually the streets become quieter again, concrete gives way to patches of grass and trees. you hear children yell at the top of their lungs, laughing and singing. water dripping down a roof, a puddle forming on the side of the street. birds singing above you.
then you see the entrance, a park. something deep inside you settles. not really happiness, not exactly recognition either something closer to the strange sensation of remembering a word sitting at the tip of your tongue.
you have been here. she has been here. you tighten your jaw and scoff, turning your head away. “whatever.”
there are worse places for your possessed legs to take you.
—
you choose a bench far enough from the playground that the screaming children become background noise. for the first time since leaving the apartment, nobody seems to look at you, which feels good. needed even.
you lean backward. cold air brushes across your cheeks. the sky is pale, almost washed out. leaves scatter across the pavement whenever the wind picks up, scraping against the ground in short bursts before settling again.
you close your eyes, this is better. not good, but better. your fingers disappear inside the sleeves of the jacket and you decide to straighten your legs.
you breathe in for four seconds. hold for eight more. release slowly through your parted lips. repeat. the breathing exercise comes easier today.
your chest still hurts, though and perhaps it will for a while. your mind drifts despite your attempts to stop it.
home.
university. your mother.
jeongguk.
home.
your thesis.
jeongguk.
your apartment, the brand-new coffee machine you oh so desperately wanted to try. the headline, your papers, your students.
jeongguk.
“stop.” you exhale sharply, scolding yourself for being so, you don’t even know. you don’t want to think about him. not right now - you don’t want him becoming the center of this. whatever this is.
you lost an entire life. he is one person inside that loss. an important person, perhaps, but still one. you refuse to turn your grief into some romanticized destiny just because he happens to be alive here. your lips press together, a sound slips through them anyway.
quiet. barely more than breath. you don’t notice that you’re humming until the melody reaches its second repetition.
it is familiar, comforting. your fingers tap lightly against your thigh.
one note, then another. your shoulders gradually loosen as the melody continues. your fists inside your pocket open up, muscles finally relaxing.
you know where it rises. where it softens. where the voices eventually join-
“what song is that?”
your eyes snap open, your heart stops.
nah that isn’t right. you stare straight ahead. perhaps if you refuse to turn around and pretend that you didn’t hear anything-
“hey.”
fuck.
slowly, very slowly, like a naughty child caught stealing cookies, you look toward the voice.
jeon fucking jeongguk stands several meters away from your bench. of course he does, because apparently the universe hates you. he is almost unrecognizable compared to yesterday.
almost. a dark cap sits low over his forehead, hiding most of the reddish hair. an oversized jacket swallows his shoulders and his hands disappear inside its sleeves. there is no school uniform, no name tag, nothing immediately announcing who he is.
just a teenage boy staring at you. just a teenage boy being alive. your eyes sting. ugh, not again. you decide to look away, not in the mood for him to see that you tear up whenever you are reminded by the past- uh, future? whatever.
“hi.” your voice comes out small, as if talking to him is something forbidden. and for a while, it felt like that.
there is a pause, you don’t receive an answer. you guess he is unsure what to do, maybe even plans on just going back, now that he has seen you here. what if he thinks that you are some stalker? that would be horrible; the thought alone makes you cringe. however then leaves crunch underneath his shoes. one step. another step. you won’t look back. you hear the slight crack in his voice as he speaks up, a reminder that he is still in puberty. “you didn’t answer me.”
you do look back. “what?”
“the song.” oh.
“nothing.”
you hear his huff, can already imagine how annoyed he is with your words and. good. you shouldn’t care.
“how can a song be nothing?”
ugh, why would he be so persistent? you know that you slipped up.
“easily.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“then why did you ask?”
he draws his eyebrows together as his lips part, desperately searching for words to argue against your point. you almost smile at this, always been a sucker for winning at arguments. you guess you do understand why your friends wanted you to become a lawyer back then. back then. it should not sting that much.
jeongguk continues, clearly not wanting to back down. “you’re weird today.”
your stomach drops, and the bottom of your feet begin to tingle again.
he tilts his head, watching your eyes widen slightly. he speaks up once more, seeing that you aren’t going to answer his previous statement.
“actually, you were weird yesterday too.”
wonderful. another person who seems to know you well enough to recognize your behavior to be, well, not yours! add him to the list.
keep calm, act cool. “thanks.”
“i didn’t mean-“
“it’s fine.”
he becomes quiet again. that kind of quiet that comes when you wish to go back in time to prevent whatever you said before. you know it too well, but don’t find the energy to tell him it’s fine. nothing is fine, and you don’t even know if it ever will be. you assume that will be the end of it, of this interrogation. he must head back, you think; back to practice or home or wherever he came from.
it isn’t.
instead, he walks closer, you watch from your peripheral vision as he stops beside the bench. he hesitates, then sits. there is enough space between you for another person. the tension soothes out of your shoulders - you appreciate that more than he could know.
neither of you speaks. the children continue screaming somewhere behind you. a dog barks. life goes on, it always will. jeongguk kicks a leaf underneath his shoe, you can’t help but notice how worn out it looks, dirt clinging at it from all sides.
he does it once.
twice.
three times.
this time, you glance at him, though there isn’t much to see of his face hidden under his cap. he catches you, tongue poking against the inside of his check as he scoffs. you immediately look away.
“are you crying?” his voice comes out sharper than before, almost pressuring you to answer him.
you do. “no.”
“your eyes are red.”
“they’re always red.”
“no, they’re not.”
it makes you turn toward him, looking at his genuinely confused expression. right - of course he knows what your eyes normally look like.
you do what you suck at the most, apparently, “allergies.”
jeongguk looks around the park, eyes gradually working up to look at the leaves of the tree under which you are currently sitting. his gaze then shifts back to you.
“in october?”
you idiot.
“yes.”
“to what?”
“you.”
a beat. what the fuck! why would you say that as if the two of you are the bestest friends to best friend-
his mouth falls open. you can already him getting up and leaving you in the dust forever. you continue to regret the answer for approximately half a second before he lets out a startled laugh. not the polished laugh you know from interviews, practiced and only ever inserted when he doesn’t feel like talking. not the one caught through microphones and edited into compilations online. this one is louder, it is uglier; his shoulders jump with it, his head lulls down and his eyes squeeze shut.
you stare, like a deer caught in headlights, you just - stare. you should stop. should not do that. instead, you force yourself to look at the ground. look at anything other than the way his body continues to shake because of what you have just said. he recovers quickly after, his voice airy as he wipes off a stray tear, “that’s mean.” he is still smiling.
“you’ll survive.” the words leave your mouth, deadpan.
your chest seizes before you can register what you just played at.
you’ll survive.
jeongguk doesn’t notice.
why would he? he can’t read your mind, will never understand all these intense emotions you have felt the past twenty four hours, doesn’t even know what you know about him. he leans back against the bench, humming to what you assume is their comeback song. it’s familiar. it’s his.
“you didn’t answer my messages.” he says this time, almost as if accusing you for a hefty crime.
you swallow down your small lqugh, amused at his antics in some way. “well, at least i saw them.” you shrug.
“that’s worse.” he twists his upper body to look at you, offended that you would just accept your wrongdoings.
you copy his position, arms crossed in front of your chest, head tilting mockingly.
“how?”
he stomps his foot on the ground, once. “be- because then you ignored me on purpose!”
the genuine offense in his voice makes it harder for you to stay composed, triggering a nerve that reminds you of when you and your friends would tease each other. or when you annoy your mother by dancing in front of the tv while she tries to watch her favorite cooking show. it’s just too amusing to miss out on. you must remind yourself that this boy in front if you is seventeen and full of emotions, some of them he can’t even handle yet. he is not the man from your phone screen; the one that knows how to act and what to show, almost calculating each possible outcome of each breath he takes. not the person who would one day learn to hide irritation behind careful expressions because millions of people might dissect it.
just seventeen.
you retreat, “sorry.”
he seems surprised by the immediate apology, as if he waited for you to shoot him with something else he could directly throw back at you instead of.
it comes out strangled, “oh.”
“i wasn’t feeling well.”
and that wipes the amusement from his face, eyebrows raised and corners of his mouth falling down. “are you sick?”
“no.”
“did you throw up?”
your face twists. how the hell-
you feel oddly exposed and turn your body away, not sure where this reaction comes from. “why would you ask that?”
“you look pale.”
you stare at him, mouth twisting.
he shifts, eyes widening and his hand stretches towards you, “not ugly pale! but! y’know when someone looks like a vampire and all-“
“thank you, doctor.”
“i meant-“
“i know.” you don’t. but listening to him ramble on about that you look like absolute shit [which you already know ever since looking at yourself in the mirror this morning] does more harm than good. in a weird way, to be honest. it doesn’t affect your confidence; it just makes this whole situation even realer than you want it to be. yeah, you had a break down and ugly cried in the bathroom yesterday. and it shows, it’s part of you and this world you are in.
his sigh pulls you out of your thoughts. he actually sighs, shoulders dropping dramatically enough to make you want to laugh, against all odds. jeon jeongguk still makes you laugh, even as a seventeen year old guy with bad posture and too much eye makeup.
“you’re difficult.”
you roll your eyes, “you’ve known me for what? five minutes?”
silence. your blood turns cold. fuck. your eyes snap to him, and jeongguk’s eyebrows pull together.
shit.
“what?”
“i mean-” your brain races. what the fuck are you supposed to say? why have you always struggled to keep your mouth shut? fuck fuck fuck-
you raise your hands, flinging them around “today-!” he continues looking at you. “-you’ve been here for five minutes today, and y’know i believe each person becomes a different version of themselves as a new day arrives!”
the suspicion slowly leaves his face, instead it is replaced with some sort of enlightenment. “ah! That is deep, huh.”
you breathe again, hoping to cover the heaves of your chest by leaning forward.
“anyway.” you pull your sleeves farther over your hands and smack your lips. “what are you doing here?”
“walking.” jeongguk plays with the hem of his jacket, voice suddenly small.
you keep the distraction going, “very descriptive.”
“what are you doing here?”
“walking.” you parrot, smirking at his deadpan look.
he looks at you. you look at him.
his lips twitch, which he quickly covers by biting his bottom lip. “copycat.”
“you started it.”
for another moment, everything feels strangely easy. then his gaze moves toward your hands, creeping up your arms until they reach your eyes again.
“so?”
“so what?”
you wish you could snort at the pun, he wouldn’t understand though.
jeongguk presses on, “the song.”
oh, for fuck’s sake. you groan, head thrown back into your neck. “let it go.”
“you were humming it!” he insists, spine straight.
“people hum, it’s- like, the most normal thing ever.”
“i know.”
“then why are we discussing this?”
“because i don’t know it.” he shifts closer, doesn’t seem to notice he does. you do - your body stills.
jeongguk doesn’t seem to notice at first, the dead silence from you. he looks toward the path ahead, brows furrowed as though searching his memory.
“i thought maybe it’s an american song.” his head twitches once, “ah, i should have done your questions, maybe then i’d listen to more songs.”
your mouth dries. “why?”
“you listen to a lot of them.”
apparently. and you do, well, did? whatever, it is still useful information. you shrug, hands back in your jackets pocket. “maybe.”
“who sings it?”
you stare at him. the melody plays inside your head again. and suddenly you recognize it. not merely recognize. you know it, by heart. every breath taken, every syllable basically burned into your longterm memory. your stomach turns. it presses against your bladder, ugh. you replay the notes mentally, once. twice. there is no mistake. you have heard the song hundreds of times.
years from now. when winters had already passed. when seven young men who currently struggled to be noticed would fill stadiums. when the boy sitting beside you would no longer be able to walk through a public park with nothing but a cap hiding his face.
spring day. fuck.
“well?” he purses his lips, face suddenly closer.
your gaze snaps toward him. jeongguk waits. you feel cold underneath your jacket, your scarf suffocates you. song doesn’t exist - not yet. not like this. it isn’t even a thought, you suppose.
“i don’t know.” you look away, not in the mood to lie into his face.
he blinks. “you don’t know who sings the song you were singing?”
“humming.” he insists, elbowing your arm.
you scoff, “same thing.”
“not really.”
“you still know it.”
“i only heard it in a passing, not that deep”
his brows furrow. “where did you hear it?”
“somewhere.”
“where?”
“i don’t remember.”
“how do you remember the melody then?”
“why are you interrogating me?”
he leans away slightly.
“i’m just asking.”
“well, don’t.”
the words come sharper than intended and you hate yourself for it when jeongguk falls quiet. guilt hits almost immediately. you close your eyes. this isn’t like you, you never snap at people. you are past that.
“sorry.” your voice is sincere, jeongguk knows.
he nods, quietly accepting your apology. “it’s okay.”
“no, it’s-” you sigh. “sorry i just don’t really remember where i heard it and never dealt well with explaining myself. sorry.”
he watches you for a moment, but you don’t like it. not because his gaze is invasive. because it isn’t. it is simply concerned.
“you really are weird.”
you laugh weakly you aren’t in the mood to laugh, really. “so i’ve heard.”
“did something happen?”
there it is. your throat tightens and you shake your head, not trusting your voice as for now.
“you’re bad at lying.”
you pull your lips in to a straight line, “apparently only today.”
something changes in his face - tiny, you almost miss it.
“you always say stuff like that.” followed by a little giggle. he seems content like this.
but your heart gives a painful beat, goosebumps spreading across your body.
always. your mother: you always say that. jaemin: you told me. and now jeongguk: you always.
every person you meet seems to carry a piece of you that you don’t have. you look down. perhaps he notices because his voice softens. you wait for him to press on, urging you to spill your secrets. and for a second you begin to think that you would - as soon as he asks you will just tell him everything. you aren’t her, don’t know who he actually is besides a super successful pop singer who will die in fifteen years.
jeongguk shrugs when he catches your expression and looks down at his hands, “it’s fine. i sometimes also feel very out of touch with myself.”
something inside your chest aches. you mist have forgotten thag jeongguk has always been described as someone who is incredibly sensitive and considerate of others. of course he wouldn’t pressure you.
“you aren’t mad at me?” you ask before you can hold back, surprised.
he laughs airily, “no?”
a laugh escapes you, too. an actual one this time.
he smiles at that.
“you don’t want to talk about whatever it is, and that’s fine. i get it.”
your smile slowly disappears. for a seventeen-year-old, that was painfully considerate.
you turn toward the trees. “thanks.”
he kicks another leaf.
“you can tell me if you want, though. like, what- when, whenever you are ready. i have time.”
you don’t answer. he doesn’t really have time. you guess this year is the last one in which the entire group will have this much toke before their career skyrockets.
“or not.” he quickly adds, another kick. “i’m not good at that stuff anyway.”
“what stuff?”
“comforting.”
“i noticed.”
“yah.” his offended tone pulls another tiny laugh out of you. he smiles again. and for a terrible second, you understand why millions of people eventually love him. not the stage lights. not the performances.
not the photographs. this. the awkward boy beside you who has no idea what to say, so he simply stays.
your eyes sting. you blink rapidly, head turning away. no, you refuse.
jeongguk’s smile vanishes.
“are you crying again?”
“allergies.”
“to me?”
“yes.”
“should i leave?”
you look at him. he sounds like he’s joking.
his eyes aren’t and something inside you panics. you don’t want him to think that you actually have anything against him.
“no.” the answer comes immediately - too immediately.
both of you notice. you look away again, biting down your lip before another slip up could happen.
you try to save your face. “i mean- you were here first.”
“no, you were.”
“then whatever.”
his mouth curves upward. you wipe underneath one eye before anything can fall. the air finally settles down a bit and for a while, neither of you talks.
you don’t mind. surprisingly.
---
eventually, your stomach seems to decide that it has had enough of your bullshit. the sound it produces is loud enough to cut through the silence between the two of you, embarrassingly drawn out and almost painful as your stomach contracts underneath the layers of your clothes.
you still, eyes twitching in embarrassment. jeongguk's shoe stops abusing the leaf underneath it.
you don't look at him. maybe he didn't hear it.
“was that your stomach?”
of course he did. you press your lips together; gaze stubbornly fixed on a woman walking her dog several meters away. “no.”
there is a pause.
“it came from you.”
“you have no proof.”
another pause follows, though this one is broken by a breathy laugh beside you. you finally turn your head enough to glare at him, only to find his eyes already curved underneath the cap, lips pressed together in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his amusement. His face is rounder than the pictures you have seen before and his nose actually caves down the more he laughs.
“did you eat?”
the question makes your expression fall slightly.
you think about this morning. about your mother standing in the kitchen, cutting vegetables while something simmered on the stove. she had placed breakfast onto the table, though have you had no appetite and just went out for your walk. You actually love breakfast. yesterday hadn't been much better.
three spoonfuls of rice during lunch. perhaps four. you can't remember. then everything that had left your stomach on the bathroom floor.
well, toilet. details.
“yes.”
jeongguk's eyes narrow. “liar.”
you turn toward him fully now, genuinely offended. “stop calling me that.”
“then stop lying.”
“i'm not lying.”
“when did you eat?”
you open your mouth again, ready to fight for your honor. and, well, close it. he waits, a certain smugness dancing around his eyes.
your eyebrows furrow and you cross your legs. “why do you care?”
his expression changes in a way you can't immediately understand. not hurt, necessarily. more like confusion over why you would even ask.
“because you haven't eaten?” he states it in such tone as if it is obvious. and perhaps to him it is.
before you can think of an answer, he pushes himself off the bench with both hands, landing on his feet and stretching his back until something cracks underneath his jacket.
you grimace. must feel nice. “ugh.”
“what?” his arms stay above his head, lowering slowly with each breath he takes.
you shake your head, “nothing.”
he looks down at you. “come on.”
“where?”
“food.”
you stare, “i'm not hungry.”
jeongguk looks right back at you, matching your attitude, then, very deliberately, down toward your stomach. you wrap your arms around your torso, eyes narrowing. traitorous little organ.
“that could mean anything.”
“it means you're hungry.”
“again, are you a doctor now?”
he rolls his eyes, “come on.”
you don't move. he doesn't either. for several seconds, the two of you simply stare at one another, and you find yourself wondering how a boy who had barely been able to maintain eye contact with you yesterday could suddenly become this stubborn. then again, you suppose you already know. you've seen enough compilations dedicated entirely to that particular character trait. the thought makes you uncomfortable; you immediately push it away.
“i don't have any money.”
at least that should end the discussion. because you know jeongguk also does not have much money. he has to be careful, their sales aren’t that great as for now. Soon, even these days will be a faraway memory when he and the others will be able to buy whatever they want. your hand moves toward the pocket of your jacket anyway, more out of habit than expectation, only for your fingers to brush against something rectangular. heh.
you stop, sheepishly looking at him.
jeongguk notices. “what?”
you don't answer. slowly, you pull out a small wallet
of course. of fucking course.
you stare at it sitting inside your palm. dark material, slightly worn around the edges, decorated with a tiny charm you would never voluntarily attach to anything you owned. you don't remember putting it there. you don't remember buying it. still, when you open it, your fingers immediately know which compartment holds the money. a shiver travels along your spine.
“what?” jeongguk repeats.
“nothing.” you close the wallet perhaps a little too aggressively and shove it back inside your pocket.
the previous girl - you really need to find a better term for her - apparently prepared for spontaneous outings better than you did.
“fine.”
jeongguk's eyebrows lift.
“fine?”
“food.” you get up, “but i’ll pay.” you decide. he doesn’t fight you; his smile appears so quickly that you almost regret agreeing. almost.
—
you recognize the convenience store before you properly see it. that is becoming a sentence you hate. the green and white sign peeks through the buildings as you follow the path out of the park, and something inside your body responds before your mind can. your steps don't slow when jeongguk turns the corner. you already know where he's going.
you passed it earlier. that's all. you cling to that explanation even when your hand reaches for the door before he does. warm air immediately hits your face, carrying with it a strange mixture of instant noodles, coffee and whatever sweet bread has been sitting inside its plastic packaging for longer than any bread reasonably should.
a little melody rings above your head when the door closes.
you stop at that. jeongguk nearly walks into your back.
“why'd you stop?” his hand pinches the soft of your jacket, pulling it like that would keep you going.
you ignore it, wetting your lips. “i didn't.”
“you did.”
you continue to ignore him and move farther inside. you've been inside hundreds, perhaps thousands, of convenience stores throughout your life. they shouldn't be interesting. there is nothing particularly fascinating about refrigerators humming against one wall or fluorescent lights making every product underneath them look slightly sick.
and yet your eyes can't seem to settle. everything looks wrong. not dramatically wrong. worse.
almost right.
brands you recognize wear packaging you haven't seen in years. logos are slightly different, colors brighter in places you remember them being muted. products you know will disappear from shelves sit there innocently, lined up beside things whose redesigns you witnessed so gradually that you never realized how much they had changed. you move toward one of the shelves. your eyes catch a familiar package.
“no way.” You breathe out, picking it up.the material crinkles beneath your fingers.
you haven't seen this design since- you stop and think for a second. since when? 2016? 2017? you turn it around, reading the back as though there might be an explanation hidden underneath the nutritional information.
“what are you doing?” jeongguk's voice makes you shove it back onto the shelf.
“looking.” you don’t look at him, the shelves in front of you suddenly the most interesting thing you have seen,
“at what?”
“food.”
he nods towards the product from earlier. “you've been staring at that for like a minute.”
“i like to make informed decisions.”
he gives you a strange look before continuing toward the instant noodles. good. you exhale through your nose.
you have to be careful now. later. always. you follow more slowly, your attention moving from one shelf to another. you find yourself comparing prices without meaning to, mentally converting them against numbers that won't exist for another fifteen years. you even compare it to kebab prices, something you have done ever since inflation broke through. even the register looks old. well, not old. it is new. that's the problem.
everything you remember as outdated is currently new. your gaze drops toward your phone inside your hand. the tiny screen. the thick frame surrounding it. you suddenly understand why museums make you uncomfortable. everything inside them is dead. everything inside here isn't.
“are you getting ramyeon?”
you look up from the stain that caught your attention, at jeongguk who is holding two cups, one in either hand.
“which one's better?” he lifts them slightly.
you stare at both. you know exactly which one you prefer. apparently, so does your body, because your finger rises toward the left one before you properly decide. “that.”
he drops the other back onto the shelf.
you blink, hesitating. “wait.”
he looks at you. “what?”
“nothing.” you don’t even know what you want to say, if there is anything to say. a preference you don't know whether belongs to you or her. maybe both. somehow, that possibility bothers you more.
—
you find the drink by accident. or, rather, your hand does. you're standing in front of the refrigerator while jeongguk disappears somewhere behind you, and without really paying attention, you open the glass door and reach toward the second row.
your fingers close around a bottle and cold condensation presses against your palm. you stare, as something warm moves through your chest.
“oh my god.” you breathe out, you haven't had this in years, you had completely forgotten it existed.
for a second, you're no longer standing underneath aggressive fluorescent lights in seoul in 2014. you're remembering buying one on your way home years ago, complaining when stores gradually stopped carrying it, telling one of your friends that capitalism had personally declared war against you. a tiny laugh escapes through your nose. there. something from your life. something small and stupid and completely irrelevant, but yours.
“what so funny?” jeongguk stands a few steps behind you, two cups of ramyeon stacked against his chest, biting along his lip as he stares down at the drink.
you look down at the bottle again. “nothing. i just haven't had this in forever.”
silence. when you glance back at him, he looks confused. “you had one on monday.”
your smile disappears. slowly.
“what?”
“that.” he points toward the bottle. “you drank one on monday.”
the refrigerator continues humming beside you. cold air brushes against your bare fingers.
monday? you stare at the drink, as if its existence has deeply offended you. of course, you - eh, she did. because apparently even your nostalgia isn't entirely yours. you place the bottle back onto the shelf, bitter taste coating your tongue. “right.”
jeongguk's eyebrows furrow. “why'd you put it back?”
“changed my mind.”
“but you like it.”
your fingers tighten around the refrigerator handle. you like it. not liked. not will like.
you.
“i said i changed my mind.” you close the door and perhaps a little too hard, like your tone. the bottles inside rattle against one another. you didn’t mean it – you never do. But for some reason you can’t seem to control your emotions like you always do. Instead, they just seep through. jeongguk doesn't say anything else, but you can feel his eyes following you toward the register anyway.
—
by the time the two of you sit underneath the small awning outside, steam rises from the open cups and disappears into the october air. the plastic chair feels cold underneath you.
jeongguk had complained that it was too warm inside, which you found ridiculous considering the temperature outside, but you hadn't argued. being outside makes breathing easier. you peel the wooden chopsticks apart and stare into your cup. your appetite, which apparently had been loud enough to publicly humiliate you twenty minutes ago, has disappeared again.
across from you-
no.
beside you.
of course he sits beside you. not directly pressed against your side, thankfully, but close enough that you can hear him blow against his noodles before shoving an unreasonable amount into his mouth. His slurping irritates you. You have forgotten that in different cultures, it just shows that the food tastes good. you look at him, his lips that are now coated in that oily stuff, then catch yourself.
stop. you lower your gaze. this is exactly what you don't want to do; observe him, catalogue him. compare every little movement against things you've seen through screens. he isn't an exhibit from your future. he's eating instant noodles and that's all. that’s all it will ever be.
so, you eat too. the first bite immediately burns your tongue. “fuck.”
jeongguk looks up, cheeks full, cup placed directly under his mouth.
“too spicy?” you barely understands what he says, but shake your head while desperately trying to swallow.
“no.”
your eyes begin watering.
he relaxes a bit, “you're crying.”
you slowly turn your head toward him, mouth tingling. “i'm starting to think you enjoy pointing that out.”
his shoulders rise innocently. “you've cried a lot.”
“thank you.”
“just saying.”
you take another bite purely out of spite. it is still too hot. your eyes water harder. at least this time you have an excuse. and somehow, ridiculously, sitting underneath a convenience-store awning with your mouth burning and a seventeen-year-old boy judging your spice tolerance feels more manageable than anything else that has happened since you woke up.
nothing about it asks you to understand. you don't have to know why you're here to eat. you don't have to know who the girl was to hold chopsticks. you don't have to know why jeongguk is alive to listen to him complain when a noodle splashes broth onto his sleeve. for five minutes, you can simply exist. perhaps that's why you don't notice yourself humming again.
at least, not until jeongguk stops eating.
“that song.”
your chopsticks freeze halfway toward your mouth.
oh, for fuck's sake.
you ignore him and finish your noodles, the two of you slurping and chewing in silence. it is actually quite nice, you think. The cold air is a nice contrast to the fire in your mouth, but it gets more bearable the more you eat.
“where are you going?” you ask after you guys finish and throw your trash away.
jeongguk points in one direction and he grins when you point in the opposite.
“home.”
“right.”
neither of you moves. strange. you've known this boy for less than two days. except apparently you haven't. you hate how complicated every thought becomes around him.
“you should answer next time.”
you blink. “what?”
“my messages.”
“oh.”
his ears turn faintly pink. “i mean, if you want, you- i just wanted to know if you are okay.” there's the shyness again. the sudden retreat after being bold, which you find painfully endearing.
“i will.”
his gaze lifts, stars dancing in his eyes, “really?”
“yes.”
