mysterious stranger in my phone -how to pull an idol (a series)
idol!martin x reader
⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖When you let a random stranger rant for a whole ten minutes, you not only gain a new favorite band but also a devestating crush. ݁‧₊˚⋆ִֶָ
previous warnings: cussing, martin being a dumbass
twinski nr.1 BEEN right and you they are just not listening what the heck man
Genre/Tags: café owner! jungkook x ceo! reader, exes to lovers, divorced au, co-parenting au, second chance romance, angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, slow burn
Summary: Months after a devastating divorce, you and Jungkook find yourselves trying to navigate a life that no longer looks the way it once did. Between unresolved emotions, stubborn feelings that just don’t want to disappear and the shared custody of your angel-like son, Yejun, the two of you are left standing in the wreckage of everything you once were. And somewhere in between coexisting and letting go… you are forced to ask yourselves if the love you shared is something meant to be left behind in all of your yesterdays.
The dance studio was always empty late at night; you and Martin made it your little routine to spend time together when he’s practicing new choreography. When his schedule becomes busy, he made up for it by always inviting you to his solo practices.
You’re neatly curled up on a bench by the wall, facing the large mirrors. Your knees are tucked tightly into your chest, as you watch Martin in his element. As the speakers blast his newest track, he effortlessly glides across the floor, pivoting and flowing with ease. Something about watching Martin dance is hypnotising, it's as if he felt every beat in his body.
He’d been practicing the same sequence for at least 40 minutes now, his shirt sticking to his toned figure with dark patches splotching on his chest and back. Sweat drips down his chiselled jaw to his defined collarbones, and, even with his hair wet, it still manages to frame his face perfectly.
You’re in awe.
That’s when he notices you staring from the mirror.
“Babe, I can’t focus.” He whines, breathing hard while crouched over, with his hands on his knees.
“Somebody has to critique!” You say, innocently. You were definitely just staring because you couldn’t believe such beauty was your boyfriend.
“You’re distracting, I can’t focus when the love of my life is looking at me!”
You hold your hands up in surrender, “Sorry, not sorry!”
Then, you blow him a little kiss from across the room.
He gasps dramatically, and does that thing where he runs laps around the studio, screaming. Why? Because that’s just what he does, you’ll never understand why but you’re used to it by now. Even though, his screams do pierce your eardrums every time.
After a few minutes of yelling and running, he jogs over to you, like a golden retriever. Then, without warning, Martin flops down like his legs have given up on him, and lays his head in your lap. Naturally, he closes his eyes in tiredness.
“You’re soaking me with your sweat, Tini,” You say, tilting his head at an angle and wiping a bead that threatens to fall away with the hem of your sleeve.
“Good,” He nuzzles into your thighs, “That means i’m working hard.”
You roll your eyes playfully at the man-child lying on you, but of course you’d never move. And, you especially don’t care your joggers are now damp, you found being Martin’s girlfriend also means being a personal pillow. No matter where, he’d always find your lap to lay on, even in the most inconvenient spaces.
He opens his eyes slowly to meet your gaze, and grins.
“Okay Mrs Edwards, if you’re my critic, then how did I do?” he cooes.
You aimlessly look around the room, tapping your chin like you’re actually deep in thought. Obviously, you know he did amazing but a little teasing wouldn’t harm anybody, especially not Martin.
“Hm,” You ponder, “I think a 6/10, you keep doing that silly thing with your face.”
“What silly thing?” He gasps, offended, like you’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.
“You know,” You scrunch your face up and stick your tongue out a bit, doing your best impression of ‘I’m Martin, the coolest guy around’, “Like that.”
He squirms around, like a fish out of water, whipping his head away from you. You can’t help but laugh at his cuteness. It’s so easy to tease Martin and yet he always gives the best reactions.
You slap his arm playfully, “I’m joking baby, you were great.”
When he looks back at you, he’s pouty, his eyebrows furrowed into his hairline. “Yeah, I know I was. I’m the coolest guy around.” He groans through exaggerated ‘hmph’ noises.
“Now come on, get back to practicing.”
“I’m not motivated anymore.” He says, shaking his head like he’s making a point.
God, every day you fall more and more for this silly boy.
That’s when you feel it - the fluttery little urge in your chest to squeeze Martin with all the love you have.
“I know what’ll help.”
“Sure you do, and what’s that?”
You don’t answer, instead you lean down to his forehead and place a gentle, loving kiss. A layer of salty sweat laces your lips but you don’t mind.
He stares at you for a beat longer than usual, then blinks. Even though he’s already a bit red from dancing, you can see his natural flush rising to his cheeks. “Wha-“
Before he can even say anything else, you plaster playful, sloppy kisses on his nose, his cheeks, his forehead repeatedly with fast and messy motions.
“Okay! Okay! I’m motivated!” He says between giggles, trying to push himself off of you but you’re holding him down tightly. Luckily for you, since he’s lying down, you have the upper advantage.
You finally pull back, a satisfied grin forming on your lips. “Sorry, you’re just cute.”
He sits up rapidly, processes it, and points to himself like you’ve accused him of the most heinous crime. “Me? cute?”
“So much, I hate you for it.” You say, deadpan.
“Oh, so that’s how we are gonna be?” He asks, a mischievous hint in his voice.
Gently, he places a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you close. And before you can react, he kisses you, soft and slow. His lips are smooth, warm. You sigh into the kiss and you can’t help it - you melt. Your hands tangling in his hair, gripping onto him like you’re afraid he could disappear. His arms soon tighten around you, until there’s no space between you anymore, just the warmth of your two bodies against each other.
You feel him smile against your lips, and you can’t help but smile back. When he pulls back, he drops his forehead onto yours. You’re both a little breathless.
“See, i’m cool not cute.” He whispers.
You whack his chest playfully, pushing him back then shoving a shooing motion in front of his face. “I’m not joking tini, get practicing!”
Things were perfect like this, just you and Martin. Everything and everyone else would fade away, leaving you two in your own little world. And god, it’s a world you want to stay in forever.
established relationship, cursing, playful banter, teasing, fluff, reader is implied to be more mellow than martin, lovertin <3
with how large the living room is, you'd expect martin to unfold his impressive 190 centimetres across one of the many empty couches. it seemed logical, practical even.
but martin, with a mischievous glint in his eye, was determined to prove otherwise.
"oh my god," you groaned, eyes half-lidded and heavy with the blissful weight of a near-nap, as you sensed your boyfriend's impending approach. "don't even think about it, loser."
he quirked an eyebrow, a silent challenge. "excuse me?"
"go awaaaay," you whined, punctuating your plea with a dramatic groan. you burrowed deeper into the plush embrace of the couch, clutching the stolen comforter from his room like a lifeline, your back turning against him.
"i'm literally just standing here," he protested, his voice laced with mock innocence. yet, with each passing second, he inched closer, a slow and deliberate creeping that you could practically feel in your senses.
"i can hear you dummy," you retorted, your voice muffled by the comforter.
"well you're hearing things," he insisted, though the playful tone betrayed his amusement.
"martin, i can feel your breath on my neck," you declared, feigning exasperation.
as if on cue, a gentle puff of air tickled the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine and ruffling the stray hairs that linger there. you cracked open your eyes, moving to face the opposite direction, and found yourself confronted with the sight of martin, now crouched beside the couch, his face mere inches from yours.
"hey pretty," he murmured, his voice low and honeyed. with a tender hand, he brushed the stray hairs away from your face, tucking it behind your ear before resting his temple on his knuckles, his elbow rested on the couch while his arm provide a sturdy anchor for his upper body. "did i tell you that you look really pretty today?"
you stared at him for a beat, your mind momentarily blank as you took in the sight of his utterly ridiculous, yet undeniably endearing, dopey smile. it was a smile that was there to coax you out of your supposedly afternoon nap, a form of annoyance disguised as charm. with a roll of your eyes, you broke the spell.
"you have," you replied, your voice dripping with feigned boredom, though a traitorous smile threatened to tug at the corners of your lips. "numerous and multiple times, actually."
"really? how many?" he asked, voice laced with faux wonder, his brow furrowing and his eyes fluttering shut. "tens? hundreds? thousands of times?"
"millions," you deadpanned, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a genuine reaction. you flick his forehead, to which martin responded to with a dramatic grunt, clutching at the space between his brows.
"come onnnnnn," he drawled, stretching the word into a drawn-out whine. he lowered his aching forehead onto your arm, his eyes gazing up at you with an exaggerated pout.
you stared at him again, but this time, your gaze lingered, truly seeing him. memorizing the subtle freckles scattered across his cheeks, the rosy hue of the tip of his nose, and the unwavering stars that danced in his eyes, never seeming to dim, no matter the circumstances.
because as infuriating as martin could be, nothing could compare to the absolute adoration and unwavering endearment he offered in return.
endearing, that was the word you would secretly use to describe the entirety of his being. many might mistake him as a perfect, flawless specimen, but you knew better. you saw his flaws, the clumsy moments when he'd spill milk all over the counter during breakfast, the awkward silences that lingered during the first date, the quiet frustration that simmered beneath the surface when a song just wouldn't work out.
but it was in his resolutions, in his unwavering commitment to growth, that his true charm shone through. his insistence on wiping the counter squeaky clean, his genuine curiosity when you spoke about yourself, the simple contentment that washed over him after finally finishing a song. no grand celebration, no boasting, just a quiet sigh and the soft click of his laptop closing.
so, despite the nagging awareness of his brilliance, a brilliance that seemed to cast your own, much duller, existence in a less flattering light, you relented and indulged him, as you always did.
you let out a breath, before holding open the comforter that had been threatening to swallow you whole. martin stilled for a beat, his eyes widening with anticipation, before settling into the space you had graciously offered.
he nestled his head against your chest, his breath leaving a trail of warmth against your sternum, a sensation that sent a ghost of a smile flickering across your lips. he noticed, of course, as he always with things involving you.
he lifted his head, "you like me sooooo bad, don't you."
whatever giddy feeling had begun to bloom in your chest withered and died.
"i'm going to kill you," you declared, your voice monotone and dull. you attempted to dislodge his hold on your body, jostling him with all your might, but he clung to you tighter, his grip unyielding. "get off!"
"nuh uh," he retorted, his voice muffled against your chest.
"fuck you mean nuh uh?" you challenged, your hands finding their way to his face, squishing his cheeks with playful aggression. you smirked smugly as you shook his head from side to side, relishing in his momentary discomfort.
"okay stop-" he managed to garble, his words distorted by the pressure of your hands.
"nuh uh," you countered, a small giggle escaping your lips, prompting martin to mirror your amusement despite his current predicament. "say sorry first."
"sorry for what!" he bantered, his eyebrows arching skyward in mock offense, his eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.
"just say sorry!" your giggle had long since morphed into full-blown laughter, your cheeks flushed with warmth and your stomach aching from the force of your laugh.
martin gazed at you, his expression softening into a lovesick smile, his hands stilling in your grasp. you settled down too, taking note of the fragile and tender atmosphere that had settled between you.
"who likes who so bad now, hm?" you teased, your hold on his face growing softer, your grasp turning into a gentle caress as your thumb traced the apples of his cheek.
"i have no idea what you're talking about," he mumbled, though the telltale flush creeping up his neck and spreading across his face betrayed his composure. "perv."
"nerd."
"dummy."
"dork."
"i'm not a dork!" martin protested, his voice laced with mock indignation. "i'm cool as fuck bro."
"whatever you say," you replied, punctuating your words with a soft kiss to his forehead. "dork."
🎙️summary- you debuted in a girl group in July 2025 called Solyn, rising in fame yourself and your 3 other members do a collab with BG Cortis! You and Martin bash heads, causing chaos on social media. Rumours of the two of you liking each other after the collab spread like wildfire.
🎙️summary- you debuted in a girl group in July 2025 called Solyn, rising in fame yourself and your 3 other members do a collab with BG Cortis! You and Martin bash heads, causing chaos on social media. Rumours of the two of you liking each other after the collab spread like wildfire.
🎙️summary- you debuted in a girl group in July 2025 called Solyn, rising in fame yourself and your 3 other members do a collab with BG Cortis! You and Martin bash heads, causing chaos on social media. Rumours of the two of you liking each other after the collab spread like wildfire.
🎙️summary- you debuted in a girl group in July 2025 called Solyn, rising in fame yourself and your 3 other members do a collab with BG Cortis! You and Martin bash heads, causing chaos on social media. Rumours of the two of you liking each other after the collab spread like wildfire.
-> You don't like Han Jisung's girlfriend. He needs a new one.
nerd!jisung x fem!reader
strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst, hurt / comfort, college!au, suggestive
3.2K
warnings: cursing, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentions of cheating, reader is an unreliable narrator
inspired by Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne
series mlist
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The campus diner is loud in a comforting sort of way. Week old grease popping behind the counter, retro music humming through blown-out speakers, students half-asleep and half-high on milkshakes and fries.
Memories of this place from freshman year flood your mind the moment you step inside, back when the campus still felt exciting and full of possibility. Even the questionable food and multiple health code violations were somehow charming.
You used to come here alone all the time, before your reputation. Studying felt less miserable when you had a greasy snack and the option to periodically pass out in one of the most ridiculously uncomfortable diner booths on planet earth.
Back then, you’d spread your notes across the table and stay for hours, tucked into the corner with headphones on and a milkshake sweating beside your textbooks. It felt peaceful.
Until that peace turned into loneliness. And you stopped coming so often.
But you’re not alone anymore.
Jisung sits across from you now, hoodie sleeves pushed up enough to expose his forearms as he casually steals one of your fries. You watch him drag it through your dipping sauce like it naturally belongs to both of you, completely unbothered (or clueless) by the intimacy of it.
And maybe that’s what gets you the most. Because a week ago, Han Jisung was just some random guy sitting alone at a party next to a drink he wasn’t even drinking.
And now somehow the two of you have slipped into this strange comfortability that usually takes months to build, stuck in this weird limbo where it feels normal for him to eat off your plate, but not to ask for his number.
“You know,” Jisung says around a mouthful of stolen fries, “this is probably the weirdest origin story I’ve ever experienced.”
“Origin story?” you raise a brow. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Mhm.”
“Is that nerd language for friendship?”
“Pretty much.”
“So, we're friends?”
“I mean,” he replies slowly, “Do you want to be?”
Oh, hell to the no. The last thing you want is to be shoved into the friendzone with Han Jisung. If you’re going to end up in anything involving Jisung, you’d strongly prefer it be his bedsheets.
“Sure,” you say sweetly instead. “I’d like that.”
Even though you lied, the way his face brightens feels dangerously rewarding.
You watch, deeply distracted, as he takes a bite of his burger before swiping his thumb through the ketchup at the corner of his mouth and absentmindedly licking it clean. Something about watching him eat is oddly satisfying.
His cheeks are three times their normal size when he talks with food in his mouth, soft and round in a way that should not be as cute as it is on a grown ass man. It gives him this unfairly adorable quality that completely clashes with the fact that you’ve spent at least half the week imagining him in morally questionable scenarios.
“Can you believe that a week ago you were trying to seduce me in a hallway?” he continues, pausing to chew only after speaking. “What an introduction.”
Even more concerning, you’re starting to realize Jisung never seems to finish chewing what’s already stored in his cheeks before immediately putting more food in his mouth.
The man is going to choke, and surprisingly, it will have nothing to do with your hand around his neck.
“Oh my god,” you groan, dropping your forehead dramatically into your palm. “Are you ever gonna let that go?”
“I’m just saying,” he swallows, “most people start conversations by asking about my major or hobbies, not putting their hand on my thigh.”
“In my defense,” you point at him with a fry, “you looked easy.”
“Easy?”
“You were way too innocent to be at that party, what was I supposed to do?”
“Not try to corrupt me?”
“Okay, before we start judging, I would just like it to be noted that the second I found out you had a girlfriend, I backed off.”
Jisung gives you a look over the edge of his glasses before pushing them back up his nose. “Backed off?”
“Yes.”
“You stalked us for a week.”
“That was investigative journalism!”
He laughs again, warm and bright enough that a couple people glance over. “Oh, right. My bad.”
“Seriously,” you reply, trying to hide your smile behind your drink before it betrays how much his laugh affects you. “I could’ve been a terrible person about it, but I wasn’t.”
“You bought a — well actually, I don't know if I can even call it a disguise.”
“Okay first, I didn't buy anything. I had that trenchcoat. Second, my outfit choices are unrelated to my moral integrity.”
“The trench coat was an insane move.”
“It was fashion.”
“It was seventy-eight degrees outside.”
"You know what?" A giggle slips free before you can catch it. So much for maintaining the bit. You quickly pull yourself together, adopting your most serious expression. "You're being really judgmental for a guy who plays League of Legends behind his girlfriend's back."
He gasps softly, a hand gripping his shirt like you’ve wounded him. “Low blow.”
“Be grateful I’m keeping your secret, nerd.”
“We're friends now,” he points out. “You have to.”
“So the reason you wanted to be friends wasn't because you like me? You just didn't want me to tattle on you?” A dramatic hand lands across your heart, little sniffles and fake sobs between your words. “I'm hurt.”
Jisung shakes his head, still smiling to himself as he reaches for another fry off your plate. “Nah, of course I like you.”
Holy shit, get it together. He didn't mean it like that.
His bangs keep falling in front of his eyes every time he laughs, and you have to physically stop yourself from reaching across the table to fix them. (Which is ridiculous behavior. Deeply embarrassing, honestly.)
It doesn't take long. The two of you dissolve into laughter again and again, eventually drawing attention from the handful of other students scattered through the diner. But you couldn't care less.
Jisung’s shoulders shake when he laughs hard. His head falls back against the booth and his arm lands over his stomach. Every so often he smacks the seat beside him or his own thigh, only to immediately wince afterward and grab his wrist dramatically.
Shit, you really like this.
You like having a shared history with him. Inside jokes only the two of you fully understand. They make you feel close to him in a way that’s probably not very smart.
Perhaps you should be embarrassed about how much you're enjoying spending time with someone else's boyfriend. But instead, it just makes your heart ache.
Truthfully, you feel a little guilty about how happy you are that he's not where he was originally supposed to be – with his girlfriend.
But rather, he’s here. Stealing your fries and laughing at your jokes like he genuinely enjoys being around you.
And selfishly, you want to keep him here for as long as possible.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what?”
You give a small, nonchalant shrug. “I needed to laugh, I guess.”
Goddamn it, there he goes again. You didn't realize a smile could look like that. Small at first before it spreads fully across his face like he just can’t help it. As if you're the charming one here.
Those gorgeous boba eyes practically disappear into crescents, rosy cheeks pushing up high behind his glasses. And the way his smile shows a little bit of his top gums!? Holy fuck, he's adorable. Like a proud kid who just got told he did something right for once.
Your gaze lingers on him for too long. How long? You don't know. Long enough that you catch yourself smiling too, simply because he is.
The realization hits you like a slap to the back of the head. Oh, you are so down catastrophically bad.
You clear your throat quickly and look down at your basket of fries instead, suddenly very interested in the three lonely fries left at the bottom.
“You know,” you say after a while, nudging fries around in circles, “most people would’ve asked why I was crying by now.”
Jisung tilts his head curiously, eyes dipping low to catch your downcast gaze. “Do you want me to ask why you were crying?”
You shrug one shoulder, not really nodding but definitely not shaking your head. “I don’t know. It's whatever. Just saying.”
And that’s the truth. You’re not even sure why you brought it up. Normally, if people ask personal questions, you dodge them with inappropriate humor or flirt your way out of it until the conversation moves on. Vulnerability has never really been your thing.
But Jisung just sits there quietly. No pressure. No pushing. He studies you, gaze softening as he takes in the way you’re nibbling absentmindedly at the corner of a fry instead of eating it properly. The way your shoulders keep tightening every few seconds like you’re bracing for some kind of impact.
Then, very gently, he asks, “Why were you crying, ___?"
A small breath escapes your lips, a hesitation some might say. But then you decide there’s no point in avoiding honesty when Jisung has never given you any reason to.
“I ran into my ex.”
“Yikes.”
“And he’s still the same jerk I left three months ago.”
“Why’d you two break up?”
“Because it felt like I only mattered to him when he wanted something from me,” you admit quietly. “And then I found out he cheated.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah.” You let out a small laugh even though there's nothing funny about it. “But apparently I wasn’t allowed to be upset.”
“What do you mean?”
You shrug, even though the motion feels stiff. “When I confronted him, he basically said it was my fault. Said I treat sex too casually, and I let guys use me, so I have no right to get mad when he did the same thing."
The words leave a sour taste in your mouth all over again, as if tasting them for the first time.
“Jerk,” you mutter under your breath, blinking quickly as you look away.
Jisung goes quiet after that. Not awkwardly. Not dismissively. He just lets the silence settle for a moment when he notices your eyes starting to gloss over again.
“Is it okay if I say something?” he finally asks.
You nod. “Please.”
Jisung adjusts his glasses before continuing, quieter this time. “Honestly? When you first sat down next to me at that party, I felt uncomfortable and really nervous.”
Okay, ouch. But before embarrassment can fully crawl up your spine, he quickly adds, “Not because I thought you were bad or annoying or anything. I just…I didn’t really know what to do with that version of you.”
Your gaze lands on his only to find those precious boba eyes sparkling back at you.
“But the more we talked that night, the more I started seeing the real you underneath all that hypersexual facade.” His voice softens, immediately softening the knot in your chest as well. “The way you joked. The way you talked. The way you flirted with me and then pretended to get upset when I turned you down–”
“Not pretending, but go on."
“--that version of you? The real one. I actually liked her. A lot.”
An unstoppable heat creeps up your neck.
Is it just you or did the diner suddenly get way too warm to be sitting inside? The air goes thick, and you can't seem to get enough oxygen breathing through your nose, so your lips part and you take in a deep, slow breath.
“That’s the person I actually wanted to keep talking to after the party," he admits. “That’s the person I want to be friends with.”
Right about now is typically when you would fire off some snarky, sarcastic comeback to leave him flustered and fumbling.
But nothing comes out. Your throat suddenly feels too tight for sarcasm.
Well, shit.
How did he say all that so simply? As if your most heavily guarded insecurity was so obvious to him? What, does he have x-ray vision or something? Fuck, you weren't ready for that. And the longer you let his words hang in the air, the more you realize just how absolutely insane what he just said is.
Guys are not supposed to make you nervous! That’s never how this works. You make guys nervous. You’re the one who leans in first. The one who flirts first. The one who leaves boys red-faced and fumbling over their own name.
But right now?
Looking into Jisung’s eyes is making your stomach twist and your nerves tingle. And for maybe the first time in years, you feel shy. Legitimately shy.
“Okay, hold on,” you blurt out, waving a hand through the air to cut the scene.
Jisung watches you for another second before the corner of his mouth lifts into something softer. “What?”
“Really? Are you serious right now? You're just going to say that while looking at me like that?”
His gaze goes right and left and then comes back to you. “Looking at you like what?”
Your face lands in your hands. “Oh my god, it's so stressful.”
“What is?”
“You! And your relationship status.”
He just stares at you. Somehow this man is both the most intuitive and yet oblivious person you've ever met. In a matter of minutes, he's able to make you cry, stop your crying, make you blush, and make you want to punch a cement wall.
But is he going to take responsibility for all this?
Don't count on it.
No, instead he's just going to sit there with his head tilted and his bangs gently falling in front of his eyes. Fuck, you just want to kiss his stupid, pouty lips until they're swollen and he's breathless underneath you in the corner booth.
“I don't get it,” he replies slowly, brows knitting together cutely.
“Okay,” you start by sitting forward and placing your hands on the table, a deep breath to prepare yourself. “Look, I’m aware you don’t want me commenting on your girlfriend."
Jisung immediately groans under his breath. “Oh no.”
“But,” you continue anyway, holding an innocent hand out, “Just hear me out. I just have to say it.”
"Why do I feel like I’m about to get bullied?”
“Because you are low-key.”
He leans back cautiously, already looking not prepared.
“Minji does not deserve you.”
“___," you can't say that--"
“No, listen to me.” You cut him off before he can argue. “I genuinely hope one day she realizes what a ridiculously good guy she has. Because it's actually stupid that she would cancel any chance she had to spend time with you."
Jisung’s ears start turning pink already. He tries to play it off by adjusting his glasses and swallowing nothing, but it's too late, you've already noticed and memorized the pretty color.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m correct.”
“You barely know me.”
“And yet somehow I already know you’re too nice for like eighty percent of this campus.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for his drink again.
You watch him for a second before adding casually, “Or, alternatively, I hope she never figures it out and dumps you, so I can have you instead.”
Jisung nearly chokes, a small spill of his drink leaking from his lips.
You grin innocently while he coughs into his fist, face flushing pink all over again. Oh yeah, you just found your new favorite color.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes now. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why not? I believe in honesty.”
“I think you believe in causing chaos on purpose.”
“That too.”
He laughs despite himself, ducking his head as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. Goddamn, that smile tugging at his mouth, so small and unassuming, like he’s trying not to enjoy this conversation as much as he is.
You don't understand why he doesn't just admit he enjoys it when you flirt with him. It's not like his loser girlfriend is doing it for him. Nor could she! He already admitted she doesn't give him the physical attention he would like. You can only imagine what kind of emotional attention is missing from his relationship too.
And yet, at the same time, Jisung continues to demonstrate one of the reasons you respect him so much: he sticks up for his girlfriend regardless of her presence. Whether she's here or not, he's not willing to speak ill of her – even if the things you're saying are a hundred percent true.
With your stomach in knots, you're the first to break eye contact, fixing your gaze on your straw instead.