“okay.” he nods once, then again. “okay.”
you almost laugh. “bye, jeongguk.”
you turn, about to start your walk back ho- to the house.
“wait.”
you look back, eyebrows raised. he gestures toward your pocket. “check it.”
“what?”
“your phone.”
you pull it out. there are three unopened messages from him, you finally open them. however, the interface makes you squint.
jeongguk notices. “what are you doing?”
“nothing.”
“why are you holding it like that?”
“like what?” he steps closer.
you instinctively angle the phone away, eyes narrowing, “i know how to use a phone.”
“i didn't say you don't.” his grin says otherwise.
you glare at the unfamiliar KakaoTalk screen. there are buttons where buttons shouldn't be. icons you haven't seen in years. “this design is horrible.”
“what?”
“nothing.” you accidentally open something else.
jeongguk snorts. your head snaps up, “don't.”
“you don't know how to use KakaoTalk?”
“of course i do!”
“you just opened my profile three times.”
“i'm tired.”
“you've been tired for two days.”
“maybe i'm chronically tired.”
“what does that mean?”
“it means go home.” you elbow his arm.
he laughs at your bashful gaze. You feel the heat creep up your neck. eventually you manage to reach the messages.
[jeongguk; 18:47] did you get home okay yesterday?
[jeongguk; 22:21] are you sick?
[jeongguk; 05:33] you left your english worksheet in my notebook
you stare. that's it. nothing profound. nothing world-changing. just a boy asking whether you got home safely and telling you that you misplaced a piece of paper. the knot inside your chest loosens slightly.
you type. slowly. painfully slowly.
[15:03] i’m okay. sorry.
you hesitate, thumbs circling above the keyboard awkwardly.
[15:03] keep the worksheet. you need it more than i do
jeongguk's phone vibrates, he reads it and then looks up, all offended. “yah.”
you laugh.
“goodbye.”this time, you actually walk away.
“you're mean!”
you lift one hand without turning around. his laughter follows you for several meters. and, for once, the sound doesn't make you think about the headline.
--
by the time you arrive home, the sun has already begun its descent.
you don't know how long you have been walking. long enough for the cold to find its way underneath your jacket, apparently, despite the scarf your mother had forced around your neck. long enough for the streets to slowly fill with people again, restaurants turning on their signs one after another as workers begin their preparations for the evening. you recognize the street before you recognize the building. again.
you decide not to dwell on that. instead, you shove your hands farther into your pockets and continue walking, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. your phone sits heavily inside your right pocket. jeongguk hasn't messaged you again. you know because you have checked. not because you wanted him to message you, obviously. you simply wanted to make sure the device still worked properly.
obviously.
you purse your lips. “shut up.”
an older woman walking several steps ahead of you looks over her shoulder. you immediately look down. wonderful. you are now arguing with yourself on the streets of seoul. perhaps the neurological-condition theory isn't entirely off the table. the entrance door opens underneath your hand without resistance this time. you don't even notice what you have done until you're already standing inside. your gaze drops toward your fingers wrapped around the handle.
yesterday you couldn't figure out how to open it. today your hand knows exactly how much pressure to use.
you release it. “creepy.”
the staircase is worse. you don't count the floors. you don't need to, your body knows where to stop. third door on the right. the correct key finds its way between your fingers before you properly look through the bundle. you stare at it for several seconds. then unlock the door.
“i'm home.”
silence follows. you still underneath the doorway - those words, they had come naturally earlier, too.
not hello. not mom.
i'm home.
as though this place has earned the title simply because your mouth knows what to say when you enter it.
“welcome back!” your mother's voice comes from somewhere deeper inside the apartment. your throat tightens as you close the door.
shoes off. neatly beside the others, not kicking them of as you did yesterday. you catch yourself before you can stare at them again. enough.
“did you eat?”
you follow her voice toward the kitchen, finding her standing in front of the stove. something bubbles quietly inside a pot, filling the small apartment with the smell you had noticed yesterday.
“yeah.”
she looks over her shoulder. you immediately correct yourself. “i ate, ma‘am.”
her eyes narrow. an amused grin sweeps over her stern face,“properly?”
you think about the instant noodles, “well, define properly.”
“sit.”
“mami.”
“sit.”some things, apparently, remain universal.
you pull out one of the chairs and drop into it, elbows immediately finding the table before your mother slaps one of them with the kitchen towel. you pull it back. that too.
your mouth twitches. she doesn't notice.
“where did you go?”
“the park.”
“alone?”
you hesitate for only a fraction of a second. “mostly.”
that gets her attention. “mostly?”
you suddenly become very interested in a tiny scratch on the table, fingers swiping above it, “i met someone.”
“jaemin?”
“no.”
your mother turns around completely now. oh no. you recognize that face. you have seen an older version of that exact expression far too many times throughout your life.
“who?”
“a friend.”
“what friend?”
“just a friend.”
“boy or girl?”
you groan. “why does that matter?”
her eyebrows rise. wrong answer.
“it was a boy.”
the wooden spoon stops moving.
you close your eyes. “oh my god.” you should have just lied. though have you been called a liar far too many times today.
“i didn't say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face did nothing.”
“mhm.”
you stare at her. she turns back toward the stove, though you can see the smile pulling at her cheek. unbelievable. apparently even across dimensions your mother can find ways to annoy you. oddly, you don't mind.
“is it the one you felt sorry for?”
your smile disappears.
huh? your fingers curl slightly against your thigh. there it is. This uncomfortable pounding inside your chest, as if you are betraying something, someone.
you could ask - you should ask. who is jeongguk to you? who had this girl been grieving before you woke up inside her life? how much does jaemin know? how much does she know? the question rises all the way to the back of your tongue, then stops. It all just piles up and it seems that everyone but you knows something; everything. your mother already noticed something yesterday.
jaemin noticed. jeongguk noticed. everyone seems to know a version of you that you don't. asking your own mother would not exactly help your case.
“yeah.” You now know that you must have felt sorry for jeongguk before. Even jaemin mentioned it.
she hums and thankfully, she doesn't continue. you watch her back instead. there are so many questions you could ask her; about yourself. about school. about why the two of you are living in korea. about your father. your stomach twists.
you haven't asked about him. not once. the realization arrives so suddenly that you have to straighten in your chair.
your father. you remember the scar. the package. how weak he had been. your eyes move toward your mother's back.
ask. just ask. where is dad?
four words. your mouth opens.
“do you want tea?”
you blink. “what?”
“tea.” she looks over her shoulder. “you look cold.”
the question disappears. coward.
“yeah.”
your mother reaches for another pot, you watch her. tomorrow, you nod to yourself. you'll ask tomorrow. you've had enough answers for one day.
—
it isn't until you step inside the bedroom that you notice something is wrong. you stop.stare. blink…the floor is visible.
“oh.”
the drawers you had torn open yesterday are closed. the clothes that had been scattered around your feet have disappeared, folded back into whichever places they apparently belong. the photographs lie neatly on the desk again, some stacked together because you had pulled them from their original places without remembering where they came from. even the school bag has been put beside the desk. your stomach sinks.
mom. of course. you stand in the doorway longer than necessary. she cleaned it. the mess you made while ripping apart somebody else's life because you couldn't understand why it looked like yours. your, her, no. ugh. mother cleaned it.
you feel horrible. not merely because she had to pick up after you at your grown age - well, technically seventeen, which does absolutely nothing to soothe your embarrassment - but because you remember the way she had looked at you yesterday.
she hadn't yelled; hadn't asked why half the contents of your room were on the floor. she had looked at you and understood that something was wrong. then held you. and sometime today, while you wandered through seoul having an existential crisis and eating ramyeon with a boy who should have been dead, she came in here and quietly put everything back together.
your eyes sting.
“seriously?” you rub them aggressively. you are becoming ridiculous.
you cry over dead celebrities. you cry over your mother. you cry over instant noodles. you nearly cried over a discontinued drink. at this rate, somebody could show you a particularly emotional-looking potato and you would collapse. still, you walk toward the desk and run your fingers along its now-clean surface.
“thank you,” you whisper, looking over your shoulder.
she can't hear you. perhaps that's why you say it.
your eyes settle on the notebooks stacked neatly in the corner. mathematics, korean, english, and underneath them, one with a plain dark cover.
you pull it free. empty. you stare at it, gaze then shifting to the semi co fotable chair placed in front your desk. then back at the notebook. you look over your shoulder, door shut close. and suddenly, for the first time every accepting that you seem to be stuck here, clarification hits you. you need to write, you must write. everything, everything you have lived through so far, everything from your previous life.
not because jeongguk told you to. you refuse to give him that satisfaction. you need evidence. the thought makes your movements more purposeful. you sit down, pull the chair closer and find a pen inside the first drawer. your hand knows exactly where to reach. you ignore that.
the notebook opens with a quiet crack. blank. no lines, no grids, good. something in you settles at the sight.
a blank page doesn't know you. it doesn't expect you to remember something you don't. it doesn't call you by a name that apparently belongs to two different lives. it doesn't tell you that you've always done something. you can decide what it knows. for the first time since waking up here, you have control over something.
you write the date in the upper-right corner.
25.10.2014
then stop. what now? hm.
dear diary, today i discovered that time travel is apparently real and ate instant noodles with a future global superstar.
you nearly snort. absolutely not. you put the pen down. pick it back up. if this were research, what would you do?
the answer comes immediately. establish the data-separate what you know from what you assume-document everything before memory distorts it.
your eyebrows furrow.
fine. if the universe wants to ruin your life, it can at least suffer through academic methodology with you.
you write:
what i know.
you stare at it, then scratch a line through know . that is too confident. you write underneath it.
what i remember.
you nod to yourself. better. your full name comes first, then your age. you hesitate before writing it.
32.
beneath it:
phd candidate / research assistant.
you add the university, your department, your office. the title of your dissertation, the paper you had been working on. your supervisor. your colleagues.
names begin filling the page faster. your closest friends, addresses, phone numbers, birthdays. the bakery around the corner from your apartment followed by your favorite order. the password to your laptop.
you stop. stare at that one. then underline it, the scraping of the gel pen across the paper filling the room. twice. because what if you forget?
your breathing becomes shallower, but you continue. your apartment. what floor. how many rooms. the color of the walls. the stupid crack above the window.
‘do not forget the crack!‘ you write vertically on the side.
you stare at the sentence. a laugh catches inside your throat, though it sounds dangerously close to a sob.
you turn the page. family. your pen slows. your mother's full name, her age, the perfume she complains they ruined. the way she takes her coffee. the show she currently watches.
your father's name. you stop. the ink bleeds slightly where your pen remains pressed against the paper. You will skip this one for now.
your siblings, your relatives, your hometown. you write everything.
things nobody would consider important enough to preserve. the way your mother mispronounces certain actors' names no matter how often you correct her. which cabinet at home squeaks. the stupid nickname your sibling hates. then you stop, your vision blurs.
no.
you blink several times and continue. because suddenly you understand what this notebook is.
not research. not really. an archive of- well, you. of a life nobody here knows happened. your handwriting gradually becomes smaller as you try to squeeze more onto each page, terrified of leaving something out, sloppier in the way you always complained about. You now understand those who write until their hands burn and the muscle ache; it is addicting.
Writing each piece of your being, your knowledge, tiny information that is actually part of you, but you fear to lose. The ache is welcomed. then you reach the first thing you cannot categorize.
2014.
you circle it. beneath it:
seoul, south korea. 17 years old. high school student.
you stare. then: mother is here. younger. your pen hovers.
same family? question mark. same childhood? another. same body? you look toward the scar underneath your thumb. scar is the same. memory attached to it is mine.
then:
i understand korean. i don't remember learning korean like this. body knows places i don't. body knows people i don't.
you underline body. then write beside it: muscle memory? nah. you cross it out.
her memory? you hate that even more, deciding to leave that one blank. data privacy and such, you guess. next comes the people.
jaemin.
you tap the pen against the page, tongue peeking from the corner of your mouth as you narrow your eyes. close friend. possibly childhood friend. knows me very well. physical affection normal. suspicious of jeongguk.
you pause. then add:
mentioned “him.”
your mother did too. you underline it, even add an exclamation mark.
find out who “him” is without looking insane. reasonable objective.
then - you stop.
you know which name comes next. perhaps that's why you turn the page first. clean, start at the middle of the page and work yourself around it. your fingers tighten around the pen, then twist it around a few times, perfecting your grip, though you know why you are hesitating this much.
jeon jeongguk.
the name looks wrong written by your own hand. you have written it before, of course you have. his stage name, his nicknames, with stars, even hearts around it. perhaps in stupid notebooks when you were younger. in messages. searches. captions.
never like this. in hangul. never as data. you move on.
17. bts. alive.
your pen stops. you stare at the word. alive.
You draw an arrow pointing to the right, dies at 32. car accident. the room becomes very quiet. you force yourself to continue.
date?
you don't remember the exact date from the article. you had barely been able to read it.
location? you don't know. who else was involved?
you don't know. cause?
you don't know. weather?
you don't know. driver?
you don't know. your frustration grows with every line. for somebody who knows the future, you know remarkably little about the one event that apparently matters.you lean backward.
fifteen years. how the hell are you supposed to prevent an accident fifteen years from now when you don't even know where it happens?
then you stop. are you supposed to?
your eyes return to his name. that's an assumption. you flip backward several pages until you find an empty space and write:
things i do NOT know:
why i am here. how i got here. whether this is actually my past. whether my original life still exists somewhere.
your throat tightens, your first letter a bit shaky as you add:
whether i can go back. then, after a longer hesitation:
whether anything can be changed.
and finally: whether jeongguk has anything to do with why i am here.
you sit back. there. that matters. because you refuse to make the mistake of assuming that just because the last thing you thought about before falling asleep had been him, your entire existence here revolves around saving him. maybe it does. maybe it doesn't. you don't have enough evidence and there is something strangely comforting about admitting that.
you don't know.
for once, uncertainty becomes something you can put into a category rather than something that swallows you whole. you turn toward another page. this one becomes a timeline. not his. yours.
24.10.2029 -
you stop.
headline arrow office arrow left work arrow home arrow fell asleep to:
24.10.2014 - woke up here.
School arrow jaemin arrow plus question mark jeongguk.
your pen slows. you add what you can remember from yesterday. every strange reaction. every comment somebody made about you. You connect different comments thoughts, things that you noticed. It isn#t clean, it is so unlike you. You usual organization, thoughtful penstrokes; it all is gone, replaced by a messy page relecting the chaos in our mind.
then today. your mother. the park. the song. your hand stills. spring day.
you stare at the words, then aggressively draw a box around them.
DO NOT HUM SONGS.
another thought you write underneath:
do not mention future music / events / technology / people.
then:
THINK BEFORE SPEAKING.
you halt. that one might prove difficult. you add two exclamation marks.
then: figure out what happens if i change something small.
your pen stops. there it is; the first experiment and you immediately dislike yourself for thinking of it like that. these people, people that are actually real even from where you come from, aren't variables. they're real, alive, breathing. this isn't research. you draw a line through the sentence, though not heavily enough to make it unreadable.
you don't know why. perhaps some part of you wants to remember that you considered it.your phone vibrates against the desk. you freeze. the screen illuminates beside your hand, weak, not like your other phone.
jeongguk.
for several seconds, you simply look between his name on the screen and his name written inside your notebook. Eyes jumping from your hand writing back to the little screen with usually foreign letters that you now can read and understand.
one is seventeen. the other is dead at thirty-two.
your stomach twists. you don't open the message immediately [even though you promised him]. instead, you turn back toward the notebook. beneath everything you have written about him, you add one final sentence.
do not treat him like someone who is already dead.
you stare at it easier said than done. you can’t help but scoff thinking back at your first day here, when your eyes would burn as you mourned the dead singer who then happened to appear in front of you as his younger self. then another.
do not treat him like someone who belongs to you because you know what happens to him.
that one hurts differently, you can’t place your finger on what exactly, but it matters. you underline it once then slam the notebook shut. only now do you reach for your phone.
——————
to be continued
comments, feedback and more are appreciated and keep me motivated!
tags! 🏷️ character death | reader is a phd student | isekai! | reader travels back in time | angst | confusion | oc!jaemin | she is in denial for a while | jeongguk is a sweatheart | he just wants some friends | fluff | f2l? | kinda idol life? | some time skips | more to be added as story is still in work.
summary: After grieving the sudden death of global star Jeon Jeongguk, a thirty-something university researcher falls asleep-only to wake in Seoul in 2014, seventeen again and living a life that somehow already belongs to her. Even stranger, Jeongguk is alive, young, and apparently already part of her world. As she struggles with the loss of her old life and the mystery of the girl she seems to have replaced, she slowly realizes she may have fifteen years to prevent the death she remembers - without knowing what changing the future might cost.
not proodread! this is a teaser only!
*****
Blinking is a habit that one never really thinks of - it just happens and we move on. Life has always been about the act of letting go and moving on. The same goes for many other aspects of the human body - and life, in any matter - all that seem to go unnoticed until they stop functioning altogether. that one fine detail that seems to change everything.
Your eyes burn as you continue to trace each letter on your display one by one, the inside of your chest begging for some air. Each letter presses a new dagger into your heart, followed by a weight that settles over your chest. Has your heart always had this dull beat inside your ears, as if it was wrapped in bubble wrap and thrown into the wild ocean? The uncomfortable sensation of prickling on the bottom of your feet creeps up your legs, spreading goosebumps across your burning skin.
JEON JUNG KOOK (JEONGGUK) - (32) - BELOVED GLOBAL BOY-GROUP MEMBER DIES IN TRAGIC CAR ACCIDENT.
It was supposed to be a normal break from your usual research routine. Your laptop on top of the worn out table in your office suddenly blurs out of your vision, the bold red letters are the only thing your dry eyes seem to notice. It is a normal break, the one in which you sip your watered down iced latte and run your hand over your face in vain as you try to write down a new paragraph for your paper. usually, the smell of your candle would drive a sense of comfort through your heart; instead, it makes you feel dizzy. too sweet, too ashy, too-
It seems that this break stays true to its purpose - the origin of its existence - it breaks you.
What are you supposed to do anyway? You almost scoff, as if the article in front of you is just a bad paper submitted by a lazy student that has not done enough research. That you already have started to pack your belongings into your bag, not in your usual fashion of carefulness; instead in a rushed manner to leave the building to escape into your own, you don’t notice. That you don’t stop to bid goodbye to the janitor or some of your colleagues as you rush past them, you also seem to ignore.
The beat inside your head threatens to spill out your ears, and you don’t even know where to look at. what are you supposed to do? just go home? go somewhere else? do you even have any right to express such reaction?
the sound of the cars passing by, people walking by your vibrating body, the wind - it seems like you blend it all out. the streets are busy, to no surprise. everyone has a life to live, meetings to finish and dreams to chase. you do too. you should head back, actually. it seems that every fiber in your being longs to move back into the comfort of your office. your heart seems to overpower this urge, forcing you to continue with your escape.
as time passes and aching inside your heart spreads across your entire being, the door falling into its lock leads you to slide down to seat yourself on the hard floor. you barely register how it creaks under weight.
Jeongguk. Jeon Jeongguk has passed away. And you have no idea what to think - can you even do that? whatever you are going through right now; is it even valid?
you force yourself to blink once again, hot tears rolling down your cheeks as a reminder that your body’s natural functions have been limited for the past hour or more. each breath you force yourself to take enters your body shakily, your airways burning as if they were filled with glass splinters. your lungs are about to cave in yet you can’t seem to take a deeper breath - it won’t allow you to.
you shake your head once, twice until the soba spill from your throat like soft butter. you feel your shoulders brush against the hardwood of your door with each strong shake; every sob scraping away.
gathering yourself to get off the floor and move into your living room takes longer than you’d like to admit, as your limbs feel heavier than ever - almost lifeless as you drag your feet to your couch. your bag full of the papers and books you need to prepare for the following day laugh at your state in mockery, almost shaming you for having such an intense reaction.
shaking off this feeling, this shame, you fall onto your couch like a sack of potatoes, grateful for the soft embrace. all the moving around to change your place inside your own home has left you drained of any kind of energy you have gathered, your eyes once again losing all focus as you continue to stare ahead.
quiet.
for the first time in months, your head has turned void of any thought. as if it has finally decided to add a closing hour; you don’t think of any deadline, any research questions, not even about how you are supposed to explain yourself the following day as you have just got up and left.
everything is just quiet and it terrifies you immensely. like an endless hole that refuses to be closed, the only aspect of your brain that you feel is the pounding against your forehead.
dead.
the very same person that has grown up in front of a camera for the majority of his life - whom you also followed for many years.
he has died. and somehow it feels like a part of you has been ripped out of your chest and lit on fire.
you try to calm your nerves by taking deep breaths and exhaling through your mouth, though your lower lip quivers with each exhale, your eyebrows rise slightly to suppress your tears.
take a deep breath through your nose, slowly count to four. hold your breath for seven more seconds and then exhale through your mouth. repeat.
and as you try to keep up this pattern, a gentle smile, wide eyes and a soft voice find place inside your mind, finally breaking through the darkness surrounding your thoughts. the voice starts singing familiar tunes that you know oh so well, the dark eyes reflecting a light you have never seen before.
and for the first time in forever, you drift into a slumber without your thesis as your last thought.
for the first, and perhaps only time, it is him.
——
the screeching of your alarm sends goosebumps across your skin as you sit up hastily, your mouth dry and eyes surrounding by crust.
groaning, you feel around your bed, its warmth almost lulling you back into a second round of sleep - almost. like a pen slowly rolling down the table, the fog inside your head seems to clear up, and the realization that you are in your bed and not on your couch makes you open your heavy eyes.
have you been sleepwalking?
scoffing, you look around the colorful room, the blinds are up, allowing the gentle sun to illuminate your room-
wait.
a colorful room? in this size? your eyes shift down - white sheets and a twin sized bed? what happened to your king sized one? and to your expensive hand-made wooden bed frame? have there always been that many high buildings outside your own apartment?
adrenaline pumps through your veins as you take a better look around, your feet hitting the fluffy -leopard patterned- carpet, trying to leave your- well, not your bed. your chest heaves and eyes begin to dance around all the decorative pieces fast, wanting to piece together any kind of information you could extract.
your head snaps towards your phone - an iphone 4? - as your second alarm blares through the speakers.
where is your phone?
where are you even?
the view outside your window feeds into your confusion, the small alleys and huge buildings defamiliarizing you even more. where the hell are you?
suddenly, your name is being yelled through the door, with a familiar force and even more so known voice - your mother?
“get up already! you will be late for school again!”
huh? school? you shake your head. does your mother still confuse the university you work at as your former highschool? you already told her that you are not a teacher but a phd student and lecturer at your university.
a huff leaves your mouth, the confusion suddenly all forgotten as you move towards your door to greet your mom and tell her that her jokes aren’t funny. you couldn’t have anticipated that you would choke on your spit as you are met with your mothers younger looking face.
“did you get botox?” you ask instead, your voice softer for some reason.
kissing her teeth your mother raises the spatula in her hand in mock threat, eyes wide, “stop joking around and get ready already. jaemin will be here soon.”
she turns to work on some lunch box, muttering over her shoulder, “i told you your cat pyjamas need to be washed first before you wear it.”
your head snaps down to take a look at yourself. when did you ever buy this set?
with your heart in your throat, you quickly turn to look at yourself in the mirror, confused features replaced with relief as you truly see yourself in the reflection.
taking in a deep breath, you walk backwards to sit down on your- eh, the bed and try to make sense of your situation.
you are in a different room, in a different apartment placed in a foreign area all together. yesterday, you tried to get through your stack of paper that needed to be graded but then saw the news-
jeongguk is dead.
the back of your eyes start to sting as your throat closes up once again, all the pain from the previous day washing up and crashing against your fragile walls. your hands cool down and the bottom of your feet start to tingle again.
breathe breathe breath-
your hand shakes as you take a hold of the strange phone, hoping to call someone from your department to tell them that you won’t be able to attend any of your courses, the threat of crying at any moment too big for you to control for the time being.
though you don’t get all too far as your eyes stuck on the date.
24.10.2014.
twenty-fourteen?
fourteen?
must be a system error. you swallow down your dry cough and continue to search for your secretary’s contact, the perplexed part of your mind taking over. where are all your contacts who are these people taking their place?
who is jaemin?
who is your mother, why is she looking so young?
who even are you right now?
you look the same - or at least a bit younger than before. it seems like the creases on your forehead and around your eyes [thanks, academia] have faded away, and even your cheeks look fuller. your eyes are red from all the tears that left them yesterday; your lips stretch into their normal smile you note as you try out different faces on the phones black screen.
it is you.
but, it is also not?
blinking away whatever confusion you can, you get up and get dressed for, well, school.
it is only when you cringe at your own clothes that you accept that something is truly wrong.
a bad dream?
can one even understand that they are dreaming? in such detail at that?
as soon as you step out your room to greet your mother, she beats you to it as she groans and pinches your cheeks, suddenly having appeared in front of you.
“stop messing with me and put on your uniform!” she places her hands on her hips with a scoff, eyebrows furrowed. “i spent almost an hour ironing all your dress shirts last night!”
like a fish pulled out of water, you open and close your mouth, not even answering her ash she pushes you back into the room.
“don’t forget your lunch!”
before you even realize what happened next, you find yourself at the front door of the apartment, your white converse tied a bit too tightly and your uniform scratching your neck.
well, what now?
having no idea where you are and where your mother, well, the woman who looks like a younger version of your mother, wants you to go, you can’t help but wonder if anything that has happened so far is real. you feel lost, confused, hurt, oddly familiar and yet strange, jeon jeongguk has died-
tears well up in your eyes.
fuck.
a shaky breath leaves your mouth. maybe you should go out and find a place where you can calm your nerves for a second. try figuring out what the hell is happening and how you can get back to your own place - or just away from here, to be honest - and just forget about it. you want to cry, want to grieve and just, be anywhere but here. alone. as you always have.
your eyes trail down the hallway to the staircase leading downstairs to the entrance, at least you think. it is the only logical answer.
closing your eyes for a second to gather yourself once more, your feet move on their own, as if in a trance even. you don’t even bother looking around the halls as you love two stories down, don’t even worry about the heavy door that seems to open with a special technique that you aren’t supposed to know.
the only time you are able to wake from this hypnotic sensation is when a person appears in front of you out of nowhere, your body colliding with theirs. you tumble backwards but manage to regain you footing, eyes immediately snapping to look at the person; a guy.
he looks around your, well, not really, age and wears the same uniform that the mother told you to wear.
what was the name again?
“jae…” your own voice sends a shiver down your spine as you try to remember his name.
scoffing, the guy turns his head. his long black hair frames his round face, eyes rolling as he shifts in his place, “what? why are you late again, huh?”
his arm moves towards you and even though you don’t feel threatened in any way, you push him away, glaring at his actions.
his eyes widen and his expression shifts slightly, as if he has not expected you to react this way.
“you good?”
his head tilts down to look into your eyes, but you simply turn your head away, something inside your chest burning.
inhale.
“yeah- yeah. just- i don’t know. missed my alarm and woke up with a sore throat.” you try to look at him, really. you can’t explain why it feels so wrong, so intimate. as if you are fooling someone, playing with their trust.