Jisung drops his head into one hand with a quiet sigh, shoulders shaking from embarrassed energy and laughter at the same time.
“You know, I meant for this conversation to make you feel better because you were crying,” he says, eyes sparkling with each word, “not psychologically torture me.”
“Psychologically torturing you does make me feel better."
“Be serious."
“I am. You're too cute when you're flustered. Can't help it."
You intended that line to once again show you that adorably addictive shade of pink on the tips of his ears. But instead, he just looks at you. Not dramatically. Not defensively. Not embarrassed or flustered at all actually.
He just…looks at you.
And for some reason, that’s so much worse.
Because there’s no annoyance in his expression. No discomfort. Just those big, boba brown eyes fixed on you with this quiet, unreadable softness that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly and your toes curl in your shoes.
It lasts maybe two seconds. Probably less.
But it feels intimate enough during those brief moments that you feel a pinch of guilt in your side, making you sit up straight and pull your feet closer under the table.
“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll stop flirting.”
“Promise?”
You place a hand dramatically over your heart and raise the other into the air. “I promise to stop verbally hitting on you while you're in a relationship."
A shy smile slips onto his face. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
The thing is, technically, you keep your promise. Your mouth behaves for the rest of the meal, no instances even though plenty of opportunities present themselves.
Your eyes, however, are another story entirely.
Because every time he laughs, your gaze lingers too long on his mouth and that little glimpse of his gums when he smiles really big.
Every time he pushes his glasses up his nose, you notice that little bit underneath the band that's paler than the rest of his honey skin.
Every time he ducks his head while smiling at something stupid you said, you notice the natural part in his bangs and how he shakes his head to get them out of his eyes.
And every time he says your name, you notice the way the syllables seem to melt off his tongue and rest on his lips for a moment longer, as if being kissed before they finally reach your ears.
mysterious stranger in my phone -how to pull an idol (a series)
idol!martin x reader
⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖When you let a random stranger rant for a whole ten minutes, you not only gain a new favorite band but also a devestating crush. ݁‧₊˚⋆ִֶָ
previous warnings: cussing
just got home from a party, so obviously the first thing i do at 3am is post the next part
mysterious stranger in my phone -how to pull an idol (a series)
idol!martin x reader
⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖When you let a random stranger rant for a whole ten minutes, you not only gain a new favorite band but also a devestating crush. ݁‧₊˚⋆ִֶָ
hmmm martin x reader but like the roderick x regina concept and everyone can't believe how he pulled her
.☘︎ ݁˖ | 𝓢K8ER BOI !
⤷ You've always had control– getting what you want, commanding attention. But Martin Edwards? He never played by your rules. Or js basically relationship headcanons between Regina! Reader and Rodrick! Martin, as everyone wonders how two completely opposite people make it work.
ᯓ★ warnings: wc: 2.7k, kinda mean reader?, adp tarzzan hate :), cursing, kinda campus loser x queen bee trope, just small collection of scenarios tbh, established relationship, a scene of reader straddling him but its NOTTT in a weird way pls dont kill me
ᯓ★ note: first req omg (｡•́ ̫ •̀｡) this ship is so peak also chat if you think abt it dipper and pacifica is like the og regina and rodrick
The sight of you and Martin walking side by side in the halls, or, more accurately, Martin trailing behind you like some oversized shadow, never fails to amuse anyone who sees you. Your polished hair and perfectly manicured nails stand in sharp contrast to Martin’s unruly blonde spikes and chipped black nail polish. His height towers over you, sure, but there’s something undeniably funny about how you still seem to be the one in control.
People often stare, wondering how the two of you even ended up together. They think it’s a joke, or some temporary thrill for you. But after almost a year, it’s starting to seem less like a joke and more like… something real.
But what they don’t see is what goes on behind closed doors. The part of your relationship–and of you–that you keep hidden behind all that sass and aloofness. Because in reality, Martin, with his careless grin and stubborn streak, is probably the only person who’s ever gotten under your skin in a way that makes you feel something.
They dont see how he just listens while you yap ✶⋆.˚
You don't realize you’ve been talking for a while until your throat starts to feel dry.
“…and then she had the nerve to say she ‘didn’t realize’ it was my idea,” you finished, stopping in the middle of Martin’s messy room. “Like I don’t recognize if some phony tries to steal what's mine.”
Martin’s sitting on his bed, back against the wall, legs stretched out. His guitar’s resting beside him, untouched. He hums quietly, nodding.
“That is annoying,” he says.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re not just saying that, right?”
He looks up at you, eyes amused. “No. That is genuinely annoying.”
You exhale, some of the tension easing out of your shoulders. You start pacing again, slower this time. “I just hate when people act dumb on purpose. It’s insulting. Like hello? Do you even know who you're talking to right now?”
“That makes sense,” he says with a nod. “You hate being underestimated.”
You glance at him, caught off guard at this observation. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “You get this look when it happens. Like you’re already planning their downfall.”
You scoff. “I do not have a look.”
He smiles. “You do.”
You open your mouth to argue, then close it. Realizing he might be right. Instead, you drop onto the edge of his bed, leaning back on your hands.
“…Anyway,” you continue, quieter now. “It’s just stupid.”
Martin shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. “You wanna fix it or just complain?”
“I just wanna complain”
“Perfect. I’m great at listening.”
You side-eye him. “You sure? Because this might take a while.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You momentarily hesitate, then keep talking. About classes, people, how Gretchen is still trying to make ‘fetch’ a thing. Martin doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush you. Every now and then he hums or says something small, like “yeah” or “thats true.”
Eventually, you lean into his shoulder without realizing it.
“You’re weirdly patient,” you mutter.
He shrugs. “I like hearing what’s in your head.”
You scoff softly. “…don’t make it weird.”
He smiles to himself and lets you continue ranting.
They dont see how he tries to look cool but you just find him cute ✶⋆.˚
Martin is trying very hard not to fidget.
He’s leaning against the building just outside your lecture hall, one foot propped against the wall, earbuds in, jacket zipped to the exact height he decided looked casual but intentional. He’s been standing there long enough that a few students have passed him twice, and he’s starting to wonder if he should move, pretend he’s waiting for someone else, or just disappear entirely.
He adjusts his posture. Then immediately stops, because that feels like admitting something.
Finally, you appear.
You step out of the lecture hall with your usual group, bag slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable. Your eyes land on him, and you slow, gaze dragging from his shoes up to his face like you’re assessing an outfit for flaws.
“Why are you standing like that?” you ask.
He (tries to) nonchalantly pulls one earbud out. “Like what?”
“Like you’re in a photoshoot.”
“I’m just standing,” he says defensively with a casual shrug.
“No,” you reply, stepping closer. “You’re posing. You even picked a wall.”
He glances back at it. “It’s a good wall.”
You squint at him, suspicious. “You practiced.”
He scoffs defiantly. “I did not!”
“You absolutely did,” you say, reaching out without asking to fix the messy spikes in his hair, straightening a spike he hadn’t even noticed was deflating down. “You’re trying to look effortless.”
He swallows, then lifts his chin slightly. “And? Is it working?”
You pause, your hand still on his hair for half a second too long. Then you let go and roll your eyes. “You look dumb.”
He grins at your response. “That’s not a no.”
You turn away, already walking down the path. “You’re embarrassing.”
He pushes off the wall and jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you. “You came over here anyway.”
“Because you’d be sulking if I didn’t,” you say flatly.
“True,” he admits. “You hate when I sulk.”
“I hate when you’re dramatic.”
He laughs. “I learned from the best.”
You shoot him a look, sharp but lacking any real heat, and keep walking. The crowd thins as you move farther from the building. As you go, Martin catches you glancing at him, quick and subtle, like you don’t want to be caught.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
You ignore him and walk a little faster. He watches you from half a step behind, lips twitching despite himself. When you glance back again, you catch him smiling like an idiot.
“What?” you snap.
He shrugs, completely unashamed. “…Nothing. You just think I’m cute.”
“I do not.”
You pick up your pace.
He laughs and jogs to catch up, heart light, knowing exactly how much you’re lying.
They done see how you help him with his eyeliner before his shows ✶⋆.˚
“Stop moving! If I poke your eye, I’m not going to apologize.”
“But it feels funny!” Martin protested, his hands wrapped around your wrists again, completely halting your movements. You were straddling his waist, sitting on his waist for a better angle, but with him squirming like that, it was a struggle to stay on task. You let out an irritated huff. You’d been trying to do his ‘guyliner’ (as he calls it) for ten minutes, but Martin couldn’t sit still.
“Let me remind you, you were literally the one that wanted this,” you groaned, trying not to lose your balance. “I thought you wanted to look like that emo loser Gerard Way.”
Martin’s eyes went wide, and he gasped dramatically. “Take that back! Gerard Way is not an emo loser. He’s like an emo god!”
“Okay, fine. Then you’re the emo loser,” you said flatly.
Martin’s face shifted to a pout. “Yeah, sure. Let’s make fun of the guy who put himself out there creatively.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you seriously quoting a TikTok right now?”
He smiled, his hands making their way back to your wrists. “Babe, please? I’m begging you, do my eyeliner before the show. I don’t wanna look like a raccoon up there.”
You exhaled loudly, clearly annoyed, but you couldn’t ignore the way he was looking at you. That exaggerated pout, those big eyes—it was like he knew how to break your resolve with just one look.
“Fine, but if you move again, I’m using this pencil as a weapon. Got it?”
“Do your worst, princess,” Martin grinned, lying back with his arms behind his head.
As you twisted the cap off your eyeliner, you realized the pencil was starting to get low. You made a face, glancing around for something else. A quick rummage through your bag revealed exactly what you needed: a brand new eyeliner pencil, tucked neatly at the bottom, just in case.
You raised the new eyeliner in the air like a trophy. “Good thing I carry extras. God knows you’ll probably ruin this one before we even leave the house.”
Martin’s eyes lit up at the sight of the second pencil. “You think I’m gonna ruin it again?”
“Well, you did it last time,” you shot back, uncapping the new pencil. “Here, take this one. I’m not dealing with any more eyeliner disasters today.”
Martin gave a dramatic sigh, taking the pencil from you. “Awe, look at you, always prepared. Gotta admit, I didn’t expect this kind of backup.”
“Well, someone has to be responsible in this relationship,” you quipped, leaning in closer to finish the job.
“I swear you’re just waiting for me to mess it up, huh?” Martin smirked, twirling the extra eyeliner between his fingers as if it were some prized possession.
You rolled your eyes as you finished the line. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
A moment of silence passes, only the quiet tune of cherry waves by deftones playing in the background when martins speaks up again, “After you do mine, let me try doing yours,” he teased, clearly feeling a little too confident now.
“No way in hell am I trusting you with an eyeliner pencil within five feet of my eyes,” you replied instantly. “I still want to see my future, thanks.”
“Awe, is it because you still wanna see my handsome face when we grow old together?” He smirked, leaning over to nudge your side.
“Dream on, Edwards.” You shot back, finishing up his eyeliner.
They dont see how he's the only one allowed to tease you ✶⋆.˚
You check your reflection in the glass of a parked car, tilting your chin just enough to catch the light, when Martin tilts his head and starts watching you.
“You ever think about how exhausting it must be,” he says thoughtfully, “to be that hot all the time?”
You turn slowly, deliberately. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, the whole upkeep shit alone,” he continues, completely serious. “The hair, the confidence, the way you just exist. If I was you I would need breaks. Like, scheduled ones.”
You narrow your eyes. “Careful.”
“I’m serious,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the car window. “The way you’re checking yourself out? It’s intense. Respectable and actually a bit intimidating.”
You fold your arms. “Do you want to die?”
“Not particularly,” he replies easily. “But it is cute.”
“Do not call me cute!” Your voice sharpens, dangerous.
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “You’re right. You’re terrifying.”
You glare at him, unimpressed, but there’s a flicker of something behind your eyes.
“And also,” he adds softly, leaning just enough to make it intimate, “very pretty.”
Your eyes flick away for half a second before you can stop yourself. “You’re lucky I like you,” you mutter.
He grins, clearly pleased. “Yeah I know, veryyy lucky.”
You exhale through your nose, annoyed at yourself, then reach out and grab his hand anyway, fingers lacing with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t get used to it,” you warn, but there’s no real bite in your voice.
He squeezes your hand gently. “Too late.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t let go, and for a moment, just the two of you exist in the quiet, effortless way you both do. Completely unbothered by anyone else who might be around.
They dont see how you allow him to write in the burn book ✶⋆.˚
Martin is mid rant, pacing the length of your room like he’s performing on stage.
“I just don’t get it,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “He didn’t even ask. I specifically told him I was going to use it. And now it smells like instant noodles.”
You’re sprawled on your bed, phone held above your face, scrolling without looking up. You hum absentmindedly. “…Is this about Keonho again?”
“Yes,” Martin groans. “He keeps stealing my clothes. Why cant he steal seonghyeons clothes? Or juhoons? Like, at this point I’m funding his entire wardrobe.”