“let’s just go.” you gently slap his arm in hopes to ease the situation.
waiting for him to take the lead, you clear your throat and look at his forehead. this way, it will only seem like you are looking into his eyes - hopefully.
“whatever.” he rolls his eyes and starts to walk; to school, you think.
you take this as an opportunity to finally look around your surroundings, surprise painting your features as you take in the clean streets and foreign architecture. why aren’t there any cars parked along the road? why is it so, how should you word it, cramped? house after house, apartment buildings tall and grey, almost like those in a futuristic film.
there aren’t many trees planted along the sidewalks, and it is quiet even though working hours have already begun.
following quietly after jae… whatever, your gaze shifts back onto his tall figure. his uniform sits a bit too wide on his shoulders, his pants are rolled up to avoid dragging in the dirt and his bag hangs on one shoulder.
this could be your chance to find out more about, uh, everything. but what are even supposed to say? everyone acts like it is a normal day, no one questions you. you seem to belong, though have never felt more lost than you have today. all you wanted to do was stay at home and grieve.
jeongguk. a car crash.
before you even allow your body to give out, you clear your throat and rub your eyes with the heel of your hand. you need to understand before you can lay down. need to find your way back. home. or at least somewhere familiar.
concentrate.
“say,” you begin, fastening your steps to walk beside him this time, “what is the plan for today?”
he looks down at your for a second and glances back straight ahead, his hands now inside his pockets in a lazy fashion. he seems like a kind guy, you note. like a best friend that would never say it out loud, but who loves you deeply.
you feel like breaching someones trust. and even though you have no emotional connection to the guy in front of you, shame seems to heat up your face.
“after english class you mean? thought you wanted to hang with that one guy-“ he groans as he cracks his neck, jaw flexing slightly, “forgot his name.”
huh?
you try to keep clam, keep it casual. you were a high school student not too long ago - you just need to find your groove back.
“yeah, i promised him.” your laugh sounds like a mixture of stormy nerves and a broken engine, worsening the urge to slap yourself across your own face.
fucking hell. just stay cool. it should not be this hard. you work with students all the time, all day long.
“have you studied for lit?” he runs a hand through his long hair, “swear i have no idea what that bordieu guy wants.”
your mouth dries. a test? an exam? bordieu? you could work with that.
so, you nod, looking ahead as a new building appears. large gates and trees peeking from behind.
“uh, yeah. stayed up all night, and, yeah. you know me.”
halting in his tracks, jae turns to look at you. really look at you. his dark brown eyes muster your face, tongue wetting his lips as he seems to think about your answer.
“you understood?” his hand reaches towards your ear [you almosy flinched back, again], “and just ignored my pleas? do you want to die?”
he pulls at your ear, not too harshly. whining, you try to duck away from his grip, you own hand holding his wrist, “listen! hey- stop that and listen!” you finally push him away.
upon seeing his sly smirk, you feel a familiar form of rage storm inside you. whoever jae has been to you- or well, this person, must have had a teasing relationship with this guy. and for some reason, amongst all the fear and confusion you have felt for the past hour, this seems to comfort you.
you find comfort in this stranger who seems to evoke these intense feelings inside you. for once in this very short time of feeling lost, you feel seen. you feel belonging.
“i just- well.” you should tell him the truth. get it out of your system. “my favorite artist passed away, and-“
“fucking justin bieber? no way!” he cuts you off, his hands immediately on your shoulders as he gently squeezes them.
you shake your head as your own hands rest on his wrists, fighting off the amused scoff threatening to leave your mouth.
“no! no! that would be a global disaster! but, ugh. i guess this one’s too? remember bts? my favorite member has passed away in a car accident.”
it feels, how should you describe it. like reality has really been set in stone.
jeon jeongguk has died. and this is the first tike you have said it out loud. and even though the dagger inside your heart continues to twist around, you feel like a tiny weight has been lifted off your chest. the first step has always been acceptance. you can’t deny the truth.
and as you feel proud of yourself for finally admitting to the truth, jae seems not to understand the importance of this statement. instead, he tilts his head to the aide, eyebrow raised.
“who the fuck are you talking about?”
huh?
as you take in a breath to answer him, he cuts you off before the first sound leaves your mouth. his hands wander down to the back of your shoulders, pushing you to turn towards the entrance gate.
“tell me later about that game. ms. choi will demolish us if we come late again.”
that name tastes sour, but you have to get him to understand. how can he just brush that off?
“but-!”
he seems to be fully immersed in to arriving to class on time, his hands immediately pulling your wrist towards the lockers as soon as you enter the building.
fuck. your eyes widen and your heartbeat picks up its pace. what are you supposed to do-
someone utters your name. it’s quiet, like a gentle breezeway in the air. though the tone, the voice seems to pull you out of your bubble wrap state. it’s too, how should you word it, grounding. it’s familiar. you need familiar.
confused, you look at jae first, though he looks at something, someone, past your shoulders. his gaze no where near as friendly and teasing as you have seen it before. he looks annoyed, almost. shoulders tense and brows slightly raised.
you turn your head to the other side, slowly, as if preparing yourself for another quest you needed to conquer, eyes immediately landing on the person wearing the same [ugly] yellow school uniform as the two of you.
you don’t even register the name tag as you look at the face- what.
the air is knocked from your lungs, your ears ring and for some reason you can’t move your mouth to produce any kind of sound, any kind of acknowledgement or shock to the sight in front of you.
what. the. fuck.
what is he doing here?
right there, you have jeon jeongguk in the flesh standing in front of you; cheeks full, eyes wide, yet laced with a certain shyness that runs deep into your heart, and reddish hair, covering his forehead and the majority of his eyebrows. his nose sits too big on his face, though you can’t help but find it endearing.
he calls your name once again, stepping closer timidly, head tilting as he tries to read your face.
even you can’t tell what expression you must have right now.
behind you, jaemin - you finally remember his name - slams his locker shut and walks off with his slippers scraping along the polished floors. you don’t know him, only having met him ten minutes ago, though you already wish that he came back. you need someone help you calm down.
you. need. to. clam. down.
exhaling deeply, you breathe out jeongguks name, feeling exposed almost.
“uh, can i- can i help you?” you ask, mentally slapping yourself for the crack in your voice.
what are you even doing. here you are in an ugly uniform, standing in a foreign place - korea, it seems - talking to one of the biggest artists ever. or, well, at least his younger version. the version filled with hunger and fear, desire and anger. the version that yet has to achieve all his dreams, realize his whole purpose and potential.
giggling [he giggles because of you], jeongguk steps even closer than before, eyes twinkling, “you came late. i was concerned.” he nods his head to the side, silently asking you to follow him.
and you do, without hesitation. your legs move before you can register it, your mouth still and eyes wide as you step into the classroom.
looking around the rows of desks and scattered chairs, your head turns from one side to the other, eager to take everything in.
it is bright in here, more so than you are used to from your old classrooms. students sot on tables and talk in their friend groups. others film themselves, while some freshen up their make up on their phones.
your heart picks up its pace, and you can feel your bladder press uncomfortably against your abdomen.
where was the restroom again?
with a tug on your uniforms sleeve, you are pulled towards what you assume is your desk, jeongguk continues to lead you as if it is a natural thing. he doesn’t even question you, doesn’t ask you who you are and where you came from.
“i did the exercise you gave me last week,” he gently pulls on the fine hair along his face, “ah, what should i say. i don’t have any excuse. i was too lazy to finish it.”
his eyes shine with mischief, the left corner of his lip twitching.
sitting down, you decide to freak out later and just get through with this day first. it is not your first time seeing a member of the biggest boy group ever anyway. just pretend he is one of your students that need help with a complex theory that took even you a while to grasp.
you saw taehyung once when you were vacationing in france. though as any other fan would, you turned away and let the man be. easy as ever.
however now you have your favorite member - alas, his younger self - talking to you, as if you had been a part of his life. a normality. familiar. not even just talking, but apparently being your friend, someone he feels comfortable talking to. someone he wouldn’t mind dragging around.
you look down at his paper, your hand writing on it. it seems that ‘you’ have written some english words and sentences for him to translate and learn. half of it is left empty, whereas the other half is poorly worked out. you scoff quietly as you think back of the well known fact that jeongguk sucked in english back in highschool. well, he barely attended his classes, his life as a trainee first, later his rising popularity standing in the way of his high school diploma becoming a priority.
believing that your scoff is directed at him, his foot hits your under the desk, pulling a surprised gasp from your lips.
“stop making fun of me! i told you that i wouldn’t have much time this week. at least i tried.” then, a tad quieter, looking down at his hands on his lap and biting the soft pink of his bottom lip, “i am trying.”
his tone pulls at the strings of your heart. shoulders sagging and voice unusually soft, you shift in your seat and point at the first mistake on the sheet, hoping to encourage his learner’s motivation.
easy. you worked with various high school students, acquiring some kind of skill and feel on how to make them want to learn.
“you start well here,” your finger traces his hand writing, feeling oddly sentimental, “you used ‘did’ already. therefore, you don’t need to put the second verb into the past.”
you recite the old rule that tour own english teacher would drill into your twelve years old mind. it is hard to believe that the person you would curse out back in high school is now the one you go back to to teach someone else.
you continue to work through the exercises to the very last second until the bells rings, signaling that the lesson starts. chairs scrape against the tiles as everyone moves to their seats, the chatter dies down. you feel foreign yet so normal as you follow the other students as they get up their seats to greet the teacher, feel so relaxed as you sit back down and open your notebook. though you cant help but bite along the skin inside your cheeks or bottom lip, struggle to fight against the bounce of your right leg, brushing against jeongguks under the desk. your muscles tense up from the subtle touch. your bites along the inside of your cheeks intensify. it is warm, it is soft, it is him.
though it is boring, not enough to distract your sharp thoughts crawling around our mind, their claws digging deep. you answer when the teacher picks you to answer a question in english, keep your voice steady as if you have done this before.
and you have.
in your class, almost fifteen years ago. with people you almost always have had around. grew up with. shared memories and insiders with.
the flicker of the lights above your head doesn’t bother you as it would have back in your office.
your throat closes up again.
the only time you seem to wake up from your trance is when jeongguk daps yours waist, making you squeal.
rapidly blinking, you quickly apologize to your teacher with a bow of your head. your gaze shifts towards the guy next to you, glaring at his teasing smile.
“you okay?” he leans in to whisper, eyes wide with concern. his warmth closes around you comfortably. your gaze shifts down to his sloppy handwriting on his notebook, the way he has three different colored pencils on his desk even though they aren’t needed.
are you okay?
the short answer is no.
the longer answer would be that you feel incredibly uncomfortable and insecure; feel lost and yet familiar in this foreign place. your body seems to work in an automated fashion, making you blend in perfectly with the people around you. the smell
of someones convenience store sandwich curls around your nose, the giggles from behind you are a usual occurrence. though the gears in your head turn in light speed, your heart feels like jumping out of your chest and run away. breathing has never felt more like a task than it has for the past few hours.
“yeah,” you nod instead, matching his quiet tone, “just tired.”
*****
hope you enjoyed this! comments, suggestions and feedback would be appreciated!!
synopsis; you were his secret in 2016, until loving him became dangerous and one lie changed everything.
pairing: 2016!jungkook x reader / 2026!jungkook x reader
genre: idol au, secret relationship, angst, slow burn, heartbreak / second chance romance eventually
divider: @uzmacchiato
By the time your shift ended, Seoul had already turned blue with evening.
Not pretty blue, not the kind people wrote songs about, but the tired kind that sat between buildings after sunset and made every window look colder than it was. The air outside the café smelled like rain, roasted chestnuts from a street cart nearby, and the burnt sugar left on your sleeves after six hours of making drinks for people who ordered like the world would end if their iced americano had one wrong cube of ice.
You pushed through the back door with your bag hanging from one shoulder, your hair smelling faintly like coffee no matter how many times you tied it up, and your phone buzzing in your pocket before you even made it to the sidewalk.
Without even looking, you already knew who it was.
Mina: don't go home
Mina: come to hongdae
Mina: there's people dancing and it's actually good tonight
Mina: also i need moral support because i saw my ex with his new girl and i refuse to look lonely
You stopped walking, stared at the messages, and let out a laugh so tired it barely counted.
you: i just got off work
you: my feet hate me
you: and ur ex doesn't care, u shouldn't either
Her reply came fast.
Mina: he cares
Mina: he looked at my story yesterday
Mina: that's basically a "let's get back together"
You rolled your eyes and kept walking toward the bus stop as you typed.
you: seek help
Mina: seek me in hongdae
Mina: pls
Mina: i'll buy you tteokbokki
That was how you ended up on a bus to Hongdae with sore feet, a half-dead phone, and the kind of hunger that made you angry at everyone standing too close to you.
You told yourself you would only stay for thirty minutes. That was the usual lie people always told before Hongdae swallowed the rest of their night.
The streets were already crowded when you arrived, full of students, couples, buskers, tourists holding shopping bags, and groups of friends standing too close together while pretending they were not trying to be seen. Music came from every direction at once. A ballad from one corner, a rap song from another, someone's guitar near the subway exit, then the heavy beat of a dance track cutting through all of it from farther down the street.
Mina found you near a convenience store, waving both arms like she was directing an airplane.
"You look dead," she said as soon as you reached her, her eyes scanning your face like she had expected you to magically recover on the bus ride.
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and gave her a flat look. "You said there would be food, so I came."
"There will be food," she said quickly, already reaching for your wrist before you could escape.
"You said tteokbokki."
"Yes, yes there will be tteokbokki."
"That doesn't sound honest."
Mina pressed one hand to her chest like you had offended her personally. "But it is honest."
You stared at her, but she grabbed your wrist before you could turn around. "Just come. They're doing dance covers over there, and I swear one group did BTS earlier."
You let her pull you into the crowd, mostly because arguing with Mina in public took more energy than walking.
The closer you got, the louder the music became, bass vibrating under your shoes, cheers rising whenever someone landed a cool move. People had formed a loose circle around the dancers, with their phones lifted in the air, and their faces lit by the screens.
You stayed near the back at first, but Mina, of course, pushed forward.
Still, you remained where you were, with your arms crossed, bag pressed against your side, watching a group of boys in black sweats and others in jeans practice formation before the song restarted. They looked a little nervous, laughing too much, and checking each other's positions. One of them fixed his cap, meanwhile another wiped his palms on his jeans.
Then the opening beat of "Boy In Luv" hit the speakers, and the crowd screamed.
You knew the song, even if you were not the kind of fan who memorized every little detail, but it was impossible not to know it by then. Your classmates played BTS videos during lunch, Mina had gone through a phase where she insisted she was "casually interested" while knowing every member's birthday, and the song had followed you through cafés, shops, buses, and every corner of Seoul until parts of it lived in your head against your will.
The dancers started, and they were actually very good. Not all perfect, but good in a way that made people stop walking. Their shoes scraped against the pavement, the movements making their jackets swing with every sharp turn. A few girls near the front screamed the lyrics. Mina turned around once just to mouth, See? at you like she had personally trained them.
You were about to make a face at her when your eyes caught on someone standing a little farther from the center of the crowd, but closer to where you stood by steps.
A boy stood near the trees lining the sidewalk, frozen in place in a way that made him noticeable even though he did not seem to be trying. He wore a long black coat that fell loosely around him, dark pants cuffed above shiny black shoes—the whole outfit simple, but strangely sharp under the Hongdae streetlights. His hair was dark and soft across his forehead, long enough to shadow his eyes whenever he looked down, and there was something quietly tired about his face that did not match the whole scenery around him.
Most people in the crowd were moving somehow, between lifting phones, whispering, cheering, leaning around each other to see.
But he did none of that, he just watched, and for some reason, that made you want to look at him longer than you meant to.
Maybe it was because he looked close to your age but carried himself like someone trying to keep all his thoughts in one place, or maybe it was because the lights from the shops caught the side of his face whenever he lifted his head, softening the line of his cheek and making him look like a boy who had wandered into Hongdae because he needed air, and at the same time, like someone who did not belong in this scene for some odd reason.
You looked away before he could catch you staring at him like a creep.
Mina shoved herself back to your side a minute later, breathless and dramatic, with one hand clutching your sleeve while the other pointed toward the dancers. "They're super good, right?"
You tilted your head, pretending to think about it longer than necessary. "They're okay."
Her mouth fell open. "You're so annoying."
"You’re the one that asked," you said, shrugging.
"They're literally dancing in public. Have respect." Mina nudged your shoulder, still half-watching the performance like she was scared to miss one second.
"I respect them for it, they’re good. But I'm just not gonna scream like someone is proposing to me."
Mina leaned closer, lowering her voice suddenly. "Okay, don't freak out." That immediately made you suspicious, quite the opposite of what she had just told you.
You turned your head slowly toward her. "Why would I freak out?"
"Because I think that's Jungkook."
You blinked. "Who?"
She gave you a look so offended it almost made you laugh, her hand tightening on your sleeve. "BTS Jungkook."
Your eyes moved before you could stop them.
The boy in the black coat was still standing a few steps away, still watching the dancers, but now that Mina had said it, your brain started putting pieces together too quickly. The big-round eyes, the hair falling over his forehead, the young, but soft-looking face you had seen before on your friends' phone screens. The way people around him were slowly beginning to notice him, one by one, like the news were now spreading through the crowd before anyone really said it out loud.
"I don't know," you said, even though you clearly had caught on.
Mina gripped your sleeve harder, leaning so close her whisper brushed your ear. "I'm telling you, that's him."
"Then don't stare, he's going to think we are stalking him."
"I'm not staring," she said, while absolutely staring.
"You're staring with your whole face."
"I'm observing him. You rarely see BTS in the streets."
"You look insane right now."
Before Mina could answer, two girls near the front turned around at the same time. One of them froze, and the other's eyes widened, a hand flying to her friend's arm. You saw the moment where recognition passed between both of them like electricity, and definitely the boy saw it too, because his body changed instantly like instinctively he tensed a little.
Obviously not enough for everyone in the crowd to notice it, but enough for you to see it from where you stood. His shoulders straightened slightly, and his gaze dropped for half a second before he looked back up with a polite smile, as if he had already accepted that the quiet moment he came for was clearly over.
The girls whispered to each other, excited but unsure still. Meanwhile, the dancers kept on going, despite all of this, and for a few seconds, nobody really do anything about the fact that Jeon Jungkook was standing casually there.
Until, one of the girls approached him carefully, phone held against her chest instead of pointed at his face. You could not hear everything over the music, but you saw the way she bowed a little, and the way he leaned down slightly to listen, then he lifted one hand in a small gesture that seemed almost apologetic.
Mina whispered, "Oh my god, it is him."
You looked at her quickly. "Don't even start"
She lifted both of her hands a little, offended. "I didn't say I was going to do anything."
"I know what you were thinking."
"I wasn't even thinking."
The song ended, and the crowd exploded into cheers. Jungkook clapped too, quietly, hands meeting only a few times before he lowered them again. There was something almost careful about it, like he did not want to take attention away from the people performing, but he was Jeon Jungkook, so attention found him anyway.
A few fans gathered around him, not too many yet. He smiled politely, a little shyly, while people tried not to shake too much beside him. He leaned in for photos without making it awkward, his dark hair falling close to one eye, his face bare and soft under the streetlights.
He looked younger than you expected, not like an idol though, just young in a way that made all the noise around him feel slightly too much for someone his age.
At least from your perspective you wouldn't be able to handle it.
Mina whispered, "He's taking pictures," her voice suddenly softer, like saying it too loudly would jinx the moment.
"I can see that," you said, though your eyes had not exactly moved away either.
"He's so nice."
You glanced at her and noticed the way she was holding her phone against her chest like she was physically restraining herself from approaching him too or tearing up in excitement. "You're about to cry."
"I'm not."
"You look like it."
"No I don't, I'm just happy to see him." Mina shot you a glare, but she was too busy staring to make it convincing.
You should have kept watching like everyone else, but instead, you noticed a coffee cup in Jungkook's hand.
It looked nearly empty considering how he was holding it, the cardboard sleeve crushed slightly between his fingers. Then, someone bumped him from behind while trying to get closer, and the last bit of liquid inside splashed over his hand.
He flinched and because your body had been trained by too many café shifts to react to spilled drinks like a trigger, you reached into your bag without thinking and pulled out the napkins you always stole from work just in case something like this happened. In your head though, typically, it was Mina who spilled liquids not Jeon Jungkook.
"Here," you said, stepping forward and holding them out before you could talk yourself out of it.
The girl beside him looked at you first looking a bit confused and annoyed, then he did.For one second, Jungkook only stared at your hand, then at your face then back at the napkins. "Thank you," he said, taking them carefully. His voice was surprisingly softer and quieter than you had expected.
Up close, he looked even more tired, not ugly tired, or bored tired, but the kind of tired that sat behind someone's eyes after too many days of being pulled from one place to another.
Despite the situation, he smiled at you, polite and small, like thanking a stranger for napkins was somehow important enough for someone like him to do properly.
"Jeez, you’re bleeding attention everywhere," you said before you could stop yourself owning a strangled sound from Mina behind you.
Jungkook blinked, napkin still pressed loosely between his fingers. "What?"
You nodded toward the growing group of fans pretending not to gather around him while absolutely gathering around him.
"You came here to watch people dance, no? Not become the performance." For a moment, you thought you had said too much, or sounded too rude.
Then his eyes curved, and the smile that appeared on his face was small, surprised, and almost helpless.
"I didn't mean to," he said, looking down at the coffee on his fingers as if that might hide the smile.
"Ah yes, famous people never do."
His fingers paused around the napkin, making you instantly regret saying that, not because it was mean, at least not to you, but because his face changed in a way you could not read. Then he looked at you again. "I'm not that famous."
Mina coughed behind you awkwardly, but you ignored her. "You're famous enough for her to forget how to breathe," you said, pointing vaguely at Mina without turning around.
"I'm breathing," Mina hissed, her voice sharp with embarrassment.
"You're coughing like you’re choking."
Jungkook laughed, real enough that it changed his whole face. The tiredness around his eyes loosened for a second, and suddenly he looked exactly like what he was: a young boy in a long black coat, standing under Hongdae lights, possibly just trying to organize his thoughts and feelings that the world had already started making too heavy for him.
A fan nearby looked like she might collapse from witnessing it and Mina grabbed the back of your jacket in warning, probably trying to communicate with her fingers that you needed to stop speaking to him like he was some random guy blocking the sidewalk.
But that was the thing, he did look like a random guy. A very tired, young, and famous one. A boy standing in Hongdae with coffee on his hand, watching strangers dance to a song that belonged partly to him and partly to everyone screaming it back.
He looked at the dancers again as another group began setting up, his gaze following the boys as they checked their formation. "They're so good," he said with a small smile.
"They are," you answered, glancing back at the dancers too.
"They work hard."
You glanced at him, noticing the serious way he said it, like he could see every hour of practice behind each move. "You sound like a teacher."
His eyes moved back to you, amused. "Do I now?"
"A little."
"That's bad?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
You shook your head before thinking. "Nah. It's cute." The word slipped out too casually for you to catch it.
Jungkook went silent, and even Mina went silent at that too. Then, slowly, his ears turned pink.
You looked away first, pretending to watch the dancers because suddenly the pavement was very interesting and your mouth had become your worst enemy.
"I didn't mean cute like that," you said, clearing your throat.
He was smiling now. You could hear it before you saw it. "Oh. How did you mean it?"
"Like..." You searched for an excuse and found nothing useful, your eyes darting between the dancers, Mina, and literally anything that was not his face. "Like an old man."
His smile widened. "You think I'm cute like an old man?"
"No," you said quickly, turning back to him with a frown. "I think you sound like one."
"That's way worse, oh God."
"It's honest."
He laughed again, and this time you understood why the fans around him looked so helpless about it. Because it changed his whole face in a way that made him seem less far away than he probably should have been. For half a second, the noise around you softened. The crowd, the music, Mina's fingers still digging into your jacket, the people whispering his name, all of it moved somewhere behind you.
Then someone asked him for another photo. The moment closed, and he turned back to them with an easy politeness that looked practiced but not fake, leaning slightly so he could fit into the frame. You stepped back, suddenly aware that you had been standing too close to someone people were waiting to reach. Mina quickly dragged you away by the sleeve.
"Are you crazy?" she whispered, her eyes wide as she pulled you back into the thicker part of the crowd.
"What?" you asked, even though you already knew what she meant.
"You just called Jungkook cute like an old man."
"I panicked, okay?"
"You?" Mina pointed at you like you were on trial. "Panicked? You basically bullied him."
"I gave him napkins though."
"You told him he was bleeding attention."
"Because he is."
Mina stared at you like she was trying to decide whether to be horrified or proud. Behind you, the crowd cheered again, you turned your head once.
Jungkook was still there, but he was looking past the fans for a second, eyes moving over the people around him until they found you, it was brief. So brief you could have pretended it did not happen.
But then he lifted the napkins slightly, like a small thank you from across the crowd, and you, because you were tired and hungry and apparently committed to making questionable choices that night, lifted your hand back.
Not a full on-wave, it was barely on. Mina saw it and gasped like you had accepted a marriage proposal. "Shut up," you said immediately, turning away from the crowd before she could start.
"I didn't say anything."
"You are dramatic as hell."
"I have a right."
"You have a weird disease."
"Yeah," Mina said, falling into step beside you with a grin too pleased for your comfort, "and it's called witnessing destiny."
You groaned and started walking toward the food stalls before she could make it worse.
You thought about tteokbokki, your sore feet, the homework waiting for you at home, and the fact that tomorrow morning you would still have to wake up early like your life had not brushed against someone else's for five strange minutes in the middle of Hongdae.
Still, when you reached the end of the street, you looked back once, and there he was, watching the dancers again.
Long black coat, his dark hair over his eyes, and the spilled coffee cup still in one hand. The crowd still aware of him, but not yet impossible.
Mina bought you tteokbokki after that. You made sure she did, since you were literally starving.
The two of you ended up standing near a street stall with paper cups in your hands, steam rising between your faces while the sauce burned your tongue badly enough to make your eyes water. You kept eating anyway, shoulders slightly hunched against the evening air, because your stomach cared more about being full than being comfortable.
Mina, unfortunately, had not stopped looking at you. You felt her stare from the side before you even turned your head. "What?" you asked, poking at a rice cake with your toothpick while trying to sound more annoyed than tired.
Mina narrowed her eyes, her own cup held close to her chest like she had completely forgotten she was supposed to be eating from it. "You're acting too normal."
"Well, yes. It’s called eating," you said, lifting the rice cake toward your mouth like that explained everything.
"You just talked to Jeon Jungkook." Mina leaned closer as she said his name, lowering her voice even though the street was too loud for anyone to care.
"I gave him napkins." You chewed carefully, keeping your eyes on the food instead of her face.
"You called him cute."
"Like an old man." You pointed your toothpick at her, because somehow that felt like an important detail to defend.
"That makes it worse." Mina's mouth fell open a little, and she looked genuinely stressed on his behalf. "Why would you say that to him?"
You looked down at your tteokbokki, stirring the sauce around like the answer might be hiding in it. "I told you already, that I panicked."
"You did not panic." Mina let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "You looked him in the face and bullied him."
"I helped him first." You lifted your eyebrows at her. "That should cancel out the bullying."
"It doesn't." She took a bite, still watching you while she chewed, her eyes bright with the kind of excitement that made you want to walk away before she built a whole story from nothing.
You sighed and shifted your weight from one sore foot to the other. "It was five minutes, Mina."
"Five minutes is enough for a first impression," she said, pointing her toothpick at you like she was making a serious argument.
"It was not a first impression." You wiped a little sauce from the edge of your cup with your thumb, frowning at how sticky it had gotten. "It was me handing napkins to someone who spilled coffee."
"And making him laugh."
"People laugh when things are awkward."
Mina tilted her head, studying you more closely. "So you admit it was awkward."
"It was obviously awkward." You looked at her then, unable to stop yourself from sounding defensive. "A crowd was staring, you were wheezing behind me, and I accidentally called a famous person cute like an old man."
"I was not wheezing," Mina muttered, but she looked away too quickly for it to be convincing.
"You were basically losing air like a balloon."
"I was trying my best."
"You were embarrassing."
"You're the embarrassing one." She nudged your shoulder with hers, but her grin came back a second later, too pleased to be offended for long. "but still, he laughed."
You rolled your eyes and took another bite, mostly so you would not have to keep responding to that.
The truth was, it had been strange. Not in whatever Mina was probably already naming it in her head, just strange.
It was strange to see someone you had only ever seen through phone screens standing under streetlights like any other boy your age. Strange to watch people recognize him slowly, one by one, until the air around him changed. Strange to hear him say he was not that famous while a small crowd gathered close enough to prove him wrong. But strange did not mean important, at least, not to you.
Mina kept talking while you finished your food, her words tumbling out between bites.
"He looked tired though," she said after a moment, her voice softer this time as she glanced back toward the direction you had come from.
"You think?" you asked, following her gaze only briefly before looking back at your cup.
"Of course. Poor boy, so young and has been working since the age of fourteen." Mina's expression shifted, the excitement dimming into something more thoughtful. "He smiled and everything, but yeah. He looked tired."
You nodded once, because that part was hard to argue with. "He's working," you said, pushing a rice cake around the bottom of your cup. "People look tired when they work."
Mina looked at you with a small frown. "You say that like you're fifty."
"I do feel fifty." You straightened your back a little, wincing when your feet reminded you how long you had been standing all day.
"You're eighteen, Y/N."
"My feet make me feel like I'm fifty."
That made Mina laugh again, louder this time, and the conversation finally loosened away from him. She started complaining about her ex, then about her classes, then about how the tteokbokki was too spicy even though she was the one who chose the stall. You listened with half your attention, answering when you needed to, letting the city noise fill the spaces between you.
By the time you left Hongdae, your phone was nearly dead, your jacket smelled like smoke from the grill, and your bag felt twice as heavy as it had when you arrived.
Mina walked with you to the bus stop, still too awake for someone who had spent the whole night being dramatic.
"Text me when you get home," she said, stopping beside the bus sign and pulling her cardigan tighter around herself.
You glanced at her. "Don't start sending me edits of him at three in the morning."
"I wasn't going to." Mina looked offended for exactly one second before her face betrayed her.
"You were."
"I might send if Instagram blesses me with some."
"You're sick, no."
"I'm supportive of him."
"You're unemployed in the head." You stepped closer to the curb when your bus appeared down the road, headlights turning the wet pavement pale.
Mina gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest. "You're so rude and mean after being fed."
"I'm mean because I'm tired and so sleepy."
When the bus finally pulled up, you climbed on and found a seat near the window. Mina stood outside with both hands wrapped around the strap of her bag, still smiling like she had seen something much bigger happen than what had actually happened.
"Don't dream about Jungkook," you called through the glass once the door shut, knowing she probably could not hear you clearly anyway.
Mina cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something back. You could not hear it over the engine, but from the shape of her mouth, you were pretty sure it had the words old man in it.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling a little when the bus pulled away, and after that, the ride home was quiet.
Seoul looked different from the bus window after Hongdae. The bright streets slowly thinned into quieter roads, convenience stores glowing on corners, apartment windows lit in scattered squares, and people walking home alone with their shoulders curled inward against the cold. You leaned your head against the glass, your body was finally realizing how exhausted it was.
For most of the ride, you thought about practical things.
- Whether your phone would survive long enough for you to text Mina.
- Whether you have enough money on your transit card for tomorrow.
- Whether your uniform shirt would smell too much like coffee if you wore it one more time before washing it.
- Whether the landlord would notice if the rent came two days late.
- Whether anyone back in Daegu had tried calling while your phone was silenced.
Hongdae already felt far away by the time your stop came. Folded into the kind of night you knew you would be telling as a funny story later and Mina would make it bigger every time she repeated it, and you would correct her every time because that was how the two of you worked.
Your building was quiet when you reached it. It was the kind of place people passed without looking twice, narrow and plain, with old stairs that made too much noise no matter how carefully you climbed them. The hallway always smelled faintly like detergent, dust, and someone's instant noodles from behind a closed door.
You unlocked your door as quietly as possible, slipped off your shoes, and stepped inside. No one had left the light on, no one had cooked for you, and no one called from another room to ask why you were late.
Your place was exactly how you had left it that morning: a small bed pushed against the wall, a folding table covered in textbooks and receipts, a half-dry uniform shirt hanging near the window, and a cup of convenience-store instant rice sitting beside two unopened packs of seaweed.
Independent sounded better when people said it from the outside, but inside, it mostly meant you ate dinner alone and learned how to stretch money until it felt personal.
You dropped your bag beside the bed, plugged in your phone, and sat on the floor while the screen struggled back to life. For a second, you just stared at the black screen, waiting.
Part of you expected missed calls, but the other part of you hoped there were none. And when your phone finally lit up, there were no calls from home, just Mina. A lot of Mina, actually.
Mina: I FOUND PICS
Mina: HE REALLY WAS THERE
Mina: THE NAPKINS ARE HISTORICAL NOW
Mina: wait
Mina: omg
Mina: I THINK UR HAND IS IN ONE OF THEM
You stared at the screen, too tired to react properly.
Then you opened the photo she sent.
It was blurry, taken from somewhere behind the crowd, but there he was under the Hongdae lights, long black coat, dark hair falling over his forehead, head slightly lowered as he accepted napkins from someone just outside the frame.
You could not see your face, only your hand, your sleeve, and the edge of your bag. Nothing important enough for anyone to notice.
you: that could be anyone
Mina replied before you could even put the phone down.
Mina: but it's not anyone
Mina: it's napkin girl aka u
You stared at the nickname for a second, then made a face at your screen.
you: never call me that again
Mina: too late
Mina: history with an idol named u
You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed.
For a while, you sat there in the quiet room, listening to the distant sound of traffic outside your window and the faint hum of the mini fridge near your desk. Your room always sounded bigger at night, which was funny because it was barely big enough for you and your bad decisions.
On the folding table, your textbooks sat open beside a receipt you had been avoiding since morning.
Behind them was a small photo you had brought from Daegu, half-hidden under a notebook because looking at it too often made you feel too many things at once. So, you did not pick it up, you didn't need to. You knew the faces in it better than anything in Seoul.
You had told yourself leaving home would make breathing easier, and sometimes it did, but sometimes it just made the silence louder and being quite frank, sad too.
Idol x reader | secret relationship | right person wrong time | noble idiocy | second chance romance | lovers to strangers to lovers, etc..
pairing: 2016!jungkook x reader / 2026!jungkook x reader
genre: angst, romance, idol au, slow burn, second chance
warnings: heartbreak, harsh breakup, miscommunication, mature themes later, explicit language
status: ongoing
word count: dk yet
summary:
You were never supposed to become Jeon Jungkook's secret.
In 2016, you meet him by accident in Hongdae, back when BTS is still rising and Jungkook is still shy enough to blush when you tease him. What starts with spilled coffee, napkins, and late-night texts turns into a love neither of you are ready for.
But when his career begins to rise, loving him becomes dangerous. So you leave him with one lie.
"I used you."
Ten years later, Jungkook still remembers everything.
And this time, he doesn't know if he wants answers...
or revenge.
A/N:
hi! this is my first time posting on here so this might be a little messy </3
this story will have chapters and will mostly take place in 2016 for a while before switching to present time in 2026, a ten year gap.
this story was mainly inspired by the c-drama Never Ending Summer, though i changed a lot of details and kept Jungkook as an idol.
this is fiction and does not represent Jungkook or any of the other BTS members mentioned. it does not reflect their real-life personalities.
happy reading <3
PROLOGUE
⊱ ──── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ──── ⊰
The first time you broke Jungkook's heart, he was fifteen minutes away from stepping into an interview smiling for a camera.
His makeup artist was standing in front of him with a small brush in her hand, trying to fix the soft crease under his eye where exhaustion had started to show, and his manager was near the door, checking the schedule for the third time that afternoon. There were too many people in the dressing room, too many voices, too many lights reflected in the mirror, but Jungkook had stopped listening to all of it the moment your name appeared on his phone.
you: hey
he smiled before he could stop himself.
It was small, almost embarrassing, the kind of smile he only got when it was you. Not the one people took pictures of, not the one he used when someone told him to look happy, but the real one, the one that made him look younger than he was and softer than he should have been with so many people watching him.
kookie<3: hey baby
kookie<3: you okay?
Across the city, you stared at the message until your eyes burned.
That was the problem with Jungkook, he always asked that first. Not what you wanted, not why you were texting him so suddenly, not whether you knew he was busy. Just whether you were okay, like your feelings still came before the interview, before the group, before the career everyone around him was trying so hard to protect and that made your phone felt heavy in your hand.
On the table beside you was the envelope they had given you, full of printed photos you wished you had never seen. You and Jungkook leaving the same building. Jungkook looking down at you in the parking lot with his hoodie pulled low. His hand around your wrist. Your face turned toward his chest because you had been laughing at something he whispered.
Proof
That was what they called it.
Not memories, not moments, and most definitely not love.
You swallowed, but your throat still hurt.
you: i need to tell u something
His reply came almost immediately.
kookie<3: okay
kookie<3: what happened?
kookie<3: did someone say something to you?
You closed your eyes. He already knew something was wrong, of course he did, he knew you better than anyone by now.
you: are u busy?
you: i know this is probably a bad time
In the dressing room, Jungkook glanced at the clock.
Fifteen minutes
He had fifteen minutes before he had to walk into an interview and act like he was fine, like he had slept enough, like his whole life was not being pulled in ten different directions at once. Still, he texted you back.
kookie<3: i have an interview in 15
kookie<3: but i can talk
kookie<3: what is it?
kookie<3: we can meet after if it's serious
Your fingers trembled, and for one stupid second, you almost said yes.
You almost let yourself believe there could be an after. That you could meet him later, hear his voice, look at his face, and somehow he would fix this the way he always tried to fix everything between you. He would tell you not to be scared, that the company didn't get to decide who he loved. He would probably get angry, reckless, emotional, and young in the way he still was when it came to you.
And that was exactly why they had come to you instead of him.
Because Jungkook would choose you.
And they had made sure you understood what that choice could cost him.
you: no
you: i'll just say it now
you: i want us to break up
For a moment, there was nothing. Then—
kookie<3: lol
You pressed your fist against your mouth.
you: ?
kookie<3: that's not funny yn
you: im not joking
In the mirror, Jungkook's smile disappeared.
His makeup artist paused a little, meanwhile his manager kept talking near the door, unaware that something inside Jungkook had gone still so suddenly it was almost visible.
kookie<3: what?
kookie<3: what are you talking about?
kookie<3: why?
You looked at the envelope again. The photos, the warning, the way his manager had looked at you like you were not a person, but a risk.
If you really care about him, you'll let him focus. You know what this could do to him, to the group. He's young, Y/N. He'll choose emotionally, you need to be the mature one.
Your eyes filled with tears, but your messages had to be cruel. Cruel enough to make him let go.
you: i can't do this anymore
kookie<3: do what?
kookie<3: us?
you: yes
you: us
you: you
you: everything
kookie<3: did i do something?
kookie<3: just tell me what i did and i'll fix it
That almost broke you, because you knew he meant it.
He would have fixed anything except the one thing he could not change: who he was becoming.
you: you didn't do anything
kookie<3: then why are you doing this?
You stared at the screen for a long time, then you proceeded to type the lie that would ruin you both.
you: because i used you
The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again.
kookie<3: what?
Your tears slipped down before you could stop them.
you: i used you
you: i liked being close to you
you: i liked feeling special because you chose me
you: but now i can't handle it anymore
kookie<3: stop
kookie<3: don't say that
you: it's true
kookie<3: no it's not
kookie<3: you're lying
kookie<3: why are you lying to me?
You covered your mouth, forcing yourself not to sob loud enough for anyone outside the room to hear.
He knew you way too well, that was the cruelest part.
you: im not lying
you: i thought i could handle your life
you: your career
you: the group
you: all the hiding
you: but i can't
kookie: baby call me
kookie: please
kookie: just call me and say this
you: no
kookie<3: why?
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You should not have answered that, you needed to stay cold. You should have remembered every word they told you, every photo in the envelope, every threat hidden under their polite voices.
But you were still you and he was still him, so one piece of truth slipped out.
you: because if i hear your voice i won't be able to do it
Jungkook stood up so fast the chair rolled back behind him making his manager turned. "Jungkook?"
kookie<3: do what?
kookie<3: yn
kookie<3: do what?
kookie<3: don't do this
kookie<3: not like this
You locked your phone, but it lit up again immediately. His caller ID filled the screen. Again, again, and again. And you let it ring until the sound felt like punishment.
In the dressing room, someone told Jungkook they had five minutes, meanwhile someone else adjusted his jacket, his manager lowered his voice and told him they needed to move.
Jungkook only stared at his phone, waiting for you to answer, waiting for the girl he loved to take back the worst thing she had ever said to him. But you didn't.
So fifteen minutes later, he walked into the interview with a perfect smile and a heart so heavy that he didn't know what to do with.
And you sat alone with his unanswered calls in your hand, knowing you had just become the villain in his story so he could still become the star he was meant to be.
synopsis | clandestine meetings came with the life he chose.
"you know smoking is bad for you?"
pairing | idol!jungkook x oc
genre | exes(?) to lovers; mature language(18+); yearning; groveling; angst; celebrity life
wc | 1k
series masterlist | next chapter
right where you left me - taylor swift
the echos of his slippers surround his house. his sleep deprived eyes sting as the morning light seeps through the curtains. this was daily, his struggle to sleep—in spite of his work schedule—started to seem like something that was permanent.
he wanted to believe that military life made him steadier, but his nocturnal behavior made him feel adolescent. he would like to believe he was happy. he finished his military obligation, he was back making music with his brothers, and he was now about to start touring, somehow, it wasn't enough.
he sighs, the weight of exhaustion hanging on his neck and shoulders. he looks at the time on the microwave display, he's early—very early. not surprising for someone who stayed awake all night. he had many interviews scheduled for recording today, and here he was sporting eye bags. he decided to ditch the breakfast that was in front of him, and shower to wake him up.
He throws his shirt off as he enters his bathroom turning to look at himself in the mirror. he scans his body, the tattoos covering his right arm and shoulder and the thin chain hanging down his sternum. hanging from was a red gemstone lollipop, nothing loud or extravagant, it's simple yet so beautiful. maybe he thinks so because of the sentiment it holds, after all these years he refuses to take it off and shamelessly lets the world see. its selfish of him. to display something that has consumed him, yet when he had it, he chose to keep it hidden, and refused to admit he wanted it.
it was easy—well, now that he's older, he can recognize that it was easy. he lets every 'i should have' and every 'what if' linger where sleep can't. can he really blame it on his naivety back then? it's not like he was really a kid. he just didn't like the idea of staying in one place.
he brings his hand to the pendant, and his fingers caress it. his head is hurting from the lack of sleep, thinking about his omissions made it more unbearable. his hands reach behind his neck and unhook the chain, he sets it on the counter, he refuses to shower with it and have it be another keepsake that has been tarnished
they're asked the same questions every interview for their american press tours. though excited he's returned to making music, it's boring for him. nothing to get him stay engaged in these schedules, even more now that his is running on no sleep. thankfully, this is a photoshoot for a magazine article. from his experience, the questions tend to be more thought provoking that the podcast interviews they indulge in.
"this question is open to everyone, but i specifically am curious to hear what jungkook has to say" the interviewer snaps him from his spacing out. "what decision would you say altered your life the most?"
the question could be easily anwered 'my decision to audition for bighit.' yet that seemed too media trained for his liking. the question was so simple, also different. he could take it in so many directions. there was a brief silence as he thought about his answer.
"thinking that settling meant restricting myself."
it was a vague answer, he knew that. he was also expecting the interviewer to ask him for an elaboration. there was a hope he could avoid it. his members knew exactly what he was doing choosing the word 'settling', its not like they were oblivious to what he was implying.
he feels the way some of his members are looking at him. he sees how namjoon's leg begins to bounce and how jimin was picking at his fingers.
"how so?"
"i tend to want things whether it be career wise, or just life wise yet in doing so, i let myself believe those choices can prevent me from other opportunities in the long run."
jungkook let his media training take the wheel. he wanted those who read the article to interpret what he's implying. and hopefully the right person interprets it the way he intended for his answer to be.
finishing a day of work never felt better, it was certainly because jungkook needed a nap. they enter the room to change out of their endorsed clothing. at the moment jungkook wasn't in the best mood, yet still tried to be an active participant in conversations occurring throughout the room.
"jungkook, do you have an extra shirt?" taehyung asks.
"uh, i think i have one in my backpack. not too sure, though." jungkook was zipping up his sweater.
jungkook was the one the others would go to when they need a basic necessity, considering he carried a somewhat obnoxiously large backpack on the daily.
"hey man, why do you have a bunch of lollipops lying around on the bottom of you bag?" taehyung asks rummaging through the bag.
"i though it was known that i quit smoking, lollipops are supposed to be a good substitute." jungkook's response comes of bored, withdrawn. to his hyungs, it sounded like he didn't want to engage.
"really? says who?" namjoon asks. jungkook sits on the couch in the room, trying to keep consciousness.
"an old friend." jungkook sighs and rests he head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes.
an old friend? jungkook knows very well it wasn't just 'an old friend' and he also knows his hyungs aren't blind to that either. even with that, his brothers choose not to pry more.
being transparent was never for him. despite his public image where his fans can say he wears his heart on his sleeve, it was truly hard for him too. yet here he was being an open book for his hyungs to read.
they know it. without knowing who she was or what even happened. they just know it.
taehyung found the extra shirt beneath a pool of strawberry lollipops. jungkook never remembered buying that many.
> summary: Sometimes you don't just fail to follow your best friend's train of thought, you can't make sense of them at all. Like this time, when Jungkook comes up with the "brilliant" idea of going to couples therapy, even though you're not a couple, just to see how long it takes the therapist to see through your charade.
> best friend! Jungkook x f.reader
> romcom, idiots2lovers, best friends2lovers, slow burn, angst
> wc: 2.7k
> rating: 18+, MDNI
> warnings: still toxic, jealousy, enter player no 2 / love-triangle hihi, foul language
Mulling over the past few weeks, it isn’t far-fetched that your relationship with Jungkook resembles a phone buzzing with an unknown text.
There is something familiar—the sound and the feel of your phone, or in this case Jungkook’s—something you’ve encountered so often that it has become part of the mental inventory of the person. His muttering when you were just about to head out, into the nightlife, or even when he would generously offer to drive you home after a night at his—“phone, wallet, keys“—patting each item through his clothes to make sure he hadn’t forgotten them.
How often had you held his phone in your hand, felt the edges against the grooves of your sensitive fingertips, its weight so much lighter than yours because of the high-tech case that only he seemed to have. And yet now, as it lies before you, as you stare at it while the slender hands of the clock on your living room wall circle more sluggishly than ever before, you see with startling clarity that this unknown text glowing brightly is just as unpleasant, if not more irritating, than Jungkook himself.
‘You free?’
It could be harmless in the simplicity of the words themselves, in the plainness of asking whether the owner of the phone has space in his life for another person, perhaps just for some spare minutes, or quite for a lifetime just as much. But the obscurity of that person— this faceless presence—is something that once again sets your blood simmering, as it has been for days.
Sohee 🍑
Is it too dramatic that you’ll hate this name for the rest of your life, if not for the next four reincarnations as well?
You let the thought pass, because right now is right now, and at this very moment your mind refuses to detach itself from Jungkook.
It’s only understandable—expected, even—that a bachelor of his age and calibre doesn’t live a life of celibacy but—as the new trendy generation likes to say—crashes out every now and then. Well… even in your own head that sounds not quite right—he’s perfectly entitled to shag someone from time to time.
The fact you don’t like it for reasons you can’t quite identify should really be a you problem. A thoroughly inconvenient and entirely pointless problem, especially when you’re supposed to have nothing more than a purely platonic friendship with him.
So you flip the metaphorical record over, trying not only to listen to the B-side but to rewrite it altogether. You scratch out what was probably meant to be flirting, skip over the touches entirely, let the almost-kiss stammer awkwardly past, and when the next track begins, you refuse to think about it anymore.
Maybe there’s a love song hidden on this side of the record too. Maybe it’s prettier than all that overdramatic teenage drivel that sounded wonderful a few years ago but now only makes your ears bleed.
Or, maybe, that’s complete bullshit, because you can’t teach an old dog—aka you—new tricks.
So you tap the dimmed screen once more, pulling the same disgusted face when you see that stupid name and stupid message, mentally hearing its shrill ping all over again. Curiosity seems every bit as revolting as jealousy when you open his contacts and search for your own name.
Prepared to find dozens—ones that somehow feel like billions—of women’s names paired with every emoji imaginable, you scroll through the surprisingly short list, your shoulders sagging with relief you desperately needed. Still, your own name doesn’t appear straight away. You pause for a second before deciding to search his messages instead.
You ignore Sohee 🍑 for now. Just like Minji 🧨, Haeun 💦, Jiwoo 🥥, Seoyun 🫦…
Yeah, no. Your blood immediately starts boiling again. Seeing them all like that is just a tiny bit too much. Who are you joking—you want to drown him in the dirty waters of a public toilet.
And then there’s—because Jungkook’s the absolute brain-dead moron that he is—your name that’s rather embarrassingly saved as demon 👹.
Your eyelid twitches.
You’re seconds away from ringing your own beautifully named contact—and by extension yourself—when Yoongi’s name and photo suddenly fill the screen, the phone slipping from your hand, vibrating and skidding across the kitchen table.
Yoongi’s your friend too, so you reckon answering shouldn’t be a problem.
“Hellooo.” You drag the o out theatrically, just like you always do whenever you’re granted the honour of busy Yoongi ringing you.
A brief silence follows before his unmistakably bored, deep drawl comes through. “Is the rat with you?”
It brightens your mood far more than it should. A genuine smile full of teeth—the sort you don’t think you’ve had in days—splits your face open before you can overthink it again. “Nope. I’ve got his phone for now, and he’s got mine.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t the others tell you about the thera—”
“Yep.”
“That’s why. So if you want to talk to ‘the rat’, you’ll have to ring me.”
You think you hear the faintest huff from the other end of the line, making you smile again. Yoongi had always been like this, and somehow you’d never managed to stop being just a little fond of him.
Maybe you have a weakness for emotionally unavailable—or, in Jungkook’s case, emotionally crippled—men. Yoongi, while nowhere near as chaotic as Jungkook, had always been a closed book.
Well. A very attractive closed book. One secured with seven seals, at least as far as you were concerned.
“So… are you two actually dating now, or…?”
He leaves the sentence unfinished, letting you fill in the blank yourself. The first option seems so absurdly unrealistic that even Namjoon should’ve seen through it by now.
“Nope.” You repeat yourself, drawing a breath to add something else, only to realise the words simply aren’t there. So you leave it at that.
“Good.”
Okay?
The next silence feels oddly clumsy—something you’re completely unaccustomed to whenever you speak to Yoongi. Then, after another quiet breath from his end and a brief clearing of his throat, he continues. “You doing anything tonight?”
The group chat hasn’t had any new messages. Did they make plans without you? That would be so rude.
“No. Why?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something nice.”
And the line goes dead.
What. The. Actual fuck. Is that supposed to mean?
It all seems to fly straight over your head. Then again…that seems to be what your entire life is doing at the moment.
Desperate for some kind of clarity, you open Taehyung’s chat—saved as “mouth breather ☢️”—to ask whether the group’s got something planned for tonight, only to abandon the idea the second you notice their entire conversation history for the past few days—you don't bother confirming it being weeks—consists of nothing but “🖕” being sent back and forth.
“They seriously needed therapy.” You mutter to yourself, shaking your head as though someone were sitting beside you to agree.
And since killing two birds with one stone is supposedly efficient, you decide to ring the real demon instead, fully expecting nothing more than short answers considering the two of you are hardly on friendly—or even speaking—terms at the moment.
Thankfully, Jungkook answers after the very first ring, sparing you from letting your impulsiveness win by hanging up just as quickly.
“What’s up?” he sings into your ear.
After a brief internal debate over whether to start with his little bedroom adventure or Yoongi, you settle on the less emotionally charged topic.
“Have we got plans tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?” he shoots back, as if, after everything that’s happened, you’d actually fancy hanging out with him alone.
“No, not we as in you and me. Yoongi said something about picking me up tonight and told me to wear something nice. Has the group planned something without telling me or what?”
God, this particular kind of silence from Jungkook can be lethal, your sweat glands already sounding the alarm.
“No.” So painfully cold. “Where are you two going?”
“If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t have rung you, would I?”
Yep, even if you’re feeling a little skittish now, your irritation apparently has no intention of keeping quiet.
“Well… have fun then. Tell him to wear a condom.”
The rustling you hear next tells you the buff asshole is about to hang up, but you’re seeing red enough to shout into the phone—“Wait!”
A moment later, a short, equally simmering hum comes through, indicating he’s still listening.
“Your Sohee wants to see you. Be a sweetheart and call her so the poor girl doesn’t have to keep waiting.” You really can be an absolute bitch when someone pushes you far enough.
“No, ___, she’s not my—” He rushes to explain, but you’ve got no patience left.
So you cut him off, stressing every single word.
“Wear a condom, Jungkook.”
And you hang up.
Funny how you’d thought Yoongi would be the less emotionally charged subject. Even funnier that it’s only now, as you’re sitting opposite him in this four-star Michelin restaurant overlooking the city’s entire skyline in a full 360 degree panorama, that it dawns on you Jungkook only answered the phone so quickly because he’d probably been rifling through your mobile like some fucking sniffer dog.
Joke’s on him, he won’t find anything. Your slate’s clean!
“Another splash?” Yoongi angles the nearly empty bottle of Romanée-Conti towards your empty glass with the effortless refinement that’s simply customary in the circles the two of you move in.
“Please.” A smile naturally comes with him, not only because you’ve been friends for so long, but because Yoongi is just such a darling.