You sigh, locking your phone, and lean over the side of your bed. For a moment, he thinks you’re ignoring him. Then you reach under the frame and pull out a thick, pink notebook.
You drop it onto the mattress between the two of you.
“Here.”
Martin freezes mid-step. “No way.”
“Write it down,” you say flatly. “You’re clearly holding onto a lot.”
He stares at the burn book like it might bite him. Then he laughs eagerly, shaking his head. “Wow. This feels… sacred. I feel like I need permission from a higher power. Are you really allowing me to use this?” He grins, hands almost shaking in excitement.
“Don’t get dramatic,” you reply, already lying back down.
He sits beside you, carefully opening the book as if it’s fragile. The pages are filled with neat handwriting, sharp observations, and names crossed out with purpose. He hesitates before picking up the pen.
“This stays confidential, right?” he asks.
“Obviously,” you answer without missing a beat.
He writes slowly, detailing the hoodie theft, the audacity, the noodle smell. When he finishes, he caps the pen and glances at you. “You sure you’re okay with this? Me being in here?”
You turn your head, eyes unreadable for a second. Then you shrug. “Not like you’re some stranger”
It’s the closest thing you offer to trust.
Martin smiles, gently closing the book before sliding it back to you, careful not to break the quiet, unspoken bond between the two of you.
And lastly: nobody sees just how much you actually love him✶⋆.˚
You hear the laughing before you even see them.
It cuts through the air near the quad, sharp and careless– the kind of laughter meant to be shared only by people who think they’re untouchable. You’re halfway across the courtyard when you notice the small cluster of students huddled together, phones angled just right, whispers spilling between them like secrets that were never meant to stay quiet.
“His band is so fucking cringe,” a boy with braided hair mutters, loud enough for you to hear. “Like, who actually listens to this shit?”
Another voice follows, cruel and amused. “Do they actually think they’ll make it big?”
You stop walking.
The world seems to slow as you turn, heels clicking once against the pavement. Your face is calm, composed, almost bored, but your eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.
“Repeat that,” you say evenly.
Deadly.
The group freezes. One girl’s phone slips slightly in her grip. Someone clears their throat, suddenly fascinated by the ground.
You take a step closer. “You think they’ll fail?” you continue, voice smooth. That mocking nod, that slight pout of your lips as if you understand them, “Because last time I checked, at least they actually create something. Work for it. Not just buy it with daddy’s card.” Your gaze flicks to the first voice that spoke. “What do you do? Steal from Black people and call it personality?”
No one answers.
You close the distance, invading their space without raising your voice. “If I hear one more thing about him,” you say softly, “his music, his band, or anything he even thinks about touching–” a pause, deliberate and chilling “–I promise you, you won’t enjoy being on this campus anymore.”
Someone swallows audibly. “We didn’t mean–”
“Good.” You interrupt with smile, sweet and sharp all at once. “Because that means you won’t do it again.”
You turn away like the conversation never mattered, leaving behind a silence so heavy it feels like a warning.
Later that night, Martin finds out.
He’s sprawled on his bed, phone in hand, brow furrowed as he scrolls. Comment after comment praises the band. Clips being reshared. Suddenly, people who never cared are calling the music “underrated” and “actually really good.”
He looks up at you, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.
“Did you…?” he starts.
You shrug, dismissive. “They were annoying.”
He laughs softly and pulls you into a hug. You stiffen for a second, instinctive and guarded, then exhale and relax into him, forehead resting against his shoulder.
“You didn't have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” you murmur.
You never say “I love you” in front of other people. You don’t need to. You show it in quieter, sharper ways– through your actions, through protection, and through the absolute certainty in your voice whenever you defend him.
And everyone on campus learns quickly–
You don’t touch what’s hers.
ʚ🍮ɞ #REI: i think rodrick! martin would totally play “princess” by feng for regina! reader
—౨ৎ In which a cute stranger at the grocery store helps you reach the top shelf.
Cw: martin x reader, height gap, fluff, ˗ˋ 1.0k wc ˊ˗
A/N: ahaha guess who finally learned how to properly punctuate her quotes ahaha…😁
You glare at the cereal box sitting on the very top shelf. Why did grocery stores always have to put necessities on the top?
You run through a couple of ideas in your head. You could use the bottom shelf as a booster, but you might knock something down. Jumping for the top shelf could also cause the same problem.
Looking around, you try finding other solutions. There’s no staff nearby, and you’re not willing to settle for another cereal just because of the store’s unfair shelf layout.
You look around the aisle, trying to see if a staff member or anyone else might walk in and help you out.
Just your luck.
You can't see his face since he's wearing his hood up but, you do know for a fact that he is tall.
Perfect.
As he enters the aisle you try and take some not-so-subtle glances at him, hoping to catch his attention without having to explicitly state it.
You can tell he's looking in your direction but turns away when you try to look at him, what the.
"Is that top shelf causing you some issues?"
Finally.
"Unfortunately, it is." You turn to face him, letting out a small laugh.
Once you get a look at him, it's hard to look away. Did guys like that actually exist? He looked like he stepped out of some fictional punk band or something—perfection.
"Here, I can help—which one did you want?"
"Just the lucky charms, please," you almost forgot to answer him in your daze. "Not your first rodeo?"
"Definitely not," he laughs—you wouldn't mind hearing that sound more.
When he reaches up to grab the box from the top shelf, he pauses for a moment.
"Is everything okay? Are you stuck?" you joke.
"Very funny. I was just wondering if you needed anything else while I'm up here."
"Your heels are still on the ground."
He tilts his head downwards and releases a low chuckle. "Right—sorry I should've phrased that better." He hopes you don't notice the way the tips of his ears turn red.
"No it's fine," you laugh. "I'm just messing with you—yeah that's all I need."
He turns to hand you over the box. You both try to ignore the brief brush of your hands as the cereal box changes possession. The little gasps and pauses are telling though.
"Well, thank you so much!" you say looking at him once more before grabbing your basket to continue shopping. Goodness, why did it have to end so soon. Maybe you did need something else from the shelves—
"It's no problem." He smiles and continues to walk in the opposite direction of you.
You feel slightly disappointed but you try to convince yourself it was irrational for a random stranger to ask for your number after simply getting you a box of cereal. Maybe he has a girlfriend or something.
You continue to walk along the store, filling your basket with the various items on your list. You only stop when you see him again, in a different aisle.
"Do you need any of my help again?" he teases.
"No, unless you know where I can find the energy drinks."
"Actually I do—they're in aisle twelve," he responds. "You should try the spring RedBull flavours."
"Are you an energy drink connoisseur?"
"I don't think I've slept in like, two days."
"Dude, go to bed, that's so bad." your hand goes to cover your mouth.
"I gotta work."
"Well, I guess I'll leave you to your shopping then," you say.
If he wanted to get any of your contact info, now would be the chance. Why does the thought of a stranger not asking you out feel so irritating? Why this stranger in particular?
He ends up giving you a smile, again, much to your disappointment as he continues to another aisle.
As you make your way to the checkout, you see him once again. He's in another lane, you decide to give him a friendly nod, he reciprocates.
When you head out the doors, you no longer think much of the interaction—you're just ready to finally get home and indulge in the groceries you just purchased—
"Excuse me." It's a familiar voice.
When you turn around it's the same guy from the grocery store, your body jolts at the sudden voice in the otherwise quiet entrance of the store.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He's holding some tulips in his hand.
"No, it's okay." You look at him, he doesn't say anything else for a moment.
"I meant to talk to you more earlier, but I don't know, I guess I got shy," he tilts his head down and laughs nervously.
It seems to be something he does whenever he is nervous, you've already witnessed it once before today.
"I hope these are okay, apologies for being shy." he gestures towards the tulips "Also you don't have to take these if you don't want to."
"It really is no problem—thank you so much." You take the flowers he extends out to you.
He hesitates for a moment, digging his hands in his pocket and looking out into the parking lot before he continues—
"Is there any chance I could get your number?" He gives you a shy smile.
"There is a chance, yes," you say, trying to keep up with the flirting , barely being able to hide your excitement.
He looks confused—probably by the ambiguity of your answer. He comes to fully understand when you extend your phone out to him on the number pad. You hear him murmur an 'oh' under his breath as he punches the number in.
You try to suppress your laugh—that was cute of him.
"I'm glad I didn't fumble for a third time." He exhales and rubs the back of his neck.
"Me too," you smile. "I'll have to call you whenever I need tall–person assistance again."
☆.ㅤ 𝐒𝐘𝐍.ㅤ ㅤ──ㅤㅤ you physically drag your skyscraper boyfriend to get his wisdom tooth removed, survive anesthesia rap battles, and witness him not recognize you. romance is not dead. it's just numb on the left side.
ᯓ ࣪ ˖ ִ ★ feat. 𖹭 pairing ── martin edwards , f reader.
you knew this would happen the moment he casually mentioned, three days ago, that his jaw had been "a little sore."
a little sore turned into him chewing only on one side. then it turned into him holding an ice pack to his face and pretending he was fine. and now it had turned into you standing in the doorway of his room, arms crossed, staring at your six foot three boyfriend who was very clearly trying to negotiate with fate.
"martin, put your shoes on," you say, your voice firm but calm, standing there with your bag already slung over your shoulder. you tilt your head at him, eyebrows raised, silently daring him to argue.
he looks up at you from his bed, one hand pressed dramatically to his cheek. "i think it's getting better actually," he mutters, his words slightly slurred from the swelling, though he tries to hide it by sitting up straighter.
you stare at him for full five seconds. "do you know what you look like right now? you look like you stored a golf ball in there for later. you cried at three in the morning," you remind him, your tone flat, but your eyes soften at the memory of him pacing around the room and whispering that his face felt possessed.
he scowls, defensive and embarrassed. "no i didn't," he insists, rubbing his jaw again, his shoulders tense.
"you absolutely did," you reply, stepping forward and tossing his sneakers onto his lap. "you said you were dying."
he groans at that, dragging a hand down his face. "okay, but that was different. it was three in the morning. everything feels worse at three in the morning," he argues, but starts sliding his feet into his shoes, defeated.
you grab his arm and physically pull him to his feet. he's tall and broad and stubborn, and he leans back dramatically, trying to make himself heavier on purpose.
"this is ridiculous," you huff, digging your heels into the floor as you tug him toward the door. dragging him feels less romantic boyfriend moment and more farm work. "you're built to survive an apocalypse but you're scared of a dentist?"
he shuffles behind you, half resisting, half following. "they use drills," he mumbles darkly, eyes narrowing as if you invented dental equipment. "drills should not be anywhere near my face."
"they're not building furniture in your mouth," you shoot back, tightening your grip on his wrist. "they're removing a tooth."
he exhales sharply, annoyed but unable to stop walking because you're relentless. "that's worse," he says quietly, his voice lowering with genuine dread now that you're actually outside.
by the time you get to the clinic, he's fallen silent.
the automatic doors slide open and the scent of antiseptic greets you. the waiting area is bright and painfully clean, soft instrumental music playing overhead. you check him in while he stands beside you like you're his appointed guardian. he towers over you, yet somehow manages to look ten years old when faced with medical equipment.
you can feel his glare burning into the side of your head. the receptionist laughs softly, clearly used to this exact scenario. martin shifts his weight from foot to foot, jaw clenched.
once you sit down, that's when the real fidgeting starts.
he bounces his knee. he rubs his palms together. he presses his tongue carefully against the aching side of his mouth and winces.
"stop moving," you murmur, glancing at him from your seat beside him. your hand gently presses down on his knee to steady it, your thumb brushing back and forth in slow strokes.
he leans closer to you, lowering his voice. "what if they mess up?" he whispers, his usual confident tone replaced with something quieter, almost boyish.
you turn your body toward him fully, giving him your complete attention. "they do this every day," you say softly, searching his face. "you think you're their first dramatic patient?"
he narrows his eyes at that. "i'm not dramatic," he mutters, crossing his arms, though his fingers continue tapping anxiously against his sleeve.
you raise a brow. "you made me google jaw cancer last night."
he freezes, blinking. "okay, that was a low point," he admits under his breath, glancing away in embarrassment.
you reach up and smooth down his hoodie, giving him a reassuring pat on the chest. "you're going to sit in the chair. they're going to numb you. you won't feel anything except pressure. then you get ice cream."
his eyes flicker at that. "what kind of ice cream?" he asks cautiously, suspicion and hope mixing together.
you fight a smile. "whatever you want."
he studies you for a second, jaw tight. "double scoop," he says finally, trying to regain control of something in this situation.