At first, you’d thought he was just another arrogant loser, the sort chaebol heirs always seem to be, but he’s so much more than that—he always has been. But when, straight after graduating, he took over his family’s empire, the largest pharmaceutical and chemical company in the whole of Asia, and still had far more than just peanuts left over to support charities across the board, it became clear to you and every one of your friends that Yoongi is one of a kind, not only in your generation, but in the entire millennium.
When he’d picked you up a few hours earlier, exactly as arranged—and you have to admit there was something about his punctuality and reliability that scratched at something absolutely vital in your brain—in his onyx-coloured car, greeting you—against every ritual the two of you had established until then—with a gentle kiss to your left cheek accompanied by those deep, quiet words about how enchanting you looked, his hand resting not only at the small of your back but wandering a little lower before opening the passenger door for you with a charming smile that made you melt despite yourself, it finally dawned on you that this wasn’t simply two long-time friends meeting up.
It was a date.
With a capital D.
The reason you’d agreed to all of this so readily, you mostly put down to your need for predictability and Yoongi’s unreasonably exceptional charm. Hell, you are friends, talking to him has never been difficult, almost as effortlessly easy as it always is with Jungkook. Yet somewhere in the middle of making that comparison, one thing becomes impossible to ignore:
With Yoongi, you’re safe. Without a doubt in your soul. You always have been.
With Jungkook, meh, not so much.
Perhaps that’s exactly the sticking point flashing brightly behind your eyelids every time you blink, when Yoongi, after the two of you have eaten your way through every course beneath candlelight and the distant glitter of the city at night, and the evening is slowly drawing to a close, drops a bomb that really ought to have been nothing more than a snapper pea, seeing as you truly should have seen it coming.
“I know that you and Jungkook have a rather…” his characteristic inhale through his teeth cuts him off for a moment as you hastily take another very generous sip of your red wine. “…intertwined friendship. You always have.”
Yoongi looks at you for a moment, perhaps waiting for agreement, or protest, but you’ve fallen silent, your eyes wide, expectant or frightened—you aren’t quite sure yourself—as you look back at him.
So he continues, unfaltering. “I don’t ever want to regret not doing what I’m convinced is the right thing. Especially after I heard the two of you had started that couples therapy.”
“Yeah, that’s—” you begin awkwardly.
“Just for a laugh. I know.”
He moistens his lips with his wine-purple tongue, your pupils inevitably following the movement as heat rises into your face. You hope it’s only the wine.
“I’ve had feelings for you, ___. For quite a while now. Maybe you’ve never considered me that way, but I don’t want to leave it untried.”
Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t say anything as your mouth hangs slightly open, your brain clinically dead for a moment from sheer overload.
“I’d like you to think about it properly. I don’t need an answer straight away, take your time. I can give you everything you want and everything you need. You deserve that. And so much more.”
A gentle smile.
Nothing but goodwill in those sharp eyes you’ve known for so long—and yet not like this.
You’d be lying to yourself if you said you’d never played this little game in your head before. What it would be like to be Mrs Min Yoongi one day.
You’re certain, certain enough to stake your life on it, that if you chose that life, there wouldn’t be a single thing you’d ever go without, and you’re not just talking materially, even though you’re pretty loaded yourself—which pales in comparison to Yoongi’s net worth.
It would be a life where he’d lay the world at your feet, willingly, out of love, because Yoongi simply is the most loyal person in the world, faithful to the bone, emotionally open only with the people closest to him. He’d be dependable, an incredible husband and surely father too, you’d hardly ever argue because you know he’d rather accept a compromise that left him bleeding out than let the person he loves feel even the slightest prick of discomfort.
It would be so unimaginably easy. Especially since—no doubt—there's a minuscule spark if you can call it like that inside you as well.
And he’s presenting himself and all these possibilities to you on a silver platter, figuratively on one knee before you, because you know exactly that when Yoongi says something, it’s well considered and final. He’s thought every risk through to the very end, he knows exactly what he wants, and if you were to say yes, he’d spend the rest of his life happy, steadfast in that decision.
“Okay…” You breathe the word quietly, your eyes slightly glassy not only because the wine has finally gone to your head, but because this entire conversation has unexpectedly made you emotional. Why, you don‘t want to fully admit to yourself just yet. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
And with that, he finishes the rest of his wine, gets to his feet, walks around the little table and helps you out of your chair, into your coat, carries your small handbag, accompanies you through the lift and back to his car and your flat, where, before leaving, he presses that same intoxicating kiss to your cheek once again and wishes you a good night.
Your head spins in wild circles as you close the door behind you, immediately slumping back against it.
“What on earth was that?” you sigh, your eyes closed.
“Had your fun?”
The scream that tears out of you from pure shock borders on homicide, never in a million years expecting Jungkook to be sitting alone in your flat, in your armchair, which he’s apparently dragged into the middle of the room purely so he’d have a clear view of the front door.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
He has the code to your flat just as you have the code to his, and normally there’d be nothing unusual about finding the other in your respective home.
Tonight, though, to this hour, his presence is about as welcome as his phone buzzing with a text from—you wish was—an unknown number instead this morning.
summary: desperate to see if a man devoted to god will unravel, you test his faith with your sweet, deceptive innocence—seducing fr. jeon until his devotion no longer belongs to god…but to you.
warnings: priest jungkook x sinful reader, explicit sexual content, forbidden relationship, candle wax play, rosary choking, edging, clit rubbing, filthy sexual desires, spitting, degradation, mock sympathy, pussy eating, condescending dirty talk, blow job, cum eating, usage of whore & slut, praising, cum eating, m. masturbation, manipulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, overstimulation, fingering, penetrative sex, creampie.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂˚₊┈┈୨୧┈┈‧₊˚⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂
Temptation, they said, was the devil's favorite weapon…subtle, patient, and often disguised as something beautiful.
Your beauty was the kind that invited sin. Like a priceless painting in a museum, admired by many but forbidden to touch, existing only to test the restraint of those who stood before it.
Yet despite the effect you seemed to have on everyone else, Fr. Jeon remained frustratingly untouched by it all. Men had always looked twice, their attention lingering long enough to make their interest known. But his eyes never lingered on you. They would meet yours for a fleeting moment before moving on, calm and unwavering, carrying the same gentle warmth they offered every soul that walked through the church doors.
Pathetic.
Wearing a long white virginal skirt, a matching conservative blouse, and your hair falling neatly down your waist, you grabbed your purse before heading downstairs to meet Sana.
“Glad you finally wore something decent,” Sana commented with a sheepish smile when she saw you stepping out of your house.
You pouted, looking down at the modest skirt fluttering around your ankles. “My cute dresses are decent too, you know.”
You weren’t a very religious person, but when your friend Sana told you she wanted to join the church choir, you were more than happy to come with her.
Between the two of you, she was the religious one—always carrying a small pocket bible in her purse, always reminding you to watch your words and actions because God was watching.
A lot of your friends were confused about how the two of you became so close. You were playful, rebellious, and bratty—more of a bad influence beside someone so polite and devout. But despite your mischievous nature, you were very sweet, friendly and charming. At university, you were one of the popular students, with plenty of friends and a reputation as a social butterfly.
When you first met Sana, you hadn’t expected the two of you to get along. She was a new student, still adjusting to the unfamiliar environment and trying to find her place among the other students. Being the friendly social butterfly that you were, you became the first person to approach her.
Your personalities couldn’t have been more different. Sana was calm, reserved, and quiet, while you were bold, bright, and loud.
Despite being complete opposites, the two of you grew unexpectedly close. You liked Sana because she was a breath of fresh air. Her calmness grounded the chaos within you, while your playfulness brought balance and excitement to her peaceful life.
Ever since you became best friends, you often accompanied her to church. Although you looked somewhat out of place trailing behind her while she helped with various church duties, volunteer work, and parish activities...you still enjoyed spending time with her.
You liked how she always listened to your rants and endless rambles. Following her around while she busied herself carrying boxes and helping wherever she could, your kitten heels clicked softly against the church’s marbled floors, and the longest dress you could find in your closet swayed gently with every step. As unusual as it felt to be dressed so modestly, you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed these moments with Sana.
Your usual style of dressing didn’t exactly align with the church’s dress code… you had to trade your short skirts, midriff-baring tops, tight dresses, and cute spaghetti-strap tops for something more... demure.
At first, you tried to argue against it, but Sana quickly reminded you that those clothes weren’t appropriate for church. And of course, you had no choice but to listen unless you wanted another lecture about being a poor instrument of the Lord.
“Since when did you become a singer?” you teased as the two of you entered the church alongside a few parishioners and choir members.
Sana was dressed similarly to you, wearing a long skirt paired with a flowy long-sleeved blouse. In her right hand, she carried a small booklet filled with choir songs.
She pouted. “I can sing a bit, you know.” she opened the booklet and flipped through its pages. “As long as I’m serving the Lord, then no voice shall sound bad.”
You chuckled, already accustomed to her holy little remarks.
“If you say so,” you sang back playfully, following her up to the choir loft. You offered a polite smile to the other choir members, who were already busy practicing.
Since you weren’t actually there to join the choir, you let Sana focus on rehearsal while you wandered around the church on your own. Normally, you would have spent the entire time chatting her ear off, rambling about anything and everything, but today you let her concentrate.
A few parishioners were arranging fresh flowers around the framed images of saints, while others carefully dusted and polished the statues lining the church walls. The distant voices of the choir drifted through the air, blending with the soft murmur of prayers and quiet conversations, creating a peaceful atmosphere that settled gently around you.
When Sana first invited you to come with her to church, you had agreed out of nothing more than curiosity. You traded your usual weekend night outs for sunday mass, wanting to see the world through her eyes and understand why this place, with its quiet prayers and solemn rituals, meant so much to her.
The church offered a kind of quiet that rarely existed in your everyday life. Away from crowded parties, endless conversations, and the glittering chaos of your social circle, there was something unexpectedly comforting about this place. It gave you a chance to slow down, to breathe, and to simply exist without needing to be the loudest person in the room.
“Good morning, Fr. Jeon.” a few choir members and parishioners greeted.
You turned around absentmindedly, your head tilting curiously when you saw a priest entering through one of the church's side doors. Dressed in a long black cassock, he offered everyone a warm smile and a slight bow as he stepped inside.
A new priest?
“Are you here for the charity blessing, Fr. Jeon?” someone asked.
The woman approached him and received a gentle pat on the head in return.
He smiled. “Yes, I stopped by to gather a few materials for the blessing.”
Your head tilted slightly as you watched him, finding yourself taking an unconscious step forward.
A handsome fucking priest.
For the past few months that you'd been spending time at the church with Sana, this was the first time you'd seen him, and unfortunately for your soul, he was ridiculously attractive.
You found yourself shamelessly staring, almost in awe as he greeted everyone with effortless kindness.
He bowed politely, acknowledged each person with a warm smile, and listened attentively whenever someone spoke to him. It should've been a crime for a priest to be that good-looking.
Sinful.
The long black cassock he wore looked attractively sinful wrapped around someone so impossibly holy, the stark contrast only making him harder to ignore. His sharp jawline became more pronounced whenever he turned to greet someone with a kind smile, and a pair of thin-framed glasses rested neatly on his nose, lending him an air of quiet intelligence that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. His eyes were dark and warm behind the lenses, attentive whenever he listened to someone speak, and his jet-black hair was styled neatly, though a few stubborn strands had fallen across his forehead.
Everything about him looked composed, dignified, and entirely inappropriate for the thoughts currently running through your head.
You almost let out a dramatic gasp when Fr. Jeon finally waved his goodbye and turned to leave. A curse nearly slipped from your lips as you watched him make his way toward the church doors.
Everyone else had managed to greet him and earn one of his warm smiles, some even receiving a fond pat on the head. Meanwhile, you had spent the entire time standing near the altar, staring at him like an absolute creep, too mesmerized by his existence.
Internally rolling your eyes at yourself and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, you watched him disappear through the church doors. And then, because apparently your dignity had already left the building before he did, you immediately made your way back to Sana, who was still busy practicing her choir lines.
“So...” you began, trailing behind Sana as she walked around with her booklet, quietly memorizing her choir pieces.
“Is Fr. Jeon a real priest?”
Sana lowered the booklet and stared at you, her brows knitting together as she caught the suspicious wiggle of your eyebrows.
“Huh?”
“I mean...” you hesitated. “Is he a real priest or, like… an intern priest?”
The moment the words left your mouth, you realized how stupid they sounded.
Was there even such a thing as a priest internship?
Sana blinked. Then she burst out laughing. “He's a real priest, Y/N. What do you mean, intern priest?”
Your cheeks immediately warmed. You looked away while she continued laughing, lifting the booklet back up as you followed after her.
You pouted. “Well... he looks young.” And hot. “And I've never seen him before. Every time I've attended mass with you, he wasn't the presider.”
You tried to think back to the past few months but came up empty. No handsome priests. Because if there had been one, you definitely would've remembered.
In fact, you were pretty sure you would've started sitting in the front row.
“Yeah, because he only got appointed recently,” Sana answered, her attention back on the booklet. “A few months ago, I think.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, almost groaning when you haven’t met him before he got appointed.
What the fuck, Y/N. Are you seriously eyeing a priest?
Absolutely not. That was...unholy!
For the following weeks, you found yourself clinging to Sana more than usual.
At first, you convinced yourself it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Going to church with her wasn't exactly new.
You just weren't nearly as consistent as she was.
There were plenty of sundays you skipped altogether, choosing late nights with your friends over early mornings in church. Besides, you figured there would always be another mass to attend, while convincing Sana to show up at one of your parties was practically impossible.
That was why you never attended as regularly as she did.
Lately, however, the situation seemed to have reversed. Now, you were the one volunteering to come.
Party invitations sat unanswered in your messages. Night outs were declined without hesitation. Instead, you found yourself asking Sana about choir practice, church activities, and whether she planned on volunteering for any upcoming events.
It was becoming a little concerning.
Wearing one of your now-usual long skirts and a modest blouse approved by church standards, you applied an extra layer of lip gloss in front of your mirror. Excitement bubbled inside you as you remembered what Sana had told you earlier that week—a charity event was coming up, and the church needed volunteers to help organize donations.
There had been plenty of charity events before, many of which you had skipped. Sana would usually spend the entire day helping sort donations and assisting the parishioners, leaving little time for the two of you to actually spend together. As much as you enjoyed tagging along with her, wandering around the church by yourself for hours wasn't exactly appealing.
This time, however, you were genuinely excited to come.
It wasn't as though you couldn't visit the church on your own. Nobody would stop you if you decided to drop by one afternoon.
The problem was that it would be… strange.
Ever since you started coming to church, it had always been because of Sana. Everyone knew you as her friend, not as someone particularly devoted to the church.
If you suddenly started showing up by yourself every weekend, people would notice. You weren't exactly known for your devotion.
Especially when the answer involved a certain priest.
It was already strange enough that you were beginning to resemble a devoted Christian.
False piety.
When you arrived at the church, your heartbeat picked up immediately. Volunteers moved in and out of the building carrying boxes and supplies, conversations blending into a lively hum that filled the grounds.
“You can help with the boxes, Y/N. I'll just talk to the choir members,” Sana said with a smile.
You nodded a little too eagerly, grateful she didn’t question your sudden burst of interest in coming with her to church. It helped that you had accompanied her before—enough for it to not feel completely out of the blue.
“Okay! I'll help with the boxes!” you smiled brightly.
The moment Sana wandered off to join the other choir members, you immediately began looking around for ways to help.
“Let me carry those,” you offered with a bright smile, reaching for a volunteer struggling with a stack of old toy boxes meant for donation.
The woman thanked you and asked if you could bring them outside, where a small truck was parked to collect everything.
You happily agreed.
“I hope he comes today,” you muttered under your breath as you carried the boxes toward the truck, your eyes drifting toward the church entrance every few seconds.
According to Sana, Fr. Jeon frequently stopped by to check on donation drives, visit the parish office, or help coordinate volunteer work.
You had already carried nine boxes, then… ten. With every trip back and forth, you found yourself slowly losing hope that Fr. Jeon would show up at all. You were starting to regret wearing your cutest pink skirt today, and the growing disappointment was beginning to settle in alongside your irritation.
Just as you were about to accept that all your effort had been wasted, Fr. Jeon finally appeared, walking into the church hall.
Your eyes widened.
“Fuck—” you immediately winced, biting your lip the moment the word escaped. Mentally apologizing for cursing inside the church.
With a fresh box of donations balanced in your arms, you hurried toward the entrance, trying your best to look useful, helpful and responsible. Like the kind of person who volunteered here regularly and wasn't secretly waiting for your handsome priest to show up.
Your heart hammered against your ribs when he finally glanced in your direction.
“Good day,” he greeted with a smile and a polite nod, raising his right hand to gently pat your head.
Your cheeks immediately flushed, almost dropping the boxes when he touched you.
He patted my head!
Today, he was dressed in a fitted black long-sleeved shirt tucked neatly into black slacks, a simple brown cross necklace resting against his chest. His jet-black hair was styled neatly away from his face, exposing a heart-shaped forehead that made him look unfairly handsome. He wore his usual pair of glasses, the thin frames resting on the bridge of his nose and softening the sharpness of his features. Behind the lenses, his round eyes looked steady and attentive, always observant, as if he noticed everything without ever needing to say so.
Goodness gracious.
Your gaze drifted lower, almost shamelessly staring…only to pause on his right hand.
You frowned slightly, you wanted to take a longer look, but his sleeves hid the rest of his arms from view, making it impossible to tell how far they extended.
Was that a tattoo?
For some reason, that discovery stunned you more than it should have. Priests and tattoos weren't exactly a combination you'd ever imagined together.
You were so distracted staring at his hand that you didn't realize he had already walked past you and moved on to greet the other volunteers.
You didn't even greet him back! Oh God.
Panic immediately settled in your chest. Adjusting your grip on the donation box, you hurried after him, determined to salvage the interaction somehow. You just needed a reason to talk to him.
A simple religious question, maybe?
Unfortunately, your brain had chosen this exact moment to stop working.
You couldn't exactly walk up to him and ask if priests were allowed to have tattoos. Nor could you suddenly start quoting bible verses when the majority of your religious knowledge came from Sana lecturing you every other week.
You wanted to sound natural and virginal.
The problem was that you had absolutely no idea how to start a holy conversation without sounding fake about it, like you were trying too hard to be someone you weren’t.
When you saw him entering the church office, you frowned and stomped your foot against the floor in irritation.
Pity.
You were a bit disappointed when his gaze didn’t even linger on you. You were used to boys in college always noticing you…showing their interest, getting swayed by your pretty face and charming personality. But here, inside the church, you were nothing more than another kind volunteer in his eyes—someone he greeted with the same calm respect he gave everyone else.
Importunate.
At this point, it had become a routine. You would come to church with Sana after school, grateful she had joined the choir because it gave you an excuse to be there almost every day instead of only on weekends.
While she attended rehearsals, you spent your afternoons helping with volunteer work and assisting the parishioners...all while discreetly searching the church grounds for your future boyfriend.
You even started dressing for it—slipping into the most “virginal” outfits your closet could offer in hopes of blending in. Long skirts, conservative blouses, dresses that covered everything they possibly could. It was almost laughable how much effort you put into looking like the perfect church girl, when a few months ago you would’ve rather died than be seen in half of these outfits.
The worst part was that it wasn't even guaranteed to work.
There were days when your timing simply didn't align. You would arrive at the church only to hear that Fr. Jeon had already stopped by earlier, or spend the afternoon helping around the parish before finding out he had come and gone while you were busy elsewhere. Sometimes you would leave just before he arrived, missing him by mere minutes.
You would come home without seeing even a glimpse of him, staring at your ceiling later that night and wondering why you felt so deflated over someone you barely knew.
Then there were the good days—when your schedules happened to align and you finally saw him. Your eyes would immediately light up the moment you spotted him across the church grounds, your smile growing brighter despite your attempts to act normal, your cheeks burning whenever he greeted you with that gentle smile and absentminded pat on the head.
Transgression.
At first, seeing him had been enough. Now, however, you found yourself expecting more. Not much...just a conversation that lasted longer than a few seconds. Something beyond charity drives, donation boxes, retreats, and volunteer work.
But Fr. Jeon was frustratingly...polite.
He greeted everyone with the same kindness, smiled at everyone with the same warmth, and spoke to everyone with the same respectful attentiveness. Whenever you managed to stand near him long enough for a conversation, he would ask about the charity, the donations, the volunteers, or whatever church event happened to be coming up next.
The discussion always remained firmly within the boundaries of church matters, and before you knew it, he would excuse himself to continue helping elsewhere.
You couldn't even ask him anything personal. Every question that came to mind sounded ridiculous the moment you imagined saying it out loud. Are those tattoos real? How old are you? Why are you so handsome for a priest?
None of them exactly sounded appropriate for church conversation.
So you remained stuck in this strange little cycle of yours, coming to church almost everyday with hopes far bigger than the interactions you actually received. And despite how ridiculous it felt, despite how much you scolded yourself for it, the highlight of your day was still that brief smile and the weight of his hand resting atop your head for a few seconds.
Shameful.
A shame that you had never actually talked to him.
Not beyond a few good afternoons exchanged in passing and the occasional greeting whenever your paths crossed around the church.
You didn't want to be too bold, afraid that he would notice your embarrassingly obvious attempts to get his attention. As someone who wasn't particularly religious, you found yourself in an absurd predicament.
Should you start reading the bible? Memorize a few scriptures? Learn enough about church teachings to hold an intelligent conversation with him?
The fact that you were even considering studying scripture just to impress a priest made you question every life decision that had led you to this point.
You wanted his eyes to linger on you. Wanted him to look at you a little longer than everyone else. Wanted to feel special in some way. But every time your gaze met his, he would simply smile and move on, his attention never staying in one place for too long.
Sometimes you wondered if the only thing capable of holding his complete devotion was God himself.
Which was unfortunate for you. Because you were used to being noticed.
You were pretty, and you knew it. Attention had always come easily to you, yet the one man whose attention you wanted most remained completely out of reach.
A man who was distant, unattainable, and forbidden in every possible sense of the word.
Standing in front of your mirror that afternoon, you smoothed down your floral dress and examined your reflection one last time. The modest dress fell neatly against your figure, paired with white kitten heels that made you look far more innocent than you actually were. You dabbed a little extra blush onto your cheeks before adding a touch more glitter to your eyelids, your excitement growing as you remembered what Sana had told you earlier that week.
Fr. Jeon would be presiding over today's mass.
It would be the first mass of his that you would be attending, and as you stared at yourself in the mirror, unable to stop smiling, you realized your excitement felt dangerously close to the kind of anticipation one would have before a date.
Sana had noticed that you were coming with her far more often nowadays, but being as naive and obedient as she was, she only took it as a good sign. In her eyes, your heart was simply getting closer to God, closer to faith, closer to something pure and meaningful.
Closer to Fr. Jeon, rather.
“You look excited,” she said with a soft smile, her eyes twinkling when you mentioned wanting to sit in the front row. The thought only made her happier, convinced that your devotion was finally deepening in the way she had always hoped for you.
Oh, you were devoted.
“Excited for the Mass, you know,” you replied with a small giggle, clasping your hands together as if to sell the image. “Wonder what bible chapter will be discussed today.”
Of course you were gonna listen, be a good little church girl and have your eyes and attention to him.
Your eyes were practically shining when you stepped into the church, making a beeline for the front row without hesitation. You sat down shamelessly, smoothing your skirt as if you had done this every sunday of your life.
Sana only smiled at your eagerness, completely oblivious to the fact that your decision had nothing to do with spiritual focus and everything to do with proximity. Sitting at the front felt less like devotion and more like VIP seating for the sole purpose of seeing Fr. Jeon up close.
When the bell finally rang, the entire church rose to its feet. Your heart kicked up immediately as the sacristans entered in procession, one of them carrying a smoking thurible that swung gently with each step. And right at the center of it all was him.
Your future boyfriend.
Your lips parted slightly, eyes widening as Fr. Jeon walked slowly down the nave with calm, deliberate steps. His hands were clasped together in front of him in prayer, and he wore the full liturgical vestments—a long white linen robe beneath a green chasuble, a thin stole draped over his shoulders, and a cincture tied neatly at his waist. The fabric moved softly as he walked, making him look almost unreal under the church lights, like something out of a painting you weren’t supposed to stare at for too long.
He greeted people with gentle smiles along the way, bowing his head politely, even pausing to pat a few children on the head as he passed the pews.
By the time he reached the altar, your attention was fully locked in.
Disingenuous.
You nodded a little too eagerly when responses were required, your voice coming out brighter than necessary during the choir parts, as if enthusiasm alone could prove your devotion. Every time he spoke, your focus sharpened, hanging onto his words a little too intently, even when you were supposed to be blending in with the rest of the congregation.
He was wearing his usual pair of glasses, slowly turning the pages of the bible with precise, practiced movements. His voice was steady and clear as he read, each word delivered with a calm authority that made it clear this role suited him completely. There was nothing rushed about him, nothing uncertain.. only a quiet certainty in the way he stood at the altar, as if it had always belonged to him.
By now, you had started mirroring him without even realizing it. Whenever he closed his eyes to say the prayers, you would close yours too, hands folded a little tighter than necessary, breathing in sync with the rhythm of the mass.
You were fucking crazy.
When it was time for the holy communion, you stood up almost too quickly, your heart thudding loudly in your chest as you joined the line forming in the aisle. Each step forward felt heavier than it should have, not because of the sacrament itself, but because of who was waiting near the altar.
“Are you alright?” Sana commented quietly when she noticed your flushed expression after the bell rang.
You let out a small, awkward laugh and instinctively smoothed down your long hair, trying to compose yourself. “Just thinking about my prayers,” you said lightly, as if that explanation made any sense at all.
She gasped, like you were really serious about your prayers, when all you could think about was—
He’s gonna feed me the host!
You were almost sweating as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling the moment inch closer with every step in the line. Sana’s voice was still beside you, something about God always listening and having faith in his timing, but her words barely registered anymore. Your mind was elsewhere entirely, stuck on the growing realization that you were seconds away from facing him directly.
Preparing your hands in a prayer position, your brain almost short-circuited when you finally faced him, his right tatted hand holding the host up for you.
“The Body of Christ,” he said in a soft tone, almost detached in its reverence.
You wanted him to recognize you—the obedient good girl who always volunteered at the church. But fuck, he was too absorbed in God and the communion.
Your lips parted. “Amen…”
When he finally fed you the host, you almost choked when you felt the slight, accidental brush of his index finger against your lips as he withdrew his hand. You were left completely flustered, while he remained composed and focused on the ritual, seemingly unaware of the effect he had on you.
To you, it felt intimate.
To him, it was simply the Eucharist…a sacred duty, a practiced motion repeated countless times.
When you returned to your seat and lowered yourself to kneel again, you pressed your hands together a little too tightly. In your head, you immediately apologized to God for every impure thought, questionable intention, and shameless moment you had done.
Then, without even a full second of self-reflection, you proceeded to ask if he could somehow let you be a little closer to Fr. Jeon.
Your priorities were clearly a work in progress.
“Sana, are you gonna visit the church this week?” you asked with a small smile, falling into your usual habit of checking with her.
For the past few weeks, your afternoons and weekends had quietly reshaped themselves around her schedule.
It had become something strangely comforting… helping wherever you could, spending hours in a place that once felt unfamiliar but was now slowly turning into routine.
But of course, you couldn’t deny that recently, there was another reason woven into it too.
“Nope,” Sana replied as she hugged her books closer to her chest. “I have to study this week. Finals are coming up, and I still have a chemistry exam to review for before vacation starts.”
You groaned softly and walked beside her as the two of you left the campus. “Then why don’t we just stop by for a bit? To pray for good grades?” you suggested, lifting a brow as if it was the most logical solution in the world.
Please. Please. Please agree with me.
Sana pouted, clearly considering it for a moment, and your heart almost stopped in anticipation. Then she shook her head slowly, and your excitement deflated instantly.
“You’re right,” she said gently, “but it’s a long test, Y/N. I need to review all week. God would understand.”
She smiled softly and slipped her arm through yours. “Let’s just pray at home and do the rosary before reviewing.”
You forced a small smile, though your shoulders sagged slightly at the realization. It wasn’t just a missed church visit—it was a missed chance, even if you kept telling yourself it wasn’t supposed to be about that.
Sure, you would probably still see Fr. Jeon at sunday mass. He was the new presider in the city now, after all.
But it still wasn’t the same.
You almost groaned when you found yourself at the church that saturday morning. You were wearing a cream-colored dress, kitten heels, and a rosary necklace you had recently bought for the sole purpose of impressing Fr. Jeon. You had no idea whether he would even notice it, but in your mind, it felt like the kind of thing a good church girl would wear.
Preposterous.
Sashaying your way inside, you took in the usual parishioners and volunteers already busy arranging boxes for the charity drive.
You bit your lip. This was your first time visiting the church without Sana. Still, as you walked in, you were relieved when a few volunteers recognized you.
Thank God and all the saints.
You smiled and bent down to help with the boxes, already familiar with the routine—carrying them to the truck, sorting old clothes and toys, or helping with the lists.
If any of your uni friends saw you here alone, they would be completely confused. Without Sana, your sudden appearance at church would make absolutely no sense.
“Good day, Fr. Jeon.” someone greeted, and your ears immediately perked up. You turned just in time to see him entering the church halls in his usual black long sleeves and slacks.
You were only on your third box today! He was early!
Your lips curled into a small, excited smile as you instinctively stepped closer, box still in hand, already anticipating the familiar greeting and gentle pat on the head.
“Good day,” he said as expected, offering a polite nod before his hand lifted to pat your head.
Your eyelashes fluttered.
But instead of letting him move on to greet the others…for the first time in the past few weeks, you actually gathered the courage to stop him.
“Uh, Fr. Jeon?” you called softly just as he was about to turn away.
He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Yes, sweetheart?”
Jesus– God in heaven.
Your cheeks instantly reddened at the nickname, fingers tightening around the box. Still, you forced yourself to breathe, and finally blurted out the question you had been rehearsing all night.
“Just wondering if you have any c-chapter recommendations? I’m currently reading the bible and I don’t know where to start,” you said shyly.
There was a brief flicker of pleasant surprise on his face, quietly impressed that you were asking about the bible in the first place. It wasn't often that someone approached him with genuine curiosity about scripture.
He was about to answer when, suddenly…his attention shifted.
His gaze drifted downward, landing on the rosary hanging around your neck—the small cross resting between your breasts.
His lips pursed. “Sweetheart…rosaries are not meant to be worn as necklaces,” he chuckled softly, his eyes lingering on the rosary before looking back at you.
Your eyes widened. “I-It’s not…?” you asked, your ears and neck already heating in embarrassment.
Fuck. You didn’t know that!
Fr. Jeon exhaled gently. “It’s a prayer tool,” he explained, his tone patient and calm. “Meant to be held in the hands… used in prayer, not displayed like jewelry.”
You blinked. “I-I didn’t know,” you admitted quickly, almost defensively. “I just really… like rosaries.”
Deception.
Fr. Jeon sighed softly, then lifted a hand to gently pat your head. “It’s okay…if you want, you can still wear rosary bracelets.” he offered you a small, reassuring smile.
You almost melted at his kindness. “R-Right, that would be better,” you said shyly, barely keeping yourself together.
He chuckled softly at your reaction, adjusting his glasses before finally returning to your original question. “If you’re reading the bible,” he added at last, “start with the gospels. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
You nodded quickly, smiling up at him as he returned a warm, genuine smile of his own.
“Noted, Fr. Jeon.” you smiled, unconsciously stepping a little closer. “...Uhm, d-do you have a bible in your office, Father?” you asked shyly, doing your best to sound innocent and academically curious.
The moment the question left your mouth, you almost mentally slapped yourself.
Of course he has a bible in his office!
You opened your mouth, ready to rephrase the question, to save yourself from the embarrassment of sounding so foolish—but Fr. Jeon answered before you could.
“I do have a few bible collections in my office…would you like to see them?” Fr. Jeon offered, gesturing gently toward the church office.
You dropped the boxes. “Oh, my-”
Your plan actually worked!
Your eyes widened in horror. Mortified, you immediately bent down to pick them up, only to find Fr. Jeon already reaching for them.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he chuckled softly, lifting the boxes with ease as if they weighed nothing. “Let me carry these.”
“S-Sorry, it was kinda heavy,” you reasoned out, your neck already turning red. You still couldn’t believe you were actually having a full conversation with him.
And now he was even taking you to his office!
The Lord had truly answered your prayers.
With a polite smile, Fr. Jeon handed the boxes to the truck before gesturing for you to follow him toward the office.
“I can let you borrow a few scriptures if you’d like. I have the new version of the bible—would you want that?” Fr. Jeon asked as he reached into his pocket for his office keys.
You nodded immediately, hands clasping together behind your back. “Uh, yeah. That would be heavenly!”
Heavenly? For Christ’s sake, Y/N.
Fr. Jeon only smiled at that, unlocking and opening the office door as if he were letting you step into a space you had no right to be so excited about.
Pious.
You had done your research last night—it had been difficult since he was such a private person, but you had managed to learn a few things.
Fr. Jeon had been ordained only six months ago and was now officially assigned as the priest of your city’s parish, something you were embarrassingly looking forward to.
He was twenty-eight. He had studied arts before eventually pursuing theology. There were only a handful of photos of him online…mostly seminarian group pictures, a few formal ones where he wasn’t wearing his usual cassock, though he was always in long sleeves.
You had even found one rare image where he had rolled his sleeve slightly during a group photo, revealing part of a tattoo on his arm beneath a white long-sleeve shirt and a cross necklace.
“Fuck… he’s hiding all that under his sleeves?” you had muttered to yourself last night, squinting at the screen and trying to find more…only to realize there was barely anything else. No social media, no casual photos, nothing.
“Take a seat here. I’ll get the books for you,” Fr. Jeon said now, smiling as he gestured toward the small couch in front of his desk.
You nodded and sat down obediently, trying very hard to look like a good parish girl.
His office was quiet and orderly in a way that immediately made you straighten your posture. The walls were lined with wooden bookshelves filled with thick religious texts, bible editions, theological commentaries, and neatly stacked parish documents. A simple desk sat against one side, organized and uncluttered, with a few folders, a pen holder, and a small lamp.
In the center of the room, mounted on the wall above the desk, hung a large crucifix—christ on the cross—watching over everything in silent stillness. The soft light from the window fell across it gently, making the entire room feel even more solemn, almost sacred.
Yet your thoughts were nowhere near sacred. You were here to attempt a very dangerous, carnal sin.
Seduction.
Masked in your perfect good-girl appearance, wondering if you could crack that unshakable composure he wore so effortlessly—if you could make his calm, holy restraint finally slip.
You slowly stood up from the couch while his back remained turned, focused on his bible scriptures. Your head tilted slightly as you tried to make it look as innocent as possible…to enter his space without revealing your true, sinful intentions.
“Fr. Jeon,” you called softly, standing too close behind him.
You needed to converse, to interact with him, to get him interested—to show him how much you adored God as much as he did.
“Hmm?” He didn’t glance at you, still focused on the scriptures.
You pouted, slowly taking a peek at what he was doing. “I was wondering if I could just read the bible here instead of borrowing it….” you attempted softly. “That way, if there’s something I don’t understand… I can ask you about it right away.” you said in a sweet, suggestive tone.
Fr. Jeon glanced at you, subtly stepping back when he realized you were right behind him, your vanilla scent brushing his senses.
He paused for a moment, looking into your hopeful eyes.
“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, a small smile appearing on his face. “That's actually a good idea. Understanding scripture is easier when you can discuss it with someone. If I'm here, feel free to ask me anything you're confused about.”
Providence.
You smiled brightly, feeling your relationship with him finally take another step forward.
“That would be great! Thank you, Fr. Jeon,” you said, tilting your head and giving him one of your most charming smiles.
It was absurd.
After your finals, you were granted a two-month semestral break, and instead of using that time to party, travel with friends, or go on night outs, you had spent nearly all of it at the church.
Sana, unfortunately, never questioned your growing interest. She was too kind to question your faith.
Over the next few weeks, your afternoons were spent in the parish office, reading scripture, flipping through commentaries, and waiting for the familiar sound of the office door opening.
During those weeks, you managed to have a few small talks with him whenever he stopped by. You learned that he visited the church every day…sometimes to pray, sometimes to help with ongoing charity work, hear confessions, or simply check on the church office before moving on to his next responsibility.
Hearing about his schedule made you quietly adjust your own, ensuring you arrived at the office around 3 p.m.—the time he usually came in to check mails and paperwork at his office.
Today, you were wearing a baby blue dress that flowed nicely around your ankles, trimmed with delicate lace at the hem. Your hair was tied in a half ponytail with a blue ribbon, your makeup subtle, and your kitten heels matching the softness of your outfit.
Sana didn’t come with you every day anymore—she had other “holy” activities outside the church, like charity visits, helping at retreat houses, touring other churches, and even climbing mountains to visit shrines and statues.
You had politely declined most of those invitations, telling her you found comfort in staying within your church’s city.
Disingenuous.
The rhythm between you had become almost routine. You would come to the office in the afternoons, sit down with a bible, and quietly read while asking him occasional questions whenever something didn’t make sense.
Fr. Jeon would remain at his desk, either going through papers or reading his own scripture in silence. The room would stay mostly quiet, filled with the soft turning of pages and the steady presence of his focus, as if the world outside didn’t quite reach either of you in that space.
Sometimes you would try to steer the conversation a little further, testing small openings beyond scripture, but it always naturally circled back to the same things—bible passages, God, charity work, church matters… anything within that same unspoken boundary of the holy.
Yet, that alone felt like a privilege—being allowed into the quiet rhythm of his office, as if you belonged there too.
“Good day, Fr. Jeon. I brought some snacks for you,” you said with a smile as you entered the church’s office.
As usual, he was sitting at his desk, wearing his framed glasses while reading some papers.
You walked toward him and held up a small box of cookies you had gladly baked. “I made these…kind of like a thank-you gift for letting me stay here in the office,” you said proudly.
During your free time, you had spent the entire afternoon baking cookies for Fr. Jeon, thinking it would be a nice thank-you gift for him. At first, you had even wanted to decorate them with cute frosting faces of Jesus, convinced it would make you look extra devoted in his eyes.
Unfortunately, after staring at your frosting bag for ten minutes, you realized it might look a little too....performative.
So, with great reluctance, you abandoned your tiny Jesus-face cookie idea and settled for regular chocolate chip cookies instead.
The result sat neatly inside the box you now held out to him, carefully packed and decorated with far more effort than necessary.
Fr. Jeon looked at the cookies, his head tilting slightly when he noticed the box was covered in heart stickers. A soft smile formed on his lips, quietly touched by your kindness.
“That’s very kind of you, sweetheart.” he said softly, taking the box before looking up at you from his swivel chair. “Thank you, Y/N.”
Your cheeks flushed, making you feel like a schoolgirl finally noticed by your crush.
“No worries, Fr. Jeon… besides, I really like reading the bible here! it feels comforting,” you said, leaning in slightly as if to emphasize your point. “And thank you… you really help me understand it better when I get confused,” you added softly, fluttering your lashes at him.
He blinked slowly, clearly caught off guard by your sweet smile and the way you leaned in, his usual composure faltering for a brief moment as he paused.
“No...no problem sweetheart.” he said with a small smile. “I’m… glad you find comfort here. God will always find a way to comfort our souls.”
You smiled sheepishly and sat down on the small couch in front of his desk. “Hmm, I know…I always pray whenever I’m overwhelmed, somehow talking to God really helps me.” you said thoughtfully, even if you had only learned those kinds of phrases from Sana.
Fr. Jeon nodded quietly, he didn’t expect you to be this devoted.
You were very pure, kind, and charming. He had always noticed you volunteering at the church with your friend Sana—you would help with the boxes, sit around during her choir sessions, sometimes simply sit in the pew as if the presence of the church alone was enough for you.
It wasn’t hard to notice you. You were pretty and graceful, always smiling at everyone, carrying a soft, composed presence whenever he saw you at the church in your long skirts and modest blouses—like a quiet image of devotion itself.
Despite that, his eyes never lingered.
Always composed, always measured…because anything longer than a passing glance felt like something he shouldn’t allow himself.
Ever since you asked him about the bible that day, he had been quietly amazed. Nowadays, very few people showed genuine interest in scripture, let alone someone your age.
Seeing your devotion—or what he believed was devotion…filled him with a warmth he hadn't expected. It was rare to meet someone so eager to learn more about God.
What he didn't realize was that your sweet, holy little plan had been working all along.
And what you didn't realize was that your sweetness, your smiles, your carefully built innocence—had been working from the very beginning.
You were so focused on the fact that his eyes never lingered, so convinced that he remained untouched by your presence, that you failed to see the subtle effect you had already left behind.
“What do you do during your free time, Fr. Jeon?” you asked casually one friday afternoon, trying your best to sound merely curious rather than interested.
You had spent weeks keeping your questions safely within the boundaries of scripture. Careful not to reveal how badly you wanted to know the man behind the collar.
So you kept your tone light and innocent, as though it were nothing more than a harmless question that had happened to cross your mind.
Fr. Jeon's head tilted slightly. He was sitting across from you at the small coffee table inside his office, a bible resting in his hands just like yours.
“I visit charities,” he answered lightly. “I usually stay there for a while and spend time with the children.” a fond smile crossed his face at the memory.
Your lips parted. Oh! still religious.
“How about you, sweetheart?” Fr. Jeon asked.
You quickly searched for a suitably holy answer. “Umm, I-I sometimes climb mountains to visit shrines and blessed statues,” you said, biting your lip as you recalled one of Sana's favorite religious activities.
Fr. Jeon nodded thoughtfully, visibly impressed…his expression softening as if genuinely moved that you spent your free time in service of the Lord.
“What a good girl you are,” he said softly.
His eyes lifted to meet yours for a brief moment—just long enough to make your heart stumble…before he looked away first, a small smile forming on his lips that he quickly hid as he lowered his gaze back to the bible.
Your lips parted slightly, warmth rushing to your cheeks at the compliment.
Good girl. Oh to be called his good girl.
Even though Sana had been busy lately with her other holy activities, you didn't mind attending mass alone. In fact, you were more than happy sitting in the front row.
Your eyes would sparkle whenever Fr. Jeon spoke, your heart thumping whenever his gaze swept across the congregation and briefly met yours.
It always felt like a small victory, as though he was finally acknowledging you, finally noticing you.
“The Body of Christ.” Fr. Jeon held up the host.
“Amen,” you replied softly.
Unlike before, however, his gaze briefly lowered to meet yours. It lasted only a moment, accompanied by a small smile, but it was enough to make your heart skip a beat.
Enthralled.
Little by little, the distance between you seemed to shrink. The walls around him no longer felt quite as impenetrable as they once had.
Overtime, you had finally managed to crack through the edges of his usual reserve. What started as strictly scripture and charity talk had slowly, almost imperceptibly, begun to shift into something more personal.
You learned how he first became interested in the priesthood, how his mother had served in the church, and how deeply devoted his family was to their faith. You even found the courage to ask about his tattoos, discovering they came from his love for art long before he pursued theology.
In return, you had shared little pieces of yourself as well—your hobbies, your favorite things, your likes and dislikes. Of course, you were careful to sprinkle in a little extra holiness whenever you could, always eager to impress him and maintain the image he seemed to have of you.
Fr. Jeon enjoyed your presence. It was refreshing to converse with someone who seemed to share the same interest and devotion that he held so dearly.
As the weeks passed, he found himself quietly looking forward to your visits, anticipating the familiar sound of your voice drifting into his office each afternoon. After all, you had always been naturally playful and talkative, and somehow… your constant babbling had become a welcome part of his routine.
It had been a month since you started spending your afternoons in his office. Upon entering, you found him sitting at the coffee table instead of his desk. Scattered across the table were several small boxes in different colors.
Curious, you stepped inside, your usual box of homemade cookies in hand—the same kind you brought him every week.
“What’s that, Fr. Jeon?” you asked, taking a seat across from him and placing the cookies on the table.
Fr. Jeon looked up and smiled. “When's your birthday, sweetheart?”
You blinked, a question that was out of the blue—like you were on a date, and he was casually getting to know you.
Your cheeks immediately flushed, you told him your birth date, unable to hide the slight confusion in your voice.
Fr. Jeon nodded thoughtfully before reaching for one of the small boxes on the table.
There were twelve of them in total, each a different color. Pink, purple, green, blue, yellow, and several others.
“This would be your birthstone color then,” he said with a fond smile, handing you the box that matched your birth month.
Confused, you picked up the box and slowly opened it.
A small rosary bracelet rested inside.
Your heart began thumping so loudly you could hear it in your ears as you remembered the conversation from weeks ago…when he had gently corrected you and told you that rosaries weren't meant to be worn as necklaces.
“T-This is for me?” you asked, eyes wide and sparkling.
Fr. Jeon smiled softly. “Yes, sweetheart. I didn't know your birthday, so I bought all twelve colors,” he admitted with a small chuckle, glancing at the remaining boxes on the table.
It was such a simple gift, yet your heart fluttered stupidly in your chest. Somehow, this meant more than the flowers, chocolates, teddy bears, and expensive jewelry your admirers had given you before.
Before you could stop yourself, you rose from your seat and threw your arms around him.
Fr. Jeon froze in surprise, his eyes widened as you suddenly closed the distance between you. The force of the hug nearly made him lose his balance in the chair as your arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.
“Thank you, Fr. Jeon...so sweet of you.” you murmured, overwhelmed with happiness.
He gulped harshly. It had been a long time since he had been touched by a woman.
Not accidentally in a crowded place. Not a polite handshake after mass. Not a brief greeting exchanged out of courtesy.
A long time.
His heart raced against his ribs as your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Your hot breath fanned softly against his collar, carrying the familiar scent of vanilla that had become impossible for him not to recognize. The closeness was overwhelming in a way he hadn't expected, making him painfully aware of how little physical affection existed in his life.
His hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before gripping the edge of the table instead. Every instinct told him to return the gesture, to place a comforting hand against your back and reassure you, but he remained still, forcing himself to hold onto his composure.
“You're welcome, sweetheart.” Fr. Jeon rasped, his voice coming out rougher than usual.
When you finally pulled away, you smiled brightly and sat back down in your chair, immediately slipping the bracelet onto your wrist.
Meanwhile, he remained frozen for a moment, trying to swallow away the lingering awareness of your closeness. The warmth of your embrace, your breath against his collar, the brief press of your breasts against him.
The hug had been innocent, sweet and harmless.
Which only made it worse.
Because he had no reason to be affected by it at all. He found himself quietly unsettled by the fact that he had needed to restrain himself in a moment that should have been nothing more than simple gratitude.
Temptation.
The next day, you proudly wore the rosary bracelet he had given you. You had even chosen a dress that matched its color, complete with a ribbon in your hair to tie everything together.
When you entered his office, you found Fr. Jeon standing by the bookshelves, a scripture in one hand. His glasses rested low on his nose as he read through a passage.
Immediately, you raised your wrist and showed off the bracelet. “Look,” you said with a grin.
Fr. Jeon glanced down, you were already twirling in place, eager to show him how the bracelet matched your dress.
Pretty.
The thought came so naturally that he frowned at himself.
“Good day, Y/N.” he replied, forcing his attention away from the observation.
You smiled brightly and wriggled your wrist. “I matched the bracelet with my dress and ribbon, see?”
Turning in a small circle again, you proudly showed off the entire outfit.
Fr. Jeon watched for a brief moment before lowering his gaze. Lately, he had become far too aware of things he shouldn't be noticing.
How pretty you looked whenever you walked into his office, how your face lit up whenever you talked to him, how easily your excitement filled the room.
Even your long dresses—soft fabric falling gently to your ankles, lace details tracing along the edges…began to feel distracting in a way he could not fully explain or justify.
Turning innocent things into distractions. The modesty that should have protected his thoughts was beginning to have the opposite effect, making him painfully aware of the woman hidden beneath layers of fabric and lace.
Perhaps it was because it had been so long since he had allowed himself to be this close to a woman. Years spent in seminaries, rectories, church offices, and ministry had made him accustomed to a life of distance and discipline. He had grown comfortable in it.
Until you.
“Glad you like it, sweetheart,” he said at last, forcing a small smile before returning his attention to the scripture in his hands.
It was easier to focus on the page than on the way you were still standing there, smiling at him as if he had just given you the greatest gift in the world.
You giggled and stepped a little closer. “You know, I didn’t remove the bracelet yet… I’m planning on wearing it forever.”
Fr. Jeon raised a brow at that, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
“Really?” he asked, unable to hide the delightfulness in his voice.
“Yes! I didn’t even remove it when I took a bath,” you giggled, smiling at him with pure adoration.
His brows furrowed slightly at what you had just said, but before he could stop himself, a faint flush crept across his cheeks.
Test of faith.
His mind betrayed him for a brief second, wandering toward the image of you showering while still wearing the bracelet he had given you, carefully keeping it on even then. The thought was so sudden and inappropriate that he immediately felt ashamed.
He gulped harshly, disappointed in himself. He would have to repent later and ask the Lord for forgiveness for allowing such a crude thought to cross his mind.
Fr. Jeon could not entertain that desire. It was forbidden, a temptation that needed to be buried and forgotten before it could take root.
Yet despite the turmoil quietly unfolding inside him, he weakly reached over and gently patted your head.
His heart immediately thumped against his ribs when your eyes lifted to meet his, shining with unmistakable adoration at the simple gesture.
You beamed at him...letting out a small, delighted giggle that softened the moment even further.
Craving.
The past few weeks had been exhausting. As the city's new presider, he had been buried beneath paperwork and responsibilities. The church had also been flooded with parishioners seeking confession, and the lines seemed to grow longer with each passing day.
Hundreds of voices had passed through the confessional since then, each carrying their own sins, burdens, and regrets. Most of them faded from memory the moment absolution was given.
Yours hadn't.
Fr. Jeon leaned back in his chair and stared at the crucifix hanging on the office wall. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the room.
He had spent years strengthening his faith, disciplining his mind, and dedicating himself entirely to the Lord. Yet lately, all it took was a sweet smile, an innocent touch, or the sound of your voice to shake that discipline.
Closing his eyes, he lowered his head.
"Lord, forgive me," he murmured quietly.
A threat to his devotion.
-
“Ouch, fuck,” you groaned, pulling the tray of cookies out of the oven.
You were baking a fresh batch for Fr. Jeon today, trying out a larger baking tray than usual so you could make more cookies at once. Unfortunately, the experiment immediately backfired.
As you bent down to take the tray out, the hot metal edge accidentally brushed against your inner thigh. You winced, pouting as you watched your skin slowly turn red.
“This looks so bad,” you murmured, setting the tray of cookies down on the counter.
Luckily, you had been wearing long skirts these days.
Prepping the boxes of cookies you had baked, you decided to wear a purple long lacey skirt paired with a cute ruffled top. Your hair was styled into low pigtail braids, each tied with a ribbon at the ends. Holding the box carefully, you frowned slightly when you felt the bandage rubbing against your swollen skin.
“Good day, Fr. Jeon, I got you cookies!” you beamed.
You noticed he had become even busier after being appointed as the city’s official presider, though you didn’t realize he had been deliberately drowning himself in paperwork—anything to keep his thoughts from drifting where they shouldn’t.
“Good day, Y/N,” he replied, glancing up for only a brief moment to return your smile before his attention went back to the documents in front of him.
You frowned slightly and placed the box of cookies on the table in front of him. “Got you a different flavor! It’s red velvet this time,” you said, pointing at the box with a small, proud smile.
Fr. Jeon glanced at them, warmth flickering in his chest before he quickly pushed it down.
“Thank you, Y/N… that’s very kind of you,” he said gently, his tone careful, as though he was trying to place distance even while accepting your kindness.
You pouted almost immediately. The response felt far too brief for someone who had spent the morning baking for him.
Wanting his attention back on you, you shifted your weight and played with the ends of your braid, searching for something that would pull his focus away from the paperwork on his desk.
“You know… I even got burned earlier because I used a bigger tray and it hit me,” you said with a small chuckle, watching him carefully for a reaction. “But it’s fine, I’m just worried it might leave a mark,” you added with a light giggle, unable to hide the hopeful note in your voice as you waited for him to look at you again.
That got his attention immediately.
His brows furrowed as he looked up from the papers, concern breaking through the careful distance he had been trying to maintain. His eyes instinctively moved to your hands, searching for any sign of injury.
“Where is it? Let me see,” Fr. Jeon said, the concern in his voice unmistakable. His gaze lingered on your fingers and wrists, unable to find the burn he was looking for.
You had to fight the smile threatening to appear.
Slowly, you made your way around the table until you were standing beside him. From his swivel chair, he tilted his head back to follow your movement, his attention still fixed on your hands.
“It’s not there, Fr. Jeon…” you said softly. “Here...”
A small giggle escaped you as you gently lifted the hem of your long skirt.
His eyes widened instantly, panic flashing across his face before he could hide it. Before you could lift your skirt any higher, his hand shot forward on instinct, wrapping around your wrist to stop you.
“W-What are you doing?” he asked, nearly choking on the words.
The reaction was immediate, almost alarmed, as though the sight of you standing there with your hands on your skirt had caught him completely off guard. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was firm enough to halt your movement, his composure visibly rattled.
“I burned my thighs, Fr. Jeon… see?” you said innocently, lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the bandage wrapped beneath.
His lips parted at the sight, momentarily stunned.
The bandage sat against your soft thighs, the realization of how close he was to something so private making his mind go blank for a second.
He had never seen so much of you like this before—not this close, not this exposed in such an unguarded, unexpected way.
Your thighs looked so soft, pink and smooth… faintly marked by the redness around the bandage, drawing attention to how tightly you had wrapped it.
“It hurts a little,” you pouted, pointing at it.
His throat tightened as he swallowed hard, his gaze immediately faltering. Behind his glasses…his pupils were dilated, his ears and neck flushing red. His hands gripped the sides of his swivel chair tightly, as though grounding himself in place.
“Y-You wrapped it wrong,” he managed to say at last, his voice strained. He cleared his throat and forced his attention elsewhere, brows furrowing as he tried to recover his composure.