"triple if you don't run out of the building," you counter, squeezing his hand.
he laces his fingers with yours immediately, gripping tighter than usual. his palm is slightly sweaty. "if i die in there—" he begins, his voice low and serious, though you can see the exaggeration forming.
you cut him off instantly. "you're not dying," you say firmly, giving his hand a sharp squeeze. "you're getting a tooth removed. people do this at sixteen."
he exhales through his nose, leaning his head back against the wall. "i hate that you're calm," he mutters, staring up at the ceiling tiles.
you shift closer until your shoulder presses against his side. "i'll be right here the whole time," you say quietly, your voice softer now, meant only for him. "and when you're done, i'll drive you home and listen to you complain for the rest of the day."
he turns his head toward you slowly. there is something vulnerable in his expression now, the bravado gone. "you're not going to laugh at me?"
you hesitate for half a second. "only a little," you admit, your lips curving despite yourself.
he huffs, offended, but his thumb brushes over your knuckles in a grateful motion. "you're evil."
the dental assistant steps out and calls his name.
you feel his entire body tense beside you.
he looks at you with wide eyes, swallowing carefully. "tell them to be gentle," he pleads, nerves finally winning over pride.
you stand up with him, smoothing a hand down his arm. "go, brave soldier," you whisper, your tone teasing.
he squares his shoulders, inhaling once as if preparing for battle. then he leans down slightly so only you can hear him.
"if i come out different," he murmurs, his eyes soft despite the fear, "you still have to be with me."
"i'm literally the one who dragged you here," you reply, pushing him lightly toward the hallway. "i'm not abandoning you now."
he nods once, then reluctantly follows the assistant down the corridor, glancing back at you twice before disappearing behind the door.
you sink back into the lobby chair, already preparing to film whatever nonsense he says when he comes back out, cheeks numb.
the procedure took less than an hour. you sit there scrolling through your phone but not really reading anything, replaying the way he looked at you before disappearing down the hallway.
when the door finally opens, your head snaps up.
and there he is.
martin emerges with gauze tucked into his cheek, eyes glassy, posture slightly off balance. his hair is flattened on one side from the chair, and he looks tall and disoriented and completely gone.
the dental assistant walks him over gently. "he did great," she says with a polite smile, guiding him toward you.
martin blinks slowly at you, processing. "oh," he says, voice thick and heavy from the anesthesia. "it's you."
you stand immediately, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. "yeah. it's me," you reply softly, reaching for his arm before he tips sideways.
he stares at your face as if he has just discovered something profound. "you're so small," he murmurs in awe, squinting slightly.
you scoff. "you're just built abnormally large."
he considers that, swaying slightly. "i'm a skyscraper," he agrees solemnly, nodding once as if this is a medical fact.
you thank the assistant, listen to the post-op instructions carefully, and keep one steady hand on his back the entire time. he leans into you without even realizing it.
when you finally get him outside, the sunlight makes him squint dramatically.
"why is it so bright?" he mumbles, raising a lazy hand in front of his eyes.
"because it's daytime," you say patiently, guiding him toward the car.
he gasps suddenly, stopping mid-step. "did they steal it?"
you freeze. "steal what? did you forget something inside?"
he lowers his voice, conspiratorial. "my wisdom."
you stare at him. "yes," you deadpan. "they surgically removed your intelligence."
he frowns at that, deeply offended. "but i had a lot of that."
"i'm not so sure." you manage to get him into the passenger seat, buckling him in because his hands keep missing the seatbelt latch. he watches you closely the entire time, eyes following every movement.
when you close the door and walk around to the driver's side, you can see him through the windshield talking to himself.
you slide into your seat. "what are you doing?"
he turns his head slowly, blinking at you. "i got bored. sorry."
you have barely pulled out of the dental clinic parking lot when the shift happens. one second he's slumped in the passenger seat, blinking slowly at the world. the next, he inhales sharply and sits up straighter.
"okay," he says, nodding to himself, voice still thick from anesthesia but suddenly full of purpose. his fingers tap against his thigh in an uneven rhythm. "i feel the beat."
you glance at him, already wary. "what beat?"
he turns toward you with wide, determined eyes. "the beat beat. can you say martin play the beat?"
you sigh softly, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel. "martin play the beat."
he lifts one hand, palm facing down, bouncing it midair as if conducting invisible music.
"yo," he starts, clearing his throat dramatically. his gauze shifts a little but stays in place. "wisdom tooth gone, but i'm still elite, six foot three in the passenger seat."
you press your lips together, staring straight ahead. "careful with the gauze."
he ignores you completely. "jaw real numb but my heart real loud, my girl right here make the dentist proud."
"you're very high right now."
he considers that, eyebrows knitting together. "no," he says slowly, shaking his head. "i'm six three."
"you are."
"six sev—"
"stop. don't even think about it."
"sorry."
after a few seconds, he perks up again. "okay, last one," he announces, lifting a finger in the air.
"make it quick," a laugh bubbles out of you, the stress of the morning dissolving.
he watches you laugh, expression softening. "you're really pretty when you laugh," he says suddenly, voice slower now, more sincere than the rap.
your laughter fades into a soft exhale. "that's the drugs talking."
he shakes his head once, as much as he can with the gauze stuffed in his mouth. "no. i've been knowing that."
then, without warning, he resumes. "gauze in my mouth but i still got bars, she driving steady, we about to get stars."
you glance at him briefly. "what stars?"
he leans closer, lowering his voice as if revealing a secret. "ice cream stars."
you reach over and gently cover his mouth. "concert's over," you announce, trying not to smile.
he mumbles something against your palm, eyes crinkling.
you pull your hand away carefully. "what was that?"
he blinks slowly. "i love you."
"love you too," you reply quietly, brushing your thumb against his cheek, careful of the sore side.
he smiles lazily, satisfied, then sinks deeper into the seat.
two minutes later, he's asleep.
head tilted toward you. mouth slightly open. gauze still in place. tall frame folded awkwardly in the passenger seat of your car. it stays like that for twenty more seconds.
then he starts laughing.
it begins as a small puff of air through his nose, shoulders shaking slightly in the passenger seat. you glance over at him, confused, because nothing happened. you're literally just driving.
"what?" you ask carefully, eyes flicking between him and the road, your tone cautious because he has been unpredictable for the past ten minutes.
he turns his head toward you very slowly, eyes glossy and unfocused, a smile stretching across his face. "you're driving," he says, as if this is groundbreaking information, then he bursts into another fit of laughter that makes his whole frame bounce.
you really should have taken him straight home. that would have been the responsible choice.
instead, you're standing inside a small ice cream shop that smells of sugar and waffle cones, holding the door open while he shuffles in beside you.
"sit," you tell him gently, guiding him toward a small round table by the window. your hand presses lightly to his chest to steer him in the right direction, your tone soft but firm so he does not wander toward the freezer display and attempt to investigate it.
he obeys without question, lowering himself into the chair carefully, movements are slow and exaggerated. he rests both hands flat on the table and blinks at the wall for a few seconds.
you stand in front of him, studying his face. his cheeks are puffy from the gauze, lips slightly parted, eyes glossy and unfocused.
"okay," you crouch down a little so you're in his line of sight. your fingers brush lightly against his knee to ground him. "what flavor do you want? "
he turns his head toward you with the slow curiosity of someone discovering a new species.
he frowns slightly, thinking very hard. "blue."
"blue is not a flavor."
he leans back in the chair, offended.
"it is in my heart," he says, his words muffled but determined, one eyebrow lifting as though you have personally insulted his creativity.
you exhale slowly through your nose. "do you mean blueberry? bubblegum?"
he squints at you. "no. i want blue."
you stand there for a second, weighing your options.
"i'm getting you vanilla," you decide finally, straightening up.
he watches you rise with wide, slow-blinking eyes.
"vanilla is shy," he murmurs thoughtfully, gaze drifting to the napkin dispenser. "i'm brave."
you soften at that despite yourself. "you survived oral surgery," you reply lightly. "you are very brave."
he processes that, his expression changing. his eyebrows pull together slowly, confusion replacing amusement.
suddenly, he studies your face as if seeing it for the first time.
"martin?" you say softly, stepping closer to the table. your fingers rest lightly against the edge near his hand.
he stares at you, lips parting slightly. "who are you?"
you freeze for half a second, your heartbeat stumbling before you force yourself to breathe normally.
"it's me," you say calmly, lowering yourself back into the chair across from him. your tone is slow and warm, careful not to spike with panic. "it's okay. you're just still numb."
he keeps looking at you, searching your face for something familiar.
"you look important," he murmurs after a moment, his brow still furrowed. his fingers twitch slightly on the table, as if he wants to reach out but is not sure he is allowed.
"i am," you nod, offering him a small smile. "i'm your girlfriend."
he blinks at that. "girlfriend," he repeats slowly, testing the word. his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the table, then back to your face. "are you nice?"
the question almost undoes you.
"i try to be."
he studies you again, longer this time. then, very slowly, he pushes his hand across the table toward yours. his fingers brush against your knuckles clumsily.
"you feel safe," he says quietly, voice hazy but certain.
your vision blurs for just a second. "i try to be," you repeat, curling your fingers around his hand. your thumb strokes the back of it in slow circles.
he relaxes a little at your touch, shoulders lowering.
"did you bring me here?" he asks after a pause, glancing around the shop as if it has just appeared.
"yeah. you wanted ice cream after the dentist."
he gasps faintly. "i had a dentist?"
"you did."
he considers that, then nods once, accepting it without further concern. "okay."
you end up holding the cup for him half the time, tilting it carefully while he takes slow bites of vanilla ice cream. every few seconds he pauses mid chew to stare at you for whatever reason.
when you're finally done, you throw the empty cups away and walk back toward him. "okay. field trip is over. we're going back to the car."
he looks at your hand for a moment, then places his much larger one into yours without hesitation. his grip is loose but warm, fingers curling instinctively around yours.
"i trust you," he stands up a little too fast and sways.
you immediately step closer, your free hand bracing lightly against his chest to steady him. "easy," you murmur, your voice softening as you guide him toward the door. "you're still wobbly."
he leans into you without realizing it, towering over you but letting you direct every step. outside, the late afternoon sun is bright, and the parking lot is uneven in places.
you tighten your hold on his hand.
"watch your step," you glance up at him to make sure he's actually listening.
when you reach the car, you unlock it and open the passenger door for him. he stands there looking at it like it's a portal to different dimension.
"duck," you remind him, lifting your free hand to hover over the top of his head. your palm lightly shields him from the door frame as he bends down.
he doesn't bend enough.
you gently press down on the back of his head. "more," you say patiently.
he finally lowers himself properly and slides into the seat. you make sure his legs are fully inside before carefully helping guide his head back so he does not bump it on the frame.
"thank you for protecting my bones," he says gravely, looking up at you with hazy appreciation.
"you're welcome," you reply, fighting a smile. you adjust his seatbelt, making sure it sits correctly across his chest. "i would prefer you keep it intact."
once he's secure, you close the passenger door. you take exactly two steps toward the driver's side before you hear it.
tap tap tap.
you turn and see martin is knocking on the window with both hands, eyes wide, mouthing something behind the glass.
you walk back toward him slowly.
he presses his face closer to the window, palm flat against it. when you are close enough to hear him through the crack, he raises his voice.
"i'm only seventeen," he declares urgently, his tone full of theatrical panic. "i shouldn't be taken away."
"taken where?"
he gestures vaguely around the parking lot. "the facility," he insists, nodding once as if confirming classified information. his brows knit together with genuine concern. "this is how it starts."
you stare at him through the glass. "you are not being taken away."
"you're not the police?"
"no but i bought you ice cream." you open the passenger door halfway and lean down to his eye level.
he studies your face carefully, evaluating whether you're trustworthy. "are you the girlfriend?"
you inhale slowly. "yes, i am the girlfriend."
his expression shifts into recognition. relief floods his features. "oh," he says softly. "okay. i trust you."
you gently close the door again, making sure it latches properly this time.
as you walk around to the driver's side, you hear him humming to himself, completely at peace now that he has decided you're not an undercover agent transporting him across state lines.
you slide into the driver's seat and glance at him.
he's staring out the windshield with serious contemplation, reflecting on the fragility of youth and the injustice of imaginary arrest.
you rest your head back against the seat for a second before starting the engine.
this is day one.
you have seven days of recovery ahead.
and as he suddenly whispers to himself, "seventeen is such a tender age," with such sorrow, you cannot help but think—
hello queen!! i woke up this morning to my notifs filled with your sweet reblogs and so i just wanted to say a big thank you for reading heart to heart and saying all those kind things 😭😭☹️☹️ im so happy you liked it YAYAYAY 💝💘💖🫂🫂 (im unable to respond to reblogs the way i can w comments so i thought my better bet was to send an ask here ^•^)
SNNDJAJWH you’re too sweet! It’s no problem, really, I had a blast reading it! It was genuinely so well done, so thank you sm for sharing!! <333
You’re slouched on the couch, phone face-down in your hands, watching your boyfriend from across the studio.
Martin is completely locked in—headphones on, brows furrowed, fingers flying over the controls like the world might end if he misses a beat. He doesn’t even glance your way. “Wow,” you mutter, louder this time. “I could literally disappear and you wouldn’t notice.”
You sigh. Loudly.