You tilted your head. “I did?” you looked down, trying to check your bandage when he suddenly stood up.
“I-I have a first aid kit in my cabinet. Sit in my swivel chair...I-I’ll wrap it for you,” he said quickly, already turning away from you as if creating distance would steady him. Without waiting for another reaction, he walked toward the cabinet near the bookshelves.
You bit your lip. “Okay…”
You obediently sat down in his swivel chair, a small, satisfied feeling flickering in your chest when you noticed how concerned…and slightly flustered—he seemed.
When he returned, he was holding a small first aid kit. Your breath caught slightly when he suddenly knelt in front of you.
“L-Lift your skirt, please.” he said, his tone firm but strained, his brows drawn together as he deliberately avoided looking too directly while waiting for you to comply.
Your heart stammered, green thoughts flowing inside your filthy brain.
With shaky, anticipatory hands, you lifted your skirt up to your inner thighs, purposefully raising it a little higher than necessary.
When he looked at your exposed thighs, his breath hitched. He tried to remain as calm as possible, forcing himself to focus. Slowly, he reached for the bandage, almost flinching when he felt the softness of your skin beneath the rough pad of his fingers.
“It’s too tight,” he said breathily, his hands trembling as he unwrapped the bandage from your thigh.
“Is it?” you said softly, watching the way his lips were slightly parted, his expression focused and controlled.
When the burn was finally exposed, his brows furrowed. “You should be more careful, Y/N.” he said quietly.
He took a small tube of ointment from the kit, applying a bit to his index finger before carefully spreading it over the burn.
You winced slightly at the contact, while his attention remained fixed and steady as he worked.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice lower than usual as he briefly checked your reaction before focusing back on the injury.
You bit your lip. “J-Just a little bit.”
He sighed harshly at that, gently rubbing the ointment in with steady movements, though you could see beads of sweat slowly forming on his forehead.
“Just a little more,” he murmured almost under his breath, applying another layer of ointment. His control was thinner now, each movement more deliberate than the last, as if he was carefully holding himself together.
When he took the new bandage, he wrapped it carefully around your burn with precise, practiced hands. Once he was done, he immediately adjusted your skirt, smoothing it down with controlled efficiency…perhaps a little too quickly, as though creating distance from the moment itself.
When he stood up, you could see it more clearly now: the restraint in his posture, the tension in his jaw, the way his composure wasn’t as effortless as before. He looked like he was actively holding himself back from something, grounding himself before it showed too much.
“Thank you,” you said warmly, smiling up at him.
He looked down at you, tilting his head slightly at how innocent you appeared with your ribbons and braids.
Forbidden.
That night, Fr. Jeon fell into the forbidden temptation he had been trying so hard to resist.
It was ten o’clock, yet he remained inside the church office, refusing to leave the premises until his mind and soul were free of guilt.
Frustrated, he buried himself in scripture, but his thoughts kept drifting back to your soft, beautiful thighs and the rosary bracelet on your wrist that had stirred such sinful thoughts within him.
“Forgive me,” he muttered under his breath, his tattooed hand sliding down his slacks to palm his hardening cock.
His lips parted. It had been a very long time since he had touched himself...he had almost forgotten how good it felt. With a shaky breath, he slowly stroked his growing erection, murmuring apologies and curses beneath his breath.
He nearly rolled his eyes back at the sensation. It felt far too good. His cock hardened with alarming ease at the mere thought of you.
Lust.
With trembling hands, he slowly pulled his cock free from his slacks. It was thick and pulsing, a bead of precum already forming at the swollen tip.
When his tattooed hand squeezed the base, more fluid gathered at the head, coating his throbbing shaft.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered under his breath, a groan escaping him as he rediscovered how good it felt to touch himself after so long.
It was sinful. Dirty.
He was still inside the church office, dressed in his usual black clerical shirt with its roman collar. Scripture lay open on his desk, and his glasses had begun to fog from the heat of his breath.
It had been years. He could no longer remember the last time he had touched a woman, nor the last time he had thought of one this way. When he devoted himself to the Lord, he had promised never to indulge in such acts again.
The longer he had restrained himself, the better it felt to finally release that tension after so many years. His cock almost ached. Thick and veiny, it twitched whenever he rolled the foreskin down.
“God, help me.” Fr. Jeon moaned shamelessly, jerking himself in slow, deliberate strokes, determined to savor every second of it.
He gathered spit in his mouth and let it trickle down his aching shaft. The added lubrication drew a groan from him. He bit down hard on his lip as the realization struck him once more—how good this felt, how much he had missed touching himself.
His thoughts drifted to you.
He imagined your sweet confession about still wearing the rosary bracelet he had given you... even while bathing. The thought lingered longer than it should have, unfurling in his mind as he pictured your small, delicate hands gliding a bar of soap across your soft skin. The rosary would brush against your chest with every movement, the beads shifting and sliding as you washed your nipples.
And then his thoughts wandered further, painting one image after another—your inner thighs, the way the beads might accidentally graze your soft skin as you shower. Each vision arrived unbidden, more vivid than the last, and far more difficult to suppress.
A sacred desire.
He was leaking more and more with every thought of you. The only sound echoing through the office was the wet rhythm of his hand jerking along his hard leaking cock.
Curious, he gathered a bead of precum between his thumb and index finger and brought it to his lips. The taste was salty, thick, and strangely addicting.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, collecting more of it only to taste himself again.
Your forbidden thighs.
The softness of them. The way he had been close enough to imagine burying himself in their warmth. The way they flushed pink beneath his touch. The way they looked so plump and beautiful, tempting thoughts he should never have entertained.
He imagined pressing kisses along your legs, lingering there as though each touch were an act of devotion. He imagined how soft your pussy would feel beneath his lips, how he would part your folds just to stare at your glistening cunt, worshipping it with the reverence of a prayer.
Fr. Jeon was close to climaxing, using memories of your past interactions to fuel his sinful fantasies. His hand was slick with saliva and precum, his thighs tensing as he struggled to hold himself back. He tried to edge himself, to prolong the moment, because the sensation felt far too good after so many years of restraint.
Your body. Even beneath your long dresses and modest blouses, he could tell you were beautiful.
It shamed him that it had been one of the first things he noticed when he saw you wearing that rosary. The way your chest filled out your modest clothing. The way your waist appeared so delicate beneath layers of fabric. The way he found himself wondering what was hidden beneath all that lace and decency.
It was a sin he was terrified to acknowledge. A sin he was terrified to put into words.
But you were beautiful, kind, gentle, and devoted in your faith.
He wanted to fuck you.
When the shameful thought finally broke free from the restraints he had placed upon it, he came hard, his release staining the dark fabric of his slacks.
A deep groan tore from his throat as he continued to stroke himself, milking every last wave of pleasure from his body. His thumb brushed along the underside of his cock, chasing the lingering sensitivity.
“Fuck, I’m still hard,” he muttered, biting his lower lip as he glanced down at himself.
It was understandable.
After years of abstinence, it wasn't surprising that his body responded so eagerly. The restraint he had maintained for so long seemed to have shattered all at once.
Yearning.
All night, instead of losing himself in scripture, he gave in to temptation. His hand jerked shamelessly over his cock as his thoughts returned to you again and again. To every forbidden desire he had tried to suppress. To every impulse he had buried beneath prayer, discipline, and devotion.
Hours passed unnoticed.
He had so much pent-up desire, so much neglected hunger, that he remained awake until dawn, caught in an endless cycle of pleasure in jerking his insatiable cock. The office grew quiet around him while the darkness slowly gave way to morning light, yet his thoughts never strayed far from your face, your kindness, and the feelings he had spent so long denying.
And the fantasies that filled his mind were so sinful that he feared they had carried him beyond forgiveness.
“This should do it,” you giggled to yourself, wrapping the bandage poorly on purpose so he would have an excuse to fix it for you again.
Your box of cookies was already prepared, resting neatly on your lap while you held a bible in your hands and waited for Fr. Jeon.
Unfortunately, hours passed with nothing but the sound of turning pages accompanying you. You flipped through scripture after scripture, occasionally glancing toward the door, expecting him to appear at any moment.
Yet he never came.
Confused, you eventually stepped out of the office to look for him yourself. Perhaps he was outside helping with the donations or speaking with parishioners, as he often did. But after wandering around the church grounds and checking every place you could think of, you still couldn't find him anywhere.
“Where is he?” you pouted to yourself, a disappointed sigh slipping past your lips as you made your way back to his office.
By the time you returned, the warm glow of sunset had already begun spilling through the stained-glass windows.
Realizing he wasn't coming, you reluctantly decided to leave the cookies behind along with a small handwritten note. The thought alone made your chest feel strangely heavy.
“I miss him already,” you murmured, frowning at your own words.
It wasn't as if you could simply call or text him. Despite spending weeks at the church, Fr. Jeon had never given you his number, and you had never found the courage to ask for it. Perhaps it was because you preferred seeing him in person.
The idea of receiving his answers through a text message whenever you had questions about scripture felt disappointing somehow. You liked sitting across from him, listening to his voice as he patiently explained things to you. You liked the little smiles he gave you, the way his attention never seemed rushed, and the comfort that came with simply being around him.
That day left you unusually sad. It was the first time you hadn't seen him at all. Even when he was busy, he always managed to stop by, if only for a minute. No matter how much work he had, he never missed the opportunity to check on you.
Avoidance.
You came back today...hopeful that you would finally see him again and finally ask where he had been yesterday, you were instead met with confusion when he didn’t appear again. You pouted when you noticed the box of cookies you had left behind was still untouched, exactly where you had placed it.
“That’s odd, he can’t miss a bible reading,” you murmured to yourself, already accustomed to his usual routine. He always visited the church at a certain time to pray quietly and read scripture before continuing his day, and you had grown used to waiting for him during those moments.
But days passed, and he was still nowhere to be seen.
The cookies you had prepared for him began to lose their freshness, and the papers he usually kept neatly on his desk started to gather dust. A strange sense of unease settled in your chest as you tried to understand what had changed.
You asked around the church, speaking to parishioners and volunteers, hoping someone might have seen him or could explain where he had gone. But what you learned nearly broke your heart.
He was still coming to the church every day. He just arrived earlier now.
You had always known his schedule well—he used to visit his office around three in the afternoon, which was why you were always there waiting at that time. You never thought he would suddenly change it without warning.
“T-Thank you,” you managed to say, forcing a small smile when one of the parishioners finally informed you that he had been seeing Fr. Jeon every morning. You were lucky this particular parishioner stayed at the church throughout the day, otherwise you might never have learned the truth.
Still, the information left you disappointed and strangely hurt.
The fact that he was visiting every day but never acknowledged your cookies. The fact that he never even left a note to explain. The fact that you had been waiting for him all this time, dressed in your usual modest dresses, as if your presence alone meant anything to him.
Tears slowly began to gather in your eyes for reasons you couldn’t fully understand. It felt almost like being rejected without a single word, like a quiet heartbreak you hadn’t been prepared for. It seemed as though he was suddenly avoiding you.
“What did I do?” you pouted softly to yourself, walking home with slumped shoulders as you tried to wipe away the tears rolling down your cheeks.
On the way, your thoughts turned over your last interaction with him. Had you been too bold? Had he noticed something in you that you thought you had hidden well? Had he finally realized that your devotion wasn’t as pure as it appeared?
The more you thought about it, the more desperate you became to see him again. And instead of wanting to reveal your true ill intentions, you found yourself wishing the opposite—that he would see how devoted you were, how deeply you admired him, how willingly you would sacrifice your dignity just to remain close to him.
Restraint.
You didn’t know that he had been avoiding you all along, because your sick plan had finally taken effect, his careful restraint crumbling like a rock under pressure.
Fr. Jeon couldn’t bring himself to face you. Even the slightest eye contact felt like it would burn through his skin, your presence alone eating away at whatever remained of his guilt until there was nothing left but discomfort and temptation.
Desperate.
You woke up early that day, preparing yourself carefully so you could see him. The constant overthinking had become unbearable, and you were convinced that seeing him would finally calm your thoughts.
Slowly, you walked through the church halls, your kitten heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Your wandering gaze passed over parishioners and silent figures lost in prayer, the morning air gentle and warm as it settled over your chaotic mind. The scent of the church—fresh flowers and holy water—was oddly soothing as you moved deeper inside.
But as you went further in, you nearly lost your balance when you noticed his office door slightly ajar.
Your heart began to pound in anticipation as you carefully approached. And when you finally looked inside, your eyes widened.
There he was.
In his usual black clerical long-sleeved shirt and roman collar, Fr. Jeon stood looking down at the box of cookies you had left a week ago.
Your heart sank at the realization that he must have seen the box of cookies days ago—and still chose to ignore it.
Taking a steadying breath, you stepped inside and gently closed the door behind you, locking it without hesitation.
“Fr. Jeon,” you said softly.
He looked up immediately, his eyes widening as though he had seen something he shouldn’t have. For a brief moment, he looked almost like he had seen a ghost. His entire body stiffened, tension tightening in his posture as he forced himself upright.
“What are you doing here?” His tone came out sharper than intended, almost accusatory, as he tried to regain control of himself by straightening his clerical collar and adjusting the bridge of his glasses.
You frowned at the reaction, slowly taking a step closer. Something in your chest cracked when you noticed how his expression shifted with each movement you made—his brows tightening, his gaze dropping as if he couldn’t bear to hold it steady on you for too long.
“You didn’t get the cookies I got you,” you said with a small pout, glancing between the box and him as if the answer should have been obvious.
Fr. Jeon bit his lower lip and closed his eyes for a moment, as though needing time to steady himself.
“I was… busy,” he said, his throat tightening as he swallowed hard. He almost stepped back when you moved closer.
You tilted your head at him. “Am I taking too much of your time, Father?” you asked softly, your voice carrying a sad little pout.
Patience.
Fr. Jeon exhaled slowly and heavily, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek as if trying to ground himself. Your presence alone seemed to shut down every carefully built wall he had been maintaining.
He looked down at your sad pout, and something in him nearly cracked at the sight of your sadness. For a moment, his composure faltered as fantasies surged back in, uninvited and overwhelming.
For the past few days, he had been deliberately avoiding you. He had started arriving at the church earlier, knowing you always came in the afternoon, carefully timing his routines so he would not run into you. He avoided his office as well, because every corner of it reminded him of you.
But this morning, he had come in anyway.
And the first thing he saw was the box of cookies you had left behind… along with a small note that said you missed him.
Desire.
For the past few nights, he had been jerking his cock non-stop. Ever since that first time, he couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t resist the urge to return to it again and again—groaning your name under his breath like a sacred prayer.
“No, sweetheart… I’m just—”
“I’m sorry… I just really like it here, and I love talking to you,” you said in a soft tone, stepping closer until he could smell your vanilla perfume, your pleading eyes pulling him deeper into your orbit.
Fr. Jeon swallowed harshly, his pulse quickening at how sweet and beautiful you looked for him.
“Sweetheart—”
“Would you like me to leave?” you asked quietly, biting your lower lip.
His eyes dropped to your lips. His hands curled into fists, every passing second testing his hard-earned faith and devotion.
But no...he would rather endure the torment alone, rather than risk touching your beautiful, tempting soul.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t give you much of my time right now. I’ve been really busy—” Fr. Jeon said with finality.
Suddenly, you rose onto your tiptoes to meet his height and wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
“It’s okay, Father… I understand,” you whispered, your lips lingering dangerously close to his.
Succumbed.
Before you could pull away, his hands slid to your waist, steadying you—holding you in place more firmly than expected. You were about to look at him in confusion when he suddenly crashed his lips into yours.
Your eyes widened, your body nearly falling backward, but he held you firmly in place. His kiss was harsh and desperate—like a man starved, and you were the only water in a burning desert.
His tongue forced its way into your mouth, and the sound of his low groan sent shivers down your spine.
His brows were furrowed tightly, every bit of pent-up frustration spilling into the kiss. It was rough, consuming—his control slipping as he pulled you deeper into it, saliva beginning to spill messily between your mouths from how intensely he claimed your lips.
When he finally pulled away, his pupils were blown wide. His lips were red and swollen, his chin damp with both of your saliva.
He released your waist almost instantly, as though you had burned him.
Swallowing hard, he stared down at your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.
Oh God. What had he done?
“W-What—” you stammered, bewildered, still in shock at how easily Fr. Jeon—a priest with such a good reputation….had fallen into your lips like a man undone by weakness and lust.
Surrendered.
When you saw him step back, his brows furrowing as if he had just realized what he had done, you immediately grabbed his arms.
“I—I’m sorry, this is blasphemous, I—”
You pulled him back and kissed him again, softer this time. “I like you, Fr. Jeon. Please don’t avoid me,” you almost pleaded, tugging him down so you could reach his lips again.
His eyes widened. He shook his head immediately. “Y/N, n-no… this is wrong,” he blurted weakly, trying to grab your wrists as you pulled him closer.
Hearing those words from your mouth struck something deep in him, shaking his resolve. He couldn’t fall for you, he couldn’t kiss you, he couldn’t touch you...he couldn’t even think about you.
The only solution was to stay away—to pretend none of this had ever happened.
You shook your head. “Please, I want you so badly… there’s nothing wrong with this,” you insisted, trying to kiss him again, but he turned away. His eyes were heavy-lidded, weakened, the air in the office suddenly suffocating.
“You make me happy, Fr. Jeon… please,” you pleaded.
He shook his head firmly. “I am a priest, Y/N. This is forbidden,” he said weakly, his voice low and rough—like every word cost him something, like it was painful to say.
“But...why did you kiss me?” you pleaded.
Fr. Jeon groaned under his breath, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.
“Do you like me too, Fr. Jeon?” you pushed further, stepping closer, watching how much it seemed to strain him.
“Y/N, this is wrong—”
Your lips parted. “You...you like me,” you concluded when he didn’t deny it.
A small smile formed on your lips at the confirmation. Suddenly, the past few weeks made sense—the distance, the avoidance, the restraint. Everything clicked into place.
When he weakly let go of your wrists, you immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, as if he had finally surrendered to you. His lips parted, his eyes clouded and hazy.
“Since when, Father?” you whispered, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
He shut his eyes tightly. The feeling of your hands on him was already enough to send him spiraling. His lack of physical affection was becoming obvious in the way his body reacted—his restraint slipping under something as simple as your soft, shallow touch.
“The first time I saw you at the church,” he whispered so low you almost didn’t catch it, as though even admitting it was a sin.
You gasped, your eyes widening at the revelation that he had noticed you from the very beginning.
“I-I thought… you didn’t recognize me. Y-You were always so busy and—”
“I did,” he cut in softly, his voice rough. “But it’s impure of me to stare at such beauty. I cannot do that.”
His gaze dropped to your lips again, weak and conflicted.
You gasped, a fond grin forming on your beautiful face. “Indeed, that’s very impure of you…Father,” you giggled.
Fr. Jeon groaned, attempting to step back again, but this time you pulled him closer and kissed him without hesitation. When you tried to part his lips with yours, you felt him shake his head, his hands gripping your waist to hold you back.
“N-No… we can’t—”
“Shh... it’s okay, Father… we’ll keep this a secret,” you whispered like a little devil in disguise, your pouty lips brushing against his again. “No one will know…”
Fr. Jeon groaned, your words sending shivers down his spine. The tension between restraint and desire tightened further.
“No, sweetheart, this is wrong… we should—”
“Please, Father…I’m already so wet.” you mumbled softly, looking at him with pleading eyes.
His eyes widened. It had been a long time since he had heard such crude words—especially coming from a pretty mouth like yours.
“T-That’s—” he stammered, his composure slipping further under the weight of you.
“Unholy?” you giggled, taking his right hand and guiding it beneath your long skirt.
His lips parted when his fingers brushed against the wet fabric of your underwear. His cheeks and ears burned red at the realization of how aroused you were.
You bit your lip, rising onto your tiptoes to whisper against his ear.
“No one will know.” you dragged your tongue along the shell of it, smiling when you heard him let out a soft, broken sound.
Blasphemous.
His lips grazed your inner thighs as his once devout, God-bound gaze now fixed on your bare, wet pussy. He knelt before you like you were some immaculate saint.
“Y-You’re so beautiful,” he said breathlessly, his fingers parting your folds and gently pulling back your hood to expose your sensitive clit.
You gasped loudly when he spat onto your center, his soft lips immediately wrapping around your clit, sucking in both his saliva and your wetness.
“Oh, God,” you moaned.
Fr. Jeon looked almost sacred between your thighs. Your skirt was bunched at your waist just enough for him to fully indulge in your pussy, while his black clerical shirt began to stain from how much you were dripping onto him. His glasses had grown slightly fogged from the heat of his breath against your body and the warmth between your legs.
He ate your pussy like a starving man, unable to get enough. His tongue pushed inside your tight cunt in search of more, drawing more juices from you, while the obscene sounds of his mouth filled the room. His throat worked with every swallow, adam’s apple bobbing as he greedily took in every drop you gave him.
“You taste so good,” he mumbled between your thighs, the vibration of his voice sending pleasure straight to your core.
You bit your lip, giggling softly while trying to keep your balance—you were leaning against his desk.
“Do you like how wet it is?” you asked, looking down at him as if amused by how much he was enjoying himself.
Fr. Jeon nodded against your cunt. “So wet and pretty,” he mumbled, sucking your clit until his cheeks hollowed, his dimples showing each time he latched on harder.
The way he ate you out was wet and messy, continuously spitting as his lips stayed locked around your clit. You gasped when he pinched your folds together, trying to eat your entire pussy into his warm mouth.
Every time you squirmed, he tightened his grip on your thighs, groaning under his breath as if he wanted to drown himself in you completely.
Whenever he pulled back to breathe, he took a moment to stare at your swollen, messy cunt—admiring it like something sacred, something almost holy in its beauty. He whispered how ethereal it was before spitting on it again and diving back in hungrily.
“H-How come you’re so good at that?” you moaned, looking down at his mouth as he remained relentless, your juices dripping down his chin.
Fr. Jeon looked up at you, adjusting the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. “I’ve fantasized about this,” he said with a smile. “I imagine devouring your cunt while I jerk off my cock.”
He pressed a light kiss to the top of your clit before burying his face against you again.
Your eyes rolled back at the confession, a small smirk playing on your lips. “Hmm... really? That’s ungodly, Father.”
Fr. Jeon only groaned, pressing his face deeper until you were certain he could barely breathe. “I’m only willing to surrender myself to you.”
You gasped. The way he said it felt so wrong, so forbidden, and your pussy throbbed at the thought of him willingly committing such sinful acts, of him literally being on his knees for you.
When he felt your wetness growing, he lifted his head slightly to look at your cunt. Using his index and middle finger, he spread you open, watching as more of your milky-white juices gathered.
Fr. Jeon groaned, swallowing hard at the sight of how wet and horny you had become.
“You like that, sweetheart?”
He gathered your juices, the pads of his fingers sliding down your slit and making you flinch. Your breath caught when you watched him scoop your cum onto his fingers and bring them to his mouth, tasting your sweetness. "You got so much wetter."
“Fr. Jeon, oh my—”
He continued gathering the excess wetness, scooping up your cum until he was satisfied that you were no longer dripping. His brows furrowed as he sucked the collected juices from his fingers, unwilling to let any of it go to waste.
When he finally gathered the last drop, you frowned as he rose to his feet.
For a moment, you thought he was done. Then he brought his fingers, coated with your cum, up to your mouth.
“Open up, sweetheart.” he whispered, his gaze lowering to your lips, swollen from how hard you had been biting them.
You slowly opened your mouth, moaning when he slid his fingers inside so you could taste your own juices mixed with traces of his saliva.
“You taste like sin, don’t you?” he said softly, his fingers twirling inside your mouth, nearly making you gag.
You sucked on his fingers, your cheeks hollowing eagerly as you looked up at him with expectant eyes. “Mhm. I want to taste how pure you are, then,” you said softly, sucking his fingers the way you imagined sucking his cock.
His cock twitched inside his slacks, precum already gathering at the swollen tip.
He immediately shook his head. “Want to make you cum first, sweetheart.”
Before you could protest, he was already kneeling again, his tongue out as he buried his face between your thighs as though his life depended on it. His nose brushed against your swollen clit while his tongue alternated between slow, deliberate licks and eager suction, determined to draw every reaction from you.
The moment he sensed you were getting close, he pushed his tongue deeper, determined to suck every drop. You were about to push him away from the sudden wave of oversensitivity, but his grip on you tightened.
"I wanna swallow it, please."
You bit down hard on your lip, whispering curses beneath your breath as your body tensed. Your pussy pulsed uncontrollably, heat rushing through you as release overtook your senses.
He groaned at the way your body responded to him, your pussy throbbing vigorously against his tongue.
“I-I want to pleasure you too,” you almost cried.
He didn't stop eating you, even after you came he was sucking your pussy again. He had already made you cum several times just by eating you out. Even after your fifth orgasm, he still hadn’t stopped—still devouring you, drawing out every last drop before spitting it back down onto your slit, pulling your folds apart just to watch it drip, then catching it again with his tongue as if he couldn’t get enough.
You were already overstimulated, your thighs burning from his tight grip, but every time you looked down at him, another wave of arousal surged through you. His brows were furrowed, his eyes closed, almost as if he were praying.
“Please, I want to eat your pussy more.” he mumbled, looking up at you through his glasses, his tongue teasing slow circles around your very swollen clit.
It had been hours. His knees were already red from kneeling, and your back ached from leaning against his desk, yet he still had the stamina to continue, again and again. His cheeks and chin were slick from your cum.
You could see his slacks straining…his arousal obvious beneath the fabric—but he remained focused, almost pleading when you tried to push him away, his mouth still following your spent pussy as if he couldn’t let go.
“Please… one more, sweetheart,” he begged, his thumb soothing along your inner thighs.
When you shyly nodded, he parted your legs further, scooping up what remained of your release as it dripped down. His face pressed in close, his nose brushing against you as he worked, the carpet below you already damp with a mixture of saliva and your arousal.
Unholy.
The once-simple afternoon bible sessions had turned into something far more profane.
The moment you arrived at his office and locked the door behind you, his hands were immediately around you. He would drop to his knees, pushing your panties aside so he could press his face against your wet slit, sniffing your cunt before his tongue slipped out to taste your wetness.
“Hmm… do you like my pussy, Fr. Jeon?” you whispered, fingers tangling in his hair as he indulged you.
He groaned against you, burying his face deeper. “Like it so much.”
He was always so desperate—needy, almost whiny. It was obvious how deeply his years of abstinence had affected him, how long he had denied himself even the thought of such intimacy.
Every touch carried the weight of that restraint, as though all those years of self-denial had finally found an outlet. The way he ate your pussy for hours without stopping, the way he would suck your breasts until they turned swollen and red.
Every time you tried to touch him, he would pin your hands down instead. You had never really touched him yet—he always insisted on giving first, on worshipping you instead. He would say that pleasing you was enough,that eating your cum was enough for him, that devoting himself to your body was what satisfied him most.
“Shh, sweetheart… please be quiet.” he pleaded, his middle and index finger pushing inside your cunt, knuckles deep while massaging your spongy spot.
You were certain his fingers were already wrinkled from how long he had been fingering you, your nipples swollen and sensitive from how harshly he had been sucking them while rubbing your clit.
You bit your lip, tears almost forming in your eyes from how good it felt. “S-sorry, it’s just so good,” you mumbled incoherently.
Fr. Jeon groaned. “Yeah?” He spat down where his fingers met your pussy. “Hear that, sweetheart? You’re so wet for me.” he muttered, biting your nipple harshly while his fingers continued going in and out of your wet cunt, the sounds echoing inside the church office.
You were always a whining mess. Even if he hadn’t fucked you yet, your body was constantly left exhausted from how intensely he made you cum repeatedly. Your legs were always wobbly and shaking after each round, and you would always come home with new hickeys and bruises left by his harsh mouth.
He had the stamina to go on for hours and hours, until the entire afternoon was filled with nothing but wet sounds and your filthy moans echoing through his office.
You wanted to return the pleasure so badly, but every time he begged you to eat your pussy, your knees would go weak. You always gave him what he wanted, opening your legs and spreading your cunt for him.
It was one afternoon when you decided that you wanted to please him.
He was busy sucking on your nipples when you noticed how hard he was beneath his slacks. Your eyes rolling back when you saw him almost humping the air.
With a determined groan, you gently pushed him away from you. Your nipples were already pink and swollen.
“Let me taste you,” you pleaded, pressing a kiss to his cheek before trailing down his jaw.
He protested again, trying to guide you back against the couch.
“Sweetheart—”
“Please, Father.” you begged. “You always make me cum so good. I think I’d cum even harder if I got to taste your cock.”
You couldn’t deny that he always left you more than satisfied, constantly pushing you to the edge of overstimulation. Every time it happened, you could see just how hard his cock was. Sometimes, you would even catch the subtle movements of his hips while he was buried between your thighs, completely consumed by pleasuring you.
Fr. Jeon licked his lower lip, as though contemplating whether he could truly accept the idea of you being on your knees for him. It felt like too much to bear, as if he wasn’t ready for it yet. Shamefully, he was certain he would cum the moment your lips touched his tip.
But seeing you like this—begging, your lips drawn into a sweet pout—made his resolve weaken. His eyes fluttered shut helplessly as you eagerly knelt in front of him.
“Sweetheart,” he rasped, swallowing hard.
You looked up at him before slowly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against the bulge beneath his slacks.
A harsh groan escaped him. His cock throbbed beneath the fabric, and that simple, innocent kiss was almost enough to make him stumble.
When you pulled down his zipper, you gasped audibly at the sight of his black boxers, already soaked with a large patch of wetness from his precum.
“You’re leaking, Father,” you said with a pout, looking up at him with sparkling eyes.
He sucked in a breath, his hands curling into fists as he struggled to compose himself. You looked beautiful and completely undignified at the same time, and it was becoming harder and harder for him to resist.
Slowly, you tugged down his boxers...just enough to tuck his balls and free his hard cock.
Your eyes widened.
He was huge and pretty, twitching on his own and curving upward. Thick veins ran along his shaft, and his swollen pink tip glistened with precum.
You licked your lower lip, unable to hide your anticipation at the sight of him. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to the wet tip.
A strained whimper escaped him.
His hands immediately grabbed the sides of his clerical shirt, as though physically restraining himself from losing control over something as simple as your lips touching him.
“Look at me when I suck you, Fr. Jeon.” you said, raising a brow when you noticed him avoiding eye contact.
He bit his lower lip, trying to look down at you.
You gasped when his cock twitched the moment you made eye contact.
With a teasing look, you slowly sucked his mushroom tip while keeping your eyes on him, fluttering your lashes as you took him into your warm mouth.
He groaned harshly. He was about to close his eyes, but you shook your head immediately.
“Eyes on me, please.”
“Oh, God,” he whimpered, looking down at you through heavy-lidded eyes as you eagerly sucked his leaking tip.
You swirled your tongue along the underside of his cock, his eyes rolling back every time you repeated the motion. When you finally pulled away, you spat on the tip, your fingers immediately spreading your saliva and his precum along the shaft, leaving him even wetter and messier.
“Does it feel good?” you asked before taking his tip into your mouth again, trying to take him deeper until his mushroom head brushed the back of your throat. The upward curve of his cock dragged against the roof of your mouth, drawing another whimper from him.
“Y-You look like a slut,” he blurted out through a moan, his jaw repeatedly tensing, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he was fisting his shirt.
You looked up at him and nodded obediently...like a good girl seeking praise.
He bit his lower lip. “My pretty slut.”
Fr. Jeon was trying so hard not to come. He wanted to savor the feeling of your tight mouth around him for as long as possible, wanted to hold on to it, to prolong it, but you were simply too much..too pretty, too warm. Every time you took him deeper, his resolve weakened a little more.
Your eyes were already beginning to redden, your throat struggling to accommodate his thickness. Drool slipped messily down your chin, and the wet, obscene sounds coming from your mouth only pushed him closer to the edge. Each swallow, each desperate attempt to take more of him, made his chest tighten with pleasure, his restraint slipping further and further away.
Whenever you pulled back to catch your breath, you would stroke his cock quickly with your hands and spit messily onto his tip.
Before the saliva could slide down his length, you would take him back into your mouth, licking along his shaft and tracing the prominent veins with your tongue before returning to the swollen underside of his head with soft, teasing kitten licks.
Using your free hand, you reached up to cup his balls gently, applying just enough pressure to make him whimper. The movement only made it harder for him to hold himself together, especially as you continued gagging on his cock like a good little slut.
The moment you noticed him clutching his shirt again, you immediately grabbed his hand.
“Use my mouth, Father,” you whispered, guiding his hand to your hair, silently urging him to take control.
Fr. Jeon groaned and shook his head, but your eagerness never wavered. You paused, waiting patiently for him, your eyes fixed on his face.
The moment you placed your hands obediently behind your back, he nearly cursed the Lord himself.
He weakly dragged a hand through your hair, gathering it away from your face before pulling you a little closer. His jaw tightened as he looked down at you, every ounce of restraint tested by the sight of your quiet obedience.
Grabbing your hair with both hands, he guided your face toward him before finally rolling his hips, slowly thrusting into your waiting mouth.
“God, you really are a slut,” he moaned, his composure unraveling a little more with every passing second.
Whenever he pulled back, you would twirl your tongue around the underside of his crown, earning a shaky whimper from him. Then, he would push you down forcefully onto his cock, your nose hitting his pubic hair as he lost whatever restraint he had left.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, sweetheart,” he whimpered.
Your mouth was already growing tired, but you remained determined, refusing to pull away. Tears gathered in your eyes and slipped down your cheeks as you struggled to keep up with him, yet you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
When he saw the tears in your eyes, he almost stopped.
But you eagerly took him deeper, deliberately pushing forward until your face was pressed flush against his pubic hair. Your mouth struggled to accommodate his thickness, soft gargling sounds escaping despite your efforts to suppress them, yet you took everything he gave you.
“God, fuck.” his eyes rolled back as he released hot, thick cum into your mouth.
He was about to push you away when your hands tightened around the backs of his thighs, holding him firmly in place...determined not to let a single drop of his cum go to waste.
“Sweetheart,” he said weakly.
When you finally pulled away- his cock slipping from your lips, you stuck out your tongue to show him his thick, milky cum. Your lashes fluttered as you held his gaze for a moment, letting him take in the sight before you swallowed.
Delirious.
“The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
Fr. Jeon stood before the congregation, one hand resting lightly against the pulpit as he prepared to proclaim the gospel.
“A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Matthew.”
“Glory to You, O Lord,” you whispered under your breath, your sparkling eyes lifted up toward him.
You were in your usual favorite spot—in the front row, like his favorite little church girl—your hair tied with a white ribbon, a long modest dress hiding the sinful image beneath.
Every time he spoke, his eyes never lingered on you. He looked over the crowd like a devoted priest, delivering his words slowly, with quiet passion. And whenever he did happen to find you in the congregation, he would only glance past you, as if you were anyone else.
You smirked inwardly. Who would’ve known that this same priest was literally begging on his knees to eat your pussy inside the church office?
When Holy Communion came, you made sure to open the first few buttons of your dress, revealing the rosary necklace you were wearing—the small cross resting between the plush curve of your cleavage.
“The Body of… Christ,” Fr. Jeon said slowly, his eyes drifting down to the rosary wrapped around your neck, the cross sitting dangerously above your breasts.
“Amen,” you said softly, parting your lips for him.
You almost smiled in quiet victory when you saw his jaw tighten—his composure slowly, subtly fracturing beneath the weight of your sacrilegious act.
When he placed the host on your tongue, you leaned in just slightly too far, letting your tongue brush against his thumb in a fleeting, deliberate touch. So small it could be denied. So intentional it could not be mistaken.
A soft hum escaped you as you pulled back, watching the shift in him—the way his body stilled, the way his breath caught. You were already turning away when his voice followed you, low and controlled.
“Meet me after this.”
You looked up at him, briefly thrown, but his gaze had already returned to the ritual at hand, as if nothing had happened.
Delight curled through you at the sight of him unraveling so carefully in public, holding himself together by force alone while you watched the cracks form in real time.
And when you returned to your seat, you could still feel it—the difference. His voice had deepened into something sharper, more distant. His posture stiffened as he finished the mass, each word now measured, restrained, as though he were forcing himself back into place one line at a time.
Wicked.
Sitting properly on the couch in his office, you waited patiently for Fr. Jeon. It was the first time you would see each other up close after mass, and the thought alone made a soft, bubbling excitement bloom in your chest.
You even brought a small box of cookies for him, carefully balanced in your lap, as if sweetness alone could disguise the anticipation curling beneath your ribs.
When the office door finally opened, you looked up at once and smiled.
He stood there still in his liturgical vestments. Over his white alb, he wore a flowing chasuble that draped heavily over his shoulders, embroidered gold catching the afternoon light that spilled through the glass windows like something almost sacred in itself. A white stole rested beneath it all, marking him clearly as the celebrant of the mass, a figure meant to be untouchable.
He looked absolutely breathtaking—so holy, so distant, so unreachable.
And yet, you already had him like a servant—willing, obedient, on his knees for you.
When he walked toward you, his expression was serious and unyielding. You stood up quickly, excitement lifting you, holding out your small gift for him.
“Good afternoon, Fr. Jeon. I got you cooki—”
The cookies slipped from your hands as he suddenly closed the distance, his hand wrapping around your throat. The rosary beads pressed sharply into your skin.
“I told you...that rosaries are not meant to be worn around your neck, didn’t I?” he said in a mocking tone, his voice low and controlled. His eyes looked darker behind his glasses.
His liturgical vestments suddenly felt overwhelming in this close space, no longer distant or ceremonial, but imposing, almost suffocating, as if you were only now realizing the weight of him in this proximity.
You gasped as his fingers tightened slightly around your throat, not enough to hurt—just enough to demand an answer.
“Y-You did, Father.”
“Mhm. I did,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Didn’t I?”
A shiver ran down your spine as you felt the shift in him—how his composure had snapped so suddenly, as if the thin thread of his restraint, stretched in the presence of the Lord, had finally given way.
Dominance.
You gasped when he kissed you hard, cutting off your breath in an instant. His other hand bunched up the long skirts of your dress, hot palms slipping beneath the fabric to cup your warm pussy.
“You’re so impure,” he chuckled darkly, his fingers tracing over your clothed clit.
A soft moan escaped you as you tried to wriggle in his hold, but his grip at your throat kept you firmly in place.
“Sit on my desk and spread your legs,” he commanded, releasing you all at once—both your throat and your pussy.
With shaky legs, you moved toward his desk, climbing onto it and bunching your long skirt up around your waist before slowly spreading your legs wide for him.
Fr. Jeon walked toward you, his gaze fixed on the sight of you—so openly willing for him. The rosary cross rested between your breasts like a sin made visible, the white ribbons in your hair now looking almost tainted, your dress bunched up enough to expose your wet cunt to him.
His fingers closed around the rosary you were wearing. Your breath hitched as he slowly pulled it, forcing your neck to tilt forward with the motion.
“You’re such a whore, wearing this around me,” he said in a condescending tone, drawing you closer until he pressed a shallow kiss to your lips.
“I-Isn’t it pretty?” you asked weakly, still trying to tease him.
He let out a humorless chuckle. Without another word, he reached for the scripture on his desk. “I’ll show you what’s pretty.”
You gasped as he pulled the rosary again, forcing you forward while his other hand held the bible. “Open your mouth.”
Confused, you slowly obeyed, your eyes widening when he suddenly placed the book between your teeth.
“Hold still and bite the scripture,” he commanded sharply before spreading your legs wider.
You bit down hard on the book as he suddenly slapped your cunt.
“Mhmp!” you whimpered, eyes watering from the intensity of it.
Fr. Jeon raised a brow. He lifted his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean, his gaze locked on you as he slowly dragged his tongue over them. You bit down harder on the book when he used his saliva-coated fingers to slap your cunt again.
“Shh, quiet, sweetheart… there are other people outside- praying,” he said mockingly, tugging lightly on the rosary around your neck.
You bit down harder when he slapped your cunt again, pulling harshly on the rosary around your neck whenever your whimpers escaped.
“Poor baby… you want me to finger you?” he cooed, slapping your cunt once more. Your panties were already soaked, your arousal building from the relentless stimulation.
You eagerly nodded, drool spilling past your lips and onto the scripture beneath you. Your neck was beginning to ache and swell each time he tugged on the beads.
“Do you deserve it?” he asked, twirling the rosary between his fingers, playing with it slowly.
A tear slipped down your cheek when he slapped your cunt again. Your thighs tried to wriggle on the table, but he only pulled harder on the rosary in response.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m finally going to give you what you want,” he said, letting go of you.
Your eyes almost rolled back when you saw him kneel.
You drooled messily against the book when he flipped your panties aside, three of his fingers immediately slipping inside you to stretch your cunt.
“So tight, sweetheart,” he chuckled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your clit while his fingers continued to thrust inside you.
Each time his fingers pulled back, a fresh gush of wetness spilled out, revealing just how needy and aroused you were.
Looking down, you saw how godly he looked—kneeling so close to your pussy, lips parted as he watched his fingers disappear in and out of your tight hole.
“Mhmph,” you whimpered, his fingers knuckles deep inside you, brushing against your spongy spot and leaving you wriggly and tingly.
“You’re so soaked, sweetheart. It’s so hard to rub you properly like this… so, so wet.”
When he saw how restless you were getting, he suddenly removed his fingers. You were about to frown when he stood up, your eyes widening as he began removing his chasuble and slacks.
“This is what you wanted, right?” he taunted, finally revealing his hard cock.
It was already thick and hard, twitching on its own before he even touched it. Prominent veins pulsed along the girth, and his mushroom tip looked swollen and flushed. Using his fingers, he squeezed the plump head, drawing out more precum before spreading it along the shaft. He slowly rolled the foreskin down, his gaze fixed on your helpless body.
“Do you want this cock inside your tight little pussy?” he said breathily, jerking his hard cock in his hand…his eyes were heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted.
You nodded eagerly, tears spilling down your cheeks from anticipation. Your pussy pulsed hard, leaking more of your arousal down onto the table beneath you.
He chuckled, gripping both of your thighs and spreading them wider for him. “Hold your skirt up, sweetheart,” he murmured, as your long skirt kept drifting down while he positioned you.
With weak hands, you slowly bunched your skirt up. Your jaw was already aching from biting down on the book, but you were determined to be a good girl for him, biting down harder as your eyes turned red and your cheeks flushed, warm and swollen.
When he positioned his mushroom tip against your slit, you almost dropped the book. The feeling of his wet cock against your folds sent a sharp jolt through you.
“Gonna fuck you now, sweetheart,” he whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.
Your teeth nearly ached from how hard you bit down when he suddenly pushed inside you. Your tight walls immediately sucked him in. You watched his lips part in shock, his eyes rolling back for a moment—before he could even thrust, you felt him spilling inside you.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he cursed under his breath, trembling as he suddenly came so hard inside you, his lips parting at how good your pussy felt.
You were so warm and tight that he was already convulsing. His grip on your waist tightened so hard it was almost painful. You were shocked—you hadn’t expected him to cum that quickly, but then again, it had been so long since he’d done anything like this. The pent-up frustration was overwhelming, and the moment he felt you, he was already shaking.
When you saw him trembling, you slowly removed the book from your lips. Your jaw ached, but you still managed to give him a small, weak smile.
“Mhm, am I tight, Fr. Jeon?” you whispered weakly, feeling him twitch inside you, filling you with so much cum that it had you feeling completely full.
"T-Too tight." he groaned.
His arms were growing weaker, still trying to push his cum deeper and deeper into your cunt. His cock was already overstimulated and softening, but he still wanted his cum buried deep inside you, some of it already dripping down your thighs.
He groaned, pushing his cock deeper until he was finally hard again. You could feel his mushroom tip swell once more, your pussy stretching around his thickening girth.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, eyes heavy-lidded as he looked down at you. He had come so hard he had nearly forgotten about the book he made you bite down on, his rational thoughts slipping away completely, leaving only the heat and the feeling of you.
You bit your lip, opening your legs wider. “Yeah? Do you miss having such a warm pussy around your cock?”
His lips parted...his right hand returned to your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat.
“What a dirty mouth you have,” he whispered breathily, like he was only just remembering why he was fucking you so hard in the first place.
He squeezed your throat, earning a loud whimper from you.
Before you could coo at him, he was already flipping you over, bending you against his desk. He immediately grabbed the book, shoving it forcefully into your mouth.
“You think I’m done, huh?” he taunted, kneeling down behind you.
You groaned, biting down on the scripture again, whimpering loudly when you felt him spreading your wet pussy from behind.
“Push my cum out for me,” he said, opening your folds and waiting for you to push it out.
You contracted your pussy, and a gush of his milky white cum spilled from your used hole. Before it could even drip onto the floor, his tongue was already there, scooping it up and swallowing everything until no trace was left.
When he stood up, you were left a trembling mess. Your eyes widened as he pulled on the rosary necklace, the beads wrapping around your throat like a collar. He used it as leverage before pushing his cock back inside you.
“Shh… bite down on the scripture. Let it silence your impurity,” he murmured behind you, thrusting deeper and harder until your body was nearly bouncing against the table from the force of it.
You wanted to moan so badly. The way his mushroom tip kept brushing against your g-spot felt so overwhelming. When he angled his hips in slow circular motions, your weak lips finally dropped the book, and you gasped as it hit the floor with a dull thud.
The moment he felt you slipping out of control, he stopped—only for you to immediately reach for the book. Before you could even grab it, he flipped you onto your back again.
“Fucking whore, can’t follow simple instructions while my cock’s deep inside you, huh?” he taunted, ripping the buttons of your dress just enough to expose your breasts.
“I-I’m sorry, I—”
You shrieked loudly when he suddenly slapped your nipples, the area turning immediately pink.
“Stay there,” he commanded.
You went still at once, your weak eyes following his movements as he reached into the bottom cabinet of his desk.
When he stood up again, he was holding a candle and a box of matches. “Hold this, sweetheart.”
He usually used those candles during scripture readings, letting the flame illuminate the pages.
You held it for him as instructed, watching as he struck a match and lit it, the small flame flickering to life before he set the match aside.
You turned slightly, glancing toward the window. There was still daylight outside—enough to see clearly. Before you could ask what he needed it for, he took the candle from your hand.
“Fr. Jeon, w-what are you—”
Your eyes widened when he tilted the candle downward, the wax threatening to drip onto your breasts. You gasped sharply when it finally landed on your nipple.
“Does it feel good?” he whispered, lowering the candle toward the other bud.
When the hot wax fell onto your other nipple, you moaned loudly, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as pain and pleasure collided.
It was hot and shocking—yet, for some reason, the sting felt addictive, almost intoxicating.
“Y-Yes, Father.” you bit your lower lip hard, watching as the candle was now directed toward your inner thighs.
He raised a brow, your nipples already covered in white wax. “Yeah? Does this get you wet?”
Before you could answer, he was already pouring hot wax onto your left inner thigh. The pain there was sharper, more intense—like the skin was far more delicate and sensitive. When you instinctively tried to close your legs, he held them open, spreading you wider as he moved the candle to drip more wax onto your right inner thigh.
“Oh, God,” you moaned loudly, the hot wax dripping dangerously close to your wet pussy.
You were already trembling. The mix of heat and pain felt overwhelming yet addictive, tears falling uncontrollably down your cheeks.
Fr. Jeon chuckled at you. “What a pretty little pain slut… I’m supposed to punish you with this, but you’re dripping like a whore.”
He grabbed your cheeks, raising the candle up toward your face. “Make a wish,” he whispered.
You looked up at him with weak eyes, your nipples and inner thighs still burning and oversensitive from the wax. With a faint, shaky smile, you told him your wish.
“Fuck me like a slut, Fr. Jeon." you said breathily.
He growled harshly, stepping back a little to admire his work on your body, how the wax was covering your skin like a sin, how your pussy was so swollen and red, yet your hole was still eagerly twitching to be used.
He tilted his head. “You want that, sweetheart?” he said sweetly, his tone contradicting what he had just done to you.
You nodded eagerly. "Please, use my body like a whore, cum inside me until I’m dripping full of your cum, abuse my tight little pussy until I’m all loose and gaping, release all your forbidden frustrations and destroy my dignity.”
Fallen.
You couldn’t count the number of times you came around his cock that night—his cock thrusting so hard and deep inside you that you could feel how stretched your pussy was.
Every time you tried to fight him, he would push your body down onto the desk, threatening to silence you with scripture whenever you tried to break free from his hold.
When you thought he was done, he would maneuver your body again, spreading your legs wide so he could fuck you hard. His cross necklace would dangle in your face with every thrust. Whenever you moaned too loudly, he would punish you by dripping hot wax onto your inner thighs.
He would always condescendingly praise you, telling you what a poor little girl you were, letting him use you for his own sick pleasure.
"God, you'd let me use you whenever I want wouldn't you? Letting me fuck this tight pussy inside the church, like a good little christian." he would whisper.
It was so lewd when he asked you to touch yourself using the hand that wore his birthstone bracelet, urging you to part your lips for him, watching how the beads would brush over your clit every time you fucked your fingers inside your used, swollen hole.
"That's right...stretch your pussy, sweetheart. I want you nice and gaping when I fuck you again."
Then he would pull your body up, forcing you to bounce on his cock while pressing the beads deeper into your throat. He held both of your cheeks with his free hand so he could continually spit into your parted mouth, watching it drip messily down your chin like a cheap filthy whore. "I love how sinful and dirty you are...so perfect for me."
Capitulated.
You never forgot him, after that night he vanished like a wind.
When you heard that he had suddenly been appointed to another city, it felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath your feet. Overnight, he was simply gone. The weekly sunday mass was no longer presided over by him, and no matter how many people you asked, nobody seemed to have a clear answer as to why.
All you heard were rumors.
Some said he wanted to experience ministry in a different city. Others claimed he had become so busy that he was constantly traveling between churches, handling responsibilities in several places at once. Every explanation sounded vague, rehearsed, and unsatisfying.
You wanted to believe them. But you couldn't.
For months, you carried that bitterness inside you. A part of you convinced yourself that he had simply left. That perhaps everything you shared had meant far less to him than it had to you. The thought hurt more than you cared to admit, especially because, between the two of you, you had been the dishonest one. You had been the one who approached him with hidden intentions, who slowly seduced him, who carefully led him into your snare while pretending to be an innocent church girl.
Yet somewhere along the way, things had changed.
For all your lies, for all your schemes and carefully crafted devotion, you couldn't deny what had happened to your own heart. You had fallen in love with his kindness. Not because he was a priest. Not because he was forbidden. Not because winning his attention felt like a challenge.
But because it was him.
It was the way he remembered small details about you. The way he listened whenever you spoke. The way he always treated people with patience and warmth. Somewhere between the scripture lessons, the afternoon conversations, and the countless boxes of cookies, your feelings had become real.
Then, one afternoon, a letter arrived.
Your hands trembled as you opened it, your heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread. As your eyes moved across the page, tears immediately gathered in them.
All this time, you had believed he left because he wanted to.
The truth was far worse.
Someone had noticed. Someone had seen the way he treated you differently from everyone else—the way his gaze lingered a little too long, the way his voice softened whenever he spoke to you, the way he always seemed to make time for you no matter how busy he was. And eventually, they had discovered what happened behind the closed doors of the church office.
Tears slipped down your cheeks as you continued reading, your vision blurring with every line. For the first time since he disappeared, you finally understood why he had left.
The moment the parish discovered what had happened, he immediately apologized—to the church, to his superiors, and most of all, to the Lord. He had even offered his resignation, believing he was no longer worthy of his position.
But they refused. The parish forgave him.
They told him he was too kind, too devoted, too valuable to lose over a mistake. Instead of removing him from the priesthood, they gave him a chance to start over in a different city, far away from the rumors and whispers. They told him that what happened was a test of faith. A temptation. That God would always be stronger in his heart than any earthly attachment.
You were the temptation they spoke about.
You never wrote back, you never tried contacting him again. Because if he had truly wanted you, he would have resigned. He would have walked away from the collar, from the church, from the life he had chosen long before you entered it.
He would have chosen you.
Instead, when forced to decide between you and God, he surrendered himself to God. And that answer was enough.
With a deep breath, you entered the confession booth. You wanted to confess your sins, you wanted to move on.
It had been two years, and somehow you were still holding on to him.
Whenever Sana mentioned his name, your eyes would sting with unshed tears. Whenever you heard stories about him…how successful he had become, how respected he was as a priest now…an ache would settle deep inside your chest.
You could no longer step inside a church without thinking about him.
The stained-glass windows, the scent of incense, the quiet hum of prayer before mass. Every sacred thing had become tangled with the memory of him, until devotion and desire were no longer things you could separate.
So, with a heavy heart, you finally decided to let him go.
Sitting inside the confessional that afternoon, your fingers twisted nervously in your lap as you gathered the courage to speak.
A thin wooden partition stood between you, a barrier meant to separate priest from sinner, confession from judgment, devotion from temptation.
“Bless me, Father…. for I have sinned.” you said softly, behind the confession grille.
Your voice…soft and unforgettable, echoed through the small confessional booth.
The familiar scent of vanilla wrapped around him like a memory he had spent years trying to forget.
Hyerin has always known she isn't like other people. Raised by a neglecting mother and a father who was broken by love. She learned early on that emotions were masks that people wore for each other. When her father suicide shattered what remained of her childhood, she felt nothing except the quiet certainty that something inside of her has snapped.
Jungkook a guy who loved deeply and too much at a time. He was raised surrounded by love, who wore his emotions bare in his deep dark eyes the exact opposite of Hyerin, whose gaze was famously unreadable.
Where Hyerin existed in silence, Jungkook lived loudly.
Where she studied emotions, he embodied them.
Where she felt empty, he overflowed.
Their worlds should never have crossed.
And yet, fate twisted the knife beautifully placing the boy who felt too much in the path of the dead eyed angel.
Or what do you think of a five member girlgroup who has the same start as BTS but now they are crowned the world's best girlgroup but they are from china