Still Nothing.
“Martin,” you whine, stretching his name out. “You said five minutes. That was, like… forever ago.”
He simply hums and dives back in to what he was doing which might actually just drive you crazy.
You roll your eyes and start sighing dramatically, shifting, tapping your foot, letting out little noises of pure boredom. You’re not even subtle about it. Finally, Martin pulls one earcup off and glances over his shoulder, amusement flickering across his face.
“You done over there?” he asks.
“No,” you say instantly. “I’m dying and you’re ignoring me.”
He laughs, shakes his head, and pats his thigh. “come here.”
You hesitate for exactly half a second before standing and walking over. The moment you’re close enough, he grabs your wrist gently and pulls you down onto his lap. One arm settles around you, his hand resting warm and familiar on your thigh.
He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face. “Better?”
You nod, then immediately regret it when he smirks.
“Oh,” he says, teasing now. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not,” you lie, heat rushing to your cheeks anyway.
He chuckles and gestures back to the screen. “Okay, since you were so desperate for attention, I’ll teach you. I was working on the bridge,” he says, gesturing to the screen. “See, the layers here—” He starts explaining what he’s working on, voice low and focused again, but this time it’s right there, brushing against you.
You try to follow his explanation. You really do. But sitting on his lap, his hand absentmindedly rubbing slow circles, your brain completely short-circuits. The words blur together until all you can think about is how close his face is. How easy it would be to lean in.
All you can see is his face. The way his lashes cast shadows when he looks down. The small crease between his brows when he’s concentrating. How handsome he looks when he’s completely unaware he’s being stared at.
You don’t even realize you’ve gone quiet until he stops talking.
“…Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, amused.
You blink, caught. “Like what?”
He smiles slowly, knowingly, and shifts you closer on his lap. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, grounding, warm. “Like you forgot how words work.”
Your cheeks burn. Being this close makes everything worse—the faint scent of him, the way his knee bounces slightly under you, the fact that his face is right there. Your mind blanks completely, thoughts dissolving into nothing but the space between you.
“Cute,” he murmurs.
You groan softly and turn your face away, but he follows, gently nudging your chin back toward him. “Hey,” he says, quieter now. “I’m teasing.”
Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.
It’s slow and soft at first, just a brush of lips, like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away. You don’t. Instead, you relax into it, fingers curling lightly into his shirt. He smiles against your lips—actually smiles—before kissing you again, deeper this time, unhurried and warm.
Your heart stutters.
When you pull back, flustered and breathless, you swat his shoulder playfully. “You didn’t warn me!”
He laughs and clutches his chest like he’s been wounded. “Ouch! That hurt. I think I need a healing kiss.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too much to pretend you’re annoyed. “You’re impossible.”
“I love you too,” he says easily.
You slide a hand up to his cheek and pull him in again. This kiss is fuller, more confident—his hand tightens at your waist, thumb brushing just under your ribs, the other cradling your face like it’s precious. You melt into him, the world narrowing to the press of his lips and the quiet hum of the studio around you.
You’re so lost in him that you don’t hear the door.
“YO, MARTIN—”
The door bursts open.
You and Martin both look up to see Keonho and Seonghyeon standing there mid-step, mouths open, frozen like someone hit pause.
“Oh—” Keonho starts.
“Uh—” Seonghyeon adds.
Mortification hits instantly. You bury your face in Martin’s chest, groaning. “Please let me disappear.”
Martin groans. “Do you two ever knock?”
They scramble instantly. “SORRY!” “WE’LL COME BACK!” “WE DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!”
The door slams shut.
Martin chuckles softly and rubs your back. “You okay?”
You peek up at him, still embarrassed. He tilts his forehead against yours, eyes warm and teasing. “Worth it, though.”
☆summary: when you move to Seoul to do some research on your upcoming book, your life gets tangled with the city's celebrity scene. It leads to you crossing paths with Jeon Jungkook, whose confusing behaviour convinces you that he hates you. Only, you might have misread his intentions from the beginning...
☆pairings: drummer!Jungkook x writer!female reader
☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter deals with heavy themes)
☆genre: enemies (annoyances?) to lovers!au, celebrity!au, rockstar!au, smut, angst (make it dramatic), fluff
☆warnings: hospital, a whole lot of trauma on the two sides, mentions of the assault and of blood, nightmares, cursing, alcohol, throwing up, a lot of crying honestly
☆word count: 10.3k
☆a/n: this one is really heavy, which makes sense after what happened in the last chapter. I hope you guys still enjoy it <3 and thank you to @moonleeai for being my perfect beta reader again, you are the best and i'm forever thankful for you <3
☆add yourself to the taglist here!
☆☆☆☆☆
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Iris, The Goo Goo Dolls
☆☆☆☆☆
You’re swimming in bliss. You hear voices sometimes – you recognize them, but they speak a language you know you should understand, yet you can’t grasp the meaning of their words. You recognize names – Jungkook, Jennie, Mingyu.
They’re telling Jungkook that he needs to sleep.
But then you’re gone again, and you don’t recognize the voice that speaks up next. She’s telling you that they’re changing you, whatever that means.
You see your parents while you sleep. You dream of home, you dream of the night club where it all started. Sometimes you’re here, sometimes you’re not.
You hear your mother and Jungkook speak at some point, and then there’s just darkness.
It’s like sleeping while awake, unable to move. Someone’s brushing your hair at some point, and you almost manage to move a finger. But then you’re gone again, and you dream of lips on your skin and a tattooed arm wrapped around your waist while you sleep.
And then, as if no time has passed, you open your eyes.
Saturday, November 22nd
Jungkook hasn’t moved from this chair next to you in almost a week and a half. He’s only gotten up to go to the bathroom when he couldn’t wait anymore, and then come back to keep his watch over you. They’ve tried to get him to go home and rest, but he much prefers to sleep here next to you in case you wake up.
He can’t miss when you wake up.
If you wake up.
The nurses have been kind to him. Bringing him food and giving him a new blanket every night. One of them even tried to get an empty stretcher in here for him, but he only had it for one night before they needed it again. Your mother also has been kind ever since she got here the day after your assault, and she’s currently gone back to her hotel for the night, as she has been struggling with jetlag.
Jungkook feels horrible. That you’re in this position, on the other side of the world from your family. And only your mother could show up, though she informed him earlier today that the rest of the family should be coming in the next two days.
He didn’t think he’d meet your family so soon. Definitely not like this, with you in a state between life and death that’s been the longest wait of his life. But he didn’t end his vigil once, except for his bathroom breaks, eating and sleeping in here every single day.
Though, he doesn’t think he has really fully slept in a while now. Every time he starts falling asleep, he dreams of you, bleeding out on the ground of the dark alley, though no matter how much he runs, he never seems to get to you. He’s forced to watch you bleed out and die, and he always wakes up in cold sweat.
He’s cried in your mother’s arms. She’s a saint, and he understands where you take it from now. She’s cried in his arms too, and he’s glad your family will be arriving soon so that she doesn’t have to do this alone anymore.
It’s his fault. It’s his fault, and he’ll have to carry the weight of it for the rest of his life. But he just needs to make sure you’ll wake up, needs to make sure you’ll survive. The doctors say there is no danger to your life anymore, and that you should be waking up in the next few days. You probably would have woken up before if it was just for the blood loss, but you have some broken cartilage in your ribs too, and a minor concussion that “is the least of our concern” according to the doctors.
To think he almost ran out right after you. He should have, and will forever hate himself for stopping himself. He just thought you might need space, and so he wanted to wait until the next day before going to see you. But then he saw your phone on the couch, and he got scared. So, so fucking scared, and he knew he had to follow you.
The doctors have told him he saved your life by finding you when he did. But he’ll never be able to forget the way he saw the lights go out in your eyes when you passed out.
No matter how much he’s washed his hands since then, he still sees your blood on his skin, like he’ll forever be scarred by it. It’ll forever stain him, no matter how many times he rubs soap into his skin.
The boys are having a concert tonight. The ones last weekend were canceled, the company wanting to give him time to collect himself, but he ended up deciding to sit out for the next concerts, and the company refused to just postpone the tour. So they’re going to be playing with a drum track instead of him, which hopefully will not ruin the whole experience for the fans.
But Jungkook can’t bring himself to care about the fans right now. It’s been made very clear that he has history with you, the company releasing a statement that explained everything when Jungkook said he’d leave if they lied. It isn’t explicitly written that you’re his girlfriend, and Jungkook only has himself to blame for that.
He never got around to ask you. Stupidly thought he could bring you to some botanical gardens on Wednesday to explain everything to you and ask you, because he thought just a single bouquet was not enough.
Maybe it would have been. He’ll never know now.
It’s late. The sun has set a long time ago, and Jungkook starts his usual bedtime routine. The one he established when the nurses understood he wouldn’t leave, and they showed him how to move you a little so you won’t get wounds from being bedridden.
Jungkook’s hands gently wrap around your wrist, and he starts moving your arm. Your skin is warm under his touch, but it lacks its usual colour, like you’ve been drained of your life.
Which you were. You were so close to dying that night.
Tears sprout from his eyes, like they always fucking do every time he breathes and takes a look at you. One of the nurses mentioned that he needs to talk to a doctor, but he hasn’t bothered replying.
It can wait until you wake up. Until then, he’ll pursue his quiet vigil next to you.
Jungkook moves to your legs, massaging your calves a little to get the blood moving. And then he grabs the brush on the table next to the bed, bringing it toward your head.
You’re looking at him.
He almost screams, the brush falling out of his hand and clattering on the floor. And then he’s clicking on the button the nurse showed him to call for them, and he grabs your hand. Your fingers twitch, and he really is crying then, tears streaming freely on his cheeks.
He says your name, and you blink once, a tiny drop of water rolling out of your eye. He reaches forward, dries it for you, and his fingers linger on your cheek as he realizes the wait is over.
You’re awake. You’re finally awake.
He wants to tell you he’s sorry and that he loves you and that he regrets even letting Sara talk him into going to see her. But you just stare at him, more tears coming, and he can’t speak around the lump in his throat.
A nurse comes in – she’s the one that got him the stretcher that one time. She tells Jungkook to sit as more people come into the room, busying themselves with checking your vitals and seeing how reactive you actually are to stimuli. Jungkook texts your mother to let her know you’re awake, and he just watches attentively, his sleep-deprived brain unable to keep up with the flurry of activity now surrounding you.
A male nurse hands him the hairbrush he dropped, and Jungkook holds it in his lap, fingers flexing and unflexing on the handle. It takes a while, but then a doctor appears in his line of sight, and he meets her gaze.
“Everything seems to be healing well,” she tells him. “She’s breathing on her own, so we removed the tubes, but she might have trouble with talking for a few days. She still needs some rest even though she woke up.”
“Understood,” he says. “Thank you.”
She smiles, putting a hand on his shoulder. “No. Thank you. She’s here because of you.”
He knows she’s meaning to be comforting, but if only she knew how much she’s right about it. Because it’s all his fault that you’re in this situation.
Your mother gets to the hospital some time later, her eyes still riddled with exhaustion. But you cry at the sight of her, and she tells you a story she’s told you every day since she got here. It’s a tale she said she used to tell you when you were falling asleep as a kid, and you visibly relax as she holds your hand through it all. Jungkook sits on the other side of you, listening to your mother’s soothing voice, and he feels his eyelids growing heavy. He tries to fight it, but he hasn’t truly slept in so long, and there’s nothing to keep him up now that you’re awake…
He falls asleep before your mother finishes the story.
*****
The alley is dark, endless. Jungkook stumbles down the length of it, and he’s slow like he’s stuck in some molasses. Every step closer to you costs him so much, and he watches the blood blooming like a red rose around you as he tries to get to you. But he’s too slow, too fucking slow and you’re dying. But then you’re sitting up, looking at him.
“This is all your fault,” you tell him.
Sunday, November 23rd
Jungkook jerks awake next to your bed, and you turn your head to look at him. You’ve been awake for a while now, the morning light spilling into your room from the half-drawn curtain at the window. Your mother told you she’d stay until you fell asleep last night, or maybe it was early morning already. You wanted to say you didn’t feel like sleeping anymore, but everything hurt and you grew sleepy as she sat next to you, stroking your hair, a long time after Jungkook fell asleep.
Your memory is… fogged. You have trouble remembering what happened. There’s a hole after you left his house, a vast expanse of darkness that leads to last night. You don’t even know how long you’ve been sleeping, and you just know from what your mother said that you got assaulted.
Maybe it’s a blessing that you don’t remember exactly what happened. Or maybe it’s just a coping mechanism of your brain, but no matter what it is, you’re relieved you haven’t had to relive the experience in your head now that you’re conscious.
But what you do remember is the fight. It’s the bottomless need to leave that you felt when you found out that Jungkook lied about seeing his ex. And as you look at him, at the way he seems like he’s out of breath, waking up from a nightmare, all you can do is start crying.
He says your name, comes closer, sitting on the edge of your bed. He makes to dry your cheeks, but you turn your head the other way, not wanting him to touch you.
He stayed with you while you were asleep. Your mother said so last night, but you wish he hadn’t.
“Y/n,” he says again.
You gather your strength, speaking the only word that comes to your mind upon hearing his voice.
“Leave.”
Your voice croaks out in a poor excuse of talking, but it’s clear enough for him to have understood. Yet he doesn’t move, stays next to you in silence as you feel his gaze on your profile.
So you look at him again, watch the way tears are falling in an infinite sequence along his cheeks. They collect at his chin before falling in his lap and you wish he understood that it’s not personal.
You don’t want him to see you like this. Not when the last time you saw each other – that you were conscious of – was when you fought.
When he lied.
You’re saved by your mother coming into the room, and she takes in the sight of Jungkook sitting on your bed. She gives him a gentle smile and a nod that you assume she’s meaning to be a bow, and then she hands him a cup of coffee.
It’s a strange sight to see, especially as she reaches for tissues and hands those to him too. He takes them, wipes his cheeks, and then he gets up to return to his chair. You want to tell him to leave again, but you don’t find the strength to, not when your mother sits in the spot he was in earlier and says, “Dad and the boys are going to be here in a few hours.”
You’re crying again. In truth, you don’t think you’ve stopped crying ever since Jungkook woke up. But you cry because your family will be here soon, and it feels safe.
You haven’t been reunited in so long, and though the conditions may be dire, you know it will be like a balm on your heart to see everyone at the same time.
Hopefully, Jungkook will understand that he has nothing to do with your family being here, and go. Because you really doubt you’ll have the capacity to ask him to leave again.
*****
Jungkook sits in that same chair he’s been sitting in for days now, your mother next to him. You fell asleep not long after breakfast – applesauce from the looks of it, though you only managed to take a few bites. And he’s been silent the whole time, while you carefully talked to your mother in hushed tones. You didn’t speak a lot, if he’s honest. It was mostly your mother, and you replied with short words he couldn’t really hear from his spot.
He only has a single word burnt in his mind though.
Leave.
He’s been hearing it on repeat since you said it earlier, and it aches so deep he feels it in his bones. He feels it in his soul, and he’s so fucking heavy, so fucking exhausted.
He doesn’t know why he believed you’d be happy to see him by your side when you woke up. He was so focused on making sure you did that he didn’t realize it’d upset you. And now he’s just sitting in his stupid chair, his heart bleeding out, trying to find the courage to get up and leave. But he wants to talk to you, to apologize, yet he thinks the words might stay forever lodged in his throat.
“Are you okay?” your mother asks next to him.
He blinks, gazing at her. All he can do is give her a nod, and he resumes his attention on you, on your serene features as you sleep.
“You know, she talked to me about you.”
Your mother’s words are so sharp they cut through him, nearly beheading him.
“She did?”
She chuckles lightly, though it’s sorrowful on the edges, induced by this tiring week and a half of waiting for you to wake up. “Oh, she did,” she says. “I don’t even think she realized she did it. But it’s always about the boy in Seoul.”
He clenches his fists as pain flows through him. “She asked me to leave,” he whispers, the revelation so heavy and loud he thinks the windows might shatter.
But they don’t, and the world outside remains blissfully unaware of his breaking.
“What happened between the two of you?” your mother asks carefully.
We fell in love, he thinks. We fell in love and I fucked everything up.
But admitting his guilt to your mother feels like too much of a failure. He doubts she’d let him stay if she knew.
“We got in an argument that night,” he admits, his throat drying out as a lump grows at the top of it. “Before she…”
He can’t say the rest. Not when his hands are still fucking covered with your blood.
“I hope you don’t feel responsible,” your mother says.
He breaks. Again and again, he breaks. He’s so shattered by now he doubts he’ll ever be able to collect all of his pieces one day.
He really died with you that night, and the pieces are scattered through the alley where you almost passed away.
“It’s hard not to,” he chokes out, and your mother puts her hand on his arm, trying to be reassuring.
“Jungkook,” she says sternly. “It’s not your fault.”
He’s sobbing, because she doesn’t understand. Can’t understand he’s the one that drove you out of his house. Shouldn’t understand because she’d hate him, too. He doesn’t want her to hate him too.
“She asked me to leave,” he repeats in between sobs, and your mother pulls him to her, wrapping her arms around him.
She rubs a soothing hand on his back as he cries, and he’s embarrassed. So damn embarrassed that he’s crying in her arms again, but everything just
hurts
so
bad.
He doesn’t know how long he cries. Just knows he’s fully empty by the time the tears recede, like he’s cried all the water in his body. The wave of exhaustion that hits him then is so potent he almost passes out on the spot, his mind spinning, but he clenches his fists, clenches his jaw, and the spinning recedes, too.
“She will need time,” your mother says after a long moment of silence.
Not expecting her to talk, Jungkook startles, and then the meaning of her words catches up to him. He glances at her, finding her already looking at him with a gentle smile on her lips that reminds him so much of yours.
“You think I should go?” he asks.
Unsurprisingly, tears manage to gather in his gaze again, though they don’t fall this time.
“I think you need rest,” she replies. “And you need to eat a good meal and spend some time away from this hospital room.” She’s asking him to leave, too? “And I’m not saying that for her. I’m saying it for you.” Her smile is sad, infinitely so. “You need to take care of yourself, too.”
But how is he supposed to do that when he almost lost you?
He nods, and he looks around the room. Takes it all in, like it’s going to disappear the second he leaves. And he thinks it might – he doubts you’ll want to see him again.
It’s the end. Or rather, it ended already, and he’s just been delaying the inevitable.
But no one can stop the inevitable from coming. It came and passed, and now he has to leave.
He doesn’t know how he does it. He barely remembers getting home. He makes it three steps inside before he breaks down.
He hasn’t been here since you left.
You’re gone.
Monday, December 1st
The doctors give you the go to get out of the hospital on the first day of December, when an early flurry of snow is falling upon Seoul. You’ll have to come back in a week to make sure that your ribs are healing well, and to most likely take out the sutures on the wounds in your side, which have apparently been healing remarkably well.
You’re not surprised. Jungkook paid to get you the top of the country care, and you refused to ask how much it cost. Refused to acknowledge that Jungkook did that for you, even though you know he can afford it.
You’ve also refused to acknowledge that he stayed by your side the whole time while you were in a coma. Your mother tried to talk to you about it the day after he left, but you told her you just wanted to spend time with your family, and then you brushed her off every time she mentioned him.
You don’t want to think about him. Don’t want to face the gaping hole in your chest whenever the thought of him crosses your mind. You just want to focus on healing, and not look back.
The nightmares started on the third day after you woke up. They got so bad after the fifth that the doctors prescribed you strong sleeping meds, and you’ve been sleeping a dreamless sleep every night since then, slowly recuperating.
Slowly healing, except that gaping hole in your chest you doubt will ever heal. You’ve been signed up for therapy without your consent, though you were told you can stop whenever you want to. So far, you’ve only had one appointment from your hospital room with the psychiatrist, and they were the one to suggest that you will need sleeping meds.
You also have calming meds, but they’ve been making you so dizzy you’ve tried to avoid taking them, begging the nurses to not force you to take them. You think they believe you’re crazy. Hell, you think you might be. Because you should be traumatized, shouldn’t you?
But you don’t remember anything. You don’t remember the assault at all – there’s just a blank space in your mind whenever you try to think about it. The nightmares also didn’t leave a lasting memory for you to think about at all. They disappeared from your mind like dust in the wind, but the terror they held lasted for hours after you woke up. But with the meds…
With the meds, it’s like nothing ever happened at all. Except your body is still hurting, the bruises still fading away. And you’ll have scars on your right side, though the doctors said Jungkook already paid for you to get surgery to remove them, if you so wish.
You don’t think you will. They’ll be the last testament that you went through hell and came back. At least that’s how you’ve been feeling about it lately.
Your mother told you a few days ago that one of the people involved in your assault came forward after all the pressure in the media, and gave the police the names of the other assailants. They’re in prison, waiting for trial, but you don’t think you’ll go.
You don’t want to risk going and being hit with the memories.
You don’t want to risk going and seeing Jungkook, either. You don’t even know if he’ll go. but Jennie told you about his hiatus, showing you what the company wrote about you and him, and you think he might.
He’s out for justice. At least that’s what Jennie said, and you won’t tell him to stop. No, you do think you deserve justice, you just don’t have the strength to do it yourself.
“I love your apartment,” your mother says, taking it all in with a spin in the living room.
Your brothers and your father had to go home already, all of them having to return to their jobs now that they know you’re safe, but your mother is retired and decided to stay a little longer, to make sure you’re not alone for the first few days back home in case something happens.
You didn’t have the heart to tell her that you’ve been craving some alone time. She’s been so helpful over the few weeks she’s been here, taking care of communication with Stella while you couldn’t bring yourself to face your phone.
You still haven’t. You know you were trending in the days after it happened, and also when you woke up. Jungkook’s fanbase has raised money in your name to give to organisations that help women victims of various crimes. It’s touching that they would do that for you, but you need to be away from this all for a time.
You want peace and quiet, but not enough so that you’ll be forced to look down at the gaping hole in your chest to see what’s at the bottom.
“Thank you,” you tell your mother as you walk in behind her, sitting on the couch.
You feel restless. Have felt restless these last two days as you were waiting to be dismissed from the hospital, but you still feel tired from the ride home. It’s a weird combination that makes you feel crazy, which you think might be one of the manifestations of your trauma.
But you’re not going to psychoanalyze yourself. You don’t want to spend a second in your head at all, if you can avoid it.
And you can. You can, because your mother is here, and Jennie will come later too, and then it’ll be Hyunseok’s turn tomorrow. Mingyu sent you a long, heartfelt message after he visited you in the hospital the day before his enlistment, but you haven’t been able to read it yet.
Like everything when it comes to your phone, you just can’t touch it.
If you had had it with you when it happened…
You stop the trail of thoughts. Or rather, your mother stops it as she looks over your wall of pictures.
“Oh, I love this,” she says. “It’s like the one you have at home.”
You’ve added a lot of pictures to it over the months. There are some from Chelsea’s wedding last summer. Family pictures, and pictures with Hyunseok. You’ve put up the one of you alone that you sent to Jungkook back then, just because it’s your favourite picture of yourself ever.
But also, you have pictures with Jungkook on that wall. Some from Jeju, and others from the days you spent together before. You even have a screenshot from a FaceTime conversation you had after a concert where he looked so good with his tousled hair you said you needed the memory.
Little pieces of you from over the months here in Seoul cover that wall, but you can’t bring yourself to see the pictures of Jungkook anymore. So you get up from the couch, wincing at the pain in your ribs that refuses to lessen even though you think it should have healed by now.
In truth, from the research you did for your book, you know it should take between six to twelve weeks for it to heal. You just hope you’ll be on the shorter end, because the pain is driving you insane. No amount of pain meds has seemed to work that pain out of your sides, and so it’s been a constant in your life since you woke up.
A lot of things have been a constant in your life since you woke up, and you’re so, so thankful you’re finally home.
You walk over to your mother, reaching toward the picture from Jeju. You took it on the yacht, and Jimin, Taehyung, Heryung and Jennie are all in frame, too, Minha’s peace sign in the corner of it. It hurts to see it, but it hurts much more to try to grab it.
Your mother stops you, forcing you to put your arm down. “Which picture do you want?” she asks.
“Can you take off every single one that Jungkook is in?” you ask.
Her eyes bore into your profile, but you refuse to look at her, instead staring at that same picture like it’s the source of all your pain. You wish it’d burn down under your stare, but it just stares back at you, a piece of a moment that meant so much to you.
You shove that thought down the gaping hole in your chest. You don’t want to think about Jeju.
You want to forget Jungkook and everything that comes with him.
“You know that boy is in love with you, right?” she says.
Pain. The hole is pain, and you blink away tears. “Can you take off the pictures?” you repeat,
“Y/n, we’ll need to talk about this at some point,” she carefully says. “He stayed with you the whole time.”
“I don’t care.” You say it loud enough that your ribs hurt, and you wince, shutting your eyes. “Take the pictures off.”
Your mother doesn’t say anything, but you hear her clothes shuffle as she hopefully does what you asked her to do. It takes a moment, but then she says, “It’s done.”
You grab them from her hands, and you walk to the small recycling bin in the kitchen area, throwing them out. You feel your mother’s eyes on you the whole time, and you refuse to look at her as you watch Jungkook smiling up at you from the bottom of the bin.
“He said you had an argument, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Your mother’s words are sad, so sad, but you can’t tell if they’re sad for you, or for him. And you hate that you can’t. But they spent a lot of time together while you were out – it makes sense that some sort of camaraderie would have formed between them during that time.
“I really don’t want to talk about him, mom,” you say, warning in your voice. It wavers on the last word, though, and you really hope she’ll let it go.
“Okay,” she lets out. “But please don’t avoid the conversation forever. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk about it.”
You give her a nod even though you know that won’t happen.
You’re leaving him and everything about him in the past.
It’s the only way forward.
Wednesday, December 17th
Jungkook has a pounding headache. And he thinks he might kill Jennie if she keeps turning on the lights in his house.
“How much of this did you drink last night?” she asks, her voice way too high-pitched.
He doesn’t know. He’s lost count of the days and weeks since he came home. He meant to go to the trial last week, but he was so drunk off his mind he passed out on this very couch, only to wake up to the news that they’re all going to prison for a while for attempted murder. Even the girl that came forward despite the police saying they’d be lenient if one of them said something.
Good riddance, he reckons. They all deserve to be behind bars.
No one has come to his house since then.
Except Jennie, who’s been checking up on him every few days.
“Fuck off,” he grumbles as she pushes the curtains open, and sunlight spills into the room, so bright Jungkook thinks he might throw up.
“Jungkook, you’re not going to do this to yourself,” she says sternly. “I talked to your mom.”
He grabs a pillow, shoving it in his face. But it reeks of spilled beer, and he gags, throwing it on the floor.
“Don’t fucking talk to my mom,” he grinds out, sitting up.
The room spins, and nausea churns at his gut.
“I’ll get you a glass of water,” she replies. He burps, and she adds, “And a bucket.”
She comes back too late. He’s thrown up all over the floor by the couch by the time she’s back, and she just looks at the mess for a time.
“Jungkook, fucking hell,” she lets out.
He leans back against the couch, wiping his mouth. “Shit.”
“Shit, yeah,” she agrees. “Go take a shower, I’ll clean up.”
He shakes his head, cracking an eye open to look at her, but the light feels like it’ll split his brain open. “I’ll take care of it, go home.”
“I’m not leaving you in this state.” Jennie walks towards him, careful not to step in the mess on the floor. She hands him the glass of water, and the first sip is heavenly, the cool water taming the burning sensation in his throat. “You’ll take a shower, and I’ll clean this up, and then we’ll order you some food. And I’m getting Eunwoo and Lisa to come help with getting the alcohol out of your house.”
“Don’t fucking touch my stuff,” he growls.
“Jungkook, I’m not letting you destroy yourself over this.”
This. She says it like it was nothing. Like he’s not responsible for you nearly dying, like you haven’t asked him to leave only to never reach out after. Hell, your mother reached out to tell him that she was sorry.
That’s the first night he drank. And he’s been in a constant drunk state since then.
Except right now. Because Jennie is fucking ruining the vibe.
“Leave me alone,” he says.
She must have left, because she doesn’t reply. He opens his eyes to see the living room is empty. There’s an unopened can of beer on the coffee table, right in front of him, and it calls for him. He grabs it, getting up from the couch, nearly stepping in the mess right in front of it, and he groans as the room spins.
He has to close his eyes to steady himself, and when he opens them again, Jennie is looking at him from the doorway to the kitchen, her phone against her ear.
“Yeah, please come,” she says. And then she hangs up, walking toward him. “Put the beer down.”
He cracks it open while staring at her, taking three long gulps from it. It’s warm, and it tastes disgusting, but it comes with salvation.
He hasn’t had the nightmare since he started drinking himself to sleep every night and day.
“I fucking hate you,” Jennie says, and she rips the beer out of his hand. It spills on the floor a little, and Jungkook curses, but then she slaps him so hard it stuns him into just staring at her. “Get a grip on yourself, Jungkook. She’s not fucking dead.”
He stares her down, but she stands her ground, so much ire in her gaze he doesn’t find anything to say.
“You’ll go upstairs, and you’ll take a shower because you smell like the fucking sewers, and Eunwoo is coming over with hangover soup.” She motions around. “I’ll take care of the mess, and you’ll come back downstairs with a better attitude, got it?”
He clenches his jaw so hard it hurts, but then he nods.
And he walks away, goes upstairs in his room.
And like every time he’s walked into his room since he came back from the hospital, he bursts out crying at the sight of your duffel bag by the bed, the clothes spilling out of it.
He hasn’t come up here for a reason. He sees you everywhere in here, and it fucking kills him.
Jennie finds him sitting with his back against the wall what must be an hour later. He thinks she’ll scold him again, but she just sits in silence. That silence carries more than words ever could, and Jungkook is crying again.
“Take a shower, JK,” Jennie gently says. “You’ll feel better after, I promise.”
“She asked me to leave,” he tells her. “That’s the only thing she told me after she woke up.”
He hears Jennie gulp, and a glance her way reveals that she is crying too.
“She’s hurting,” Jennie says as she wipes at her cheeks. “She tries to act like everything is okay, but she’s traumatized.”
So is he. He so fucking is too. He can’t close his eyes without seeing you bleeding out.
“I went to see Sara that day,” he tells Jennie.
“I know.” Her words are low, yet they carry to his ears with so much disappointment he really wishes he was drunk right now. “Heryung told me she has cancer and has been trying to make amends.”
“I wish I hadn’t gone,” he whispers, and he hides his face in his hands as he starts sobbing again, even though he’s so dehydrated he should not have water left in his system to cry. “I lied to Y/n about it, and she ran outside because she found out.”
“Why did you lie?” Jennie asks.
Why? Why indeed.
“It’s all my fault.”
Jennie pulls on his hands until they drop from his face, and she cups his cheeks, trying to force him to look at her. “Jungkook.” He refuses to open his eyes, but she slaps him again, though much lighter this time. Just a tap to get him to look at her. When he does look at her to see she’s now kneeling in front of him, she says, “Don’t you fucking dare say it’s your fault again. Understood?”
He can’t say anything. The lump in his throat is so big now he can’t breathe anymore.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Say it with me.”
He can’t. He can’t say anything, and she just pulls him in a tight hug as he cries again.
“It’s not your fault,” she repeats over and over, like she’s trying to hammer the words in his brain.
Maybe she didn’t understand what he said. That he’s the reason why you left that night. But he doesn’t have the strength to tell her again, his head hurting so bad his tears stop of their own volition.
He straightens, wiping his cheeks dry with the sleeve of his sweater. Jennie just stays in front of him, waiting for him to meet her gaze. When he does, she says, “Go take a shower. Eunwoo is downstairs with the soup and Lisa is on her way.”
Jungkook wishes the members would be here. But they’re all the way on the other side of the planet, performing concerts without him while he’s dying all alone.
“Okay,” he lets out.
Jennie gives him an encouraging nod, a small smile on her lips, but the redness in her eyes from her crying betrays the sorrow clutching to her, too. But she’s doing her best, and she won’t fix what’s dead inside of him.
It has necrosed by now anyway – the only thing to do is to cut it out of himself. But how does one cut out their own beating heart?
He can’t. The pain will live on with him.
And despite the pain, he gets up, grabs clean clothes in a drawer, and then points to the duffel bag.
“Can you take that back to her?” he asks.
Jennie looks at your clothes, and she gives him a nod. “I will.” He takes a deep breath that burns on the way in and out. “Be quick, the soup will be cold.”
He doesn’t have it in him to say anything to that. He simply heads to the bathroom, where he sees your toothbrush. He knows your soap is in the shower, and he drops his clothes on the counter, grabs your toothbrush and soap.
“Jennie!” he yells as he runs back to his bedroom.
She’s kneeling by his bed, neatly folding your clothes. “Yes?”
“This is hers too,” he says. “And the charger right there, too.”
He points at it, and Jennie glances at it. “I’ll grab it.”
He puts your stuff down on the bed, taking one last look at Jennie before returning to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind himself, leans against it for a second just to breathe a little, and then he takes his clothes off, throwing them in the hamper.
He looks at himself in the mirror before getting in the shower. He’s melted in the last month, his cheeks caving in, his muscles dissolved. He’s barely eaten after all, except the occasional pack of instant ramen, and it really shows.
A diet of practically just alcohol will do that to a man, he reckons. And it’s strange, his stomach is swollen, the only spot on his body that doesn’t seem to have grown smaller. He assumes it’s due to alcohol intake, and he rubs the small bump.
He has to get rid of this. He’ll have to go back on tour in January, and he can’t go while looking like… this.
Like the poor excuse of a man he’s become. And so he steels himself, gives himself a nod, and then he steps in the shower, turning it on to a cold setting. He winces as it hits his back, but he doesn’t turn it warmer.
He just stands there in the cold water for a time, wondering if it can rival the ice in his chest. It doesn’t seem like it can, and so he gets in motion, cleaning himself and his body before turning off the shower. And then he stands there, dripping water, for another minute before he gets out, dries himself and gets dressed.
The clothes cover how much his body has changed, which is a relief because he doesn’t want his friends to see him like this. He pushes his wet hair back, giving himself one last look in the mirror, and then he finally goes to meet Jennie, Eunwoo and Lisa downstairs.
As he steps down from the last step, he sees that Jennie has indeed cleaned the living room thoroughly. There’s not a trace of what happened in here left, and he wonders if she just decided to throw away the pillow he spilled beer on, because it’s nowhere to be seen. No, the living room is spotless, and it even smells of cleaning products.
He follows the sound of his friends’ chatter to the kitchen, which he finds just as clean as the living room. They’re sitting at the dinner table he rarely uses when he’s alone, and they all look at him as he appears in the doorway.
Jennie smiles. She smiles like she’s proud of him, and he’d cry again. But he’s done crying for today. Instead, he swallows around the lump in his throat, gives them a nod of acknowledgement, and then walks over to the fridge.
It’s been emptied of the alcohol he knows was in there, and stacked full with bottles of water and some meal prep someone brought, most likely Eunwoo considering the large portions. Jungkook grabs a bottle of water, aware that his friends are still staring at him, and he opens it, taking a long sip of it.
He puts the cap back on the bottle after he’s done drinking, closing the fridge, and then he walks over to the table, and the soup waiting for him.
“Thank you,” he says.
It’s all he can say. They understand, giving him different variations of smiles, nods, and ‘of course’s, and he sits at the seat in front of the soup, his stomach rumbling, a clear indication that he’s been starving, but just didn’t realize before.
He eats, finishing the bowl while his friends resume their idle chatter next to him, talking about what they’ve been busy with lately, and Jungkook listens, taking in the normalcy of the scene, the domesticity of it, using it as a balm for the wounds covering his soul.
Wounds he inflicted himself, others you inflicted to him. But he won’t blame you – he only has himself to blame.
“What about you?” Eunwoo asks him a while later, when they’ve all finished talking about what they’ve been up to. “What’s your plan moving forward?”
It sounds like an intervention, and Jungkook reckons that it is. So he holds Jennie’s gaze, and says, “I’ll go back to touring with the boys.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Jennie asks.
He takes a deep breath. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
Her eyes cloud over with tears, but she blinks them away. “Then I’m fully supporting you. I think it’ll be good for you to be busy.”
There’s a short silence, and then Lisa looks around the table like it costs her to speak before she says, “We think you should think about therapy.”
They’re right. He should. But he’s not ready yet. Not when it means carving into all those wounds and putting them into the hands of someone else. One day, he will be.
Just not today.
“I’ll think about it,” he tells them, because that’s what they want to hear.
Lisa and Eunwoo seem relieved, but Jennie sees through him. Sees the wounds, and she understands. He thinks she does. She gives him an imperceptible nod, and he gives her a tight-lipped smile back.
And despite all the pain plaguing him, all the shadows in his mind, Jungkook knows he will keep going forward.
It’s the only way.
Tuesday, December 24th
You’ve never felt this immune to the holiday charm in years now. Hell, you’re relieved you couldn’t go back home for the holidays, the doctors recommending that you wait until your ribs have fully healed. You’ll likely FaceTime with your family at some point tomorrow morning while they’ll be celebrating back home, but that’s all you have the capacity to do for these holidays.
Except this dinner with Jennie and Hyunseok, who has been very visibly vibrating with excitement at the fact that he’s having dinner with her. It feels… normal, and you cling to it. Cling to the fact that despite what happened to you, you’re still able to have dinner with friends. To eat some food and smile with them and make a gingerbread house on the tiny plastic table Hyunseok brought over for dinner since you don’t really have a table at all in your apartment.
You haven’t gone outside once since you’ve come home from the hospital. Not even when your mother left. You managed to get all the way down to the reception, but the sight of the world outside kind of made you want to puke, so you said goodbye there instead of at the airport like you’d initially planned. Your mother understood – she’s the one that told you to go back home and rest up, and that she’d be able to get to the airport without your help.
After she left, you managed to start going to the gym downstairs a couple of times. Obviously not to lift weights or anything, but you’ve walked on the treadmill a little, and it’s helped with spending some of that restless exhausting energy you’ve been plagued with.
Jennie visited a couple of times, but you’ve spent nearly every day with Hyunseok since you came home. He feels reassuring, as he’s got no connections with the celebrity scene of Seoul, and you’ve been quietly enjoying healing with him by your side, and Haneul occasionally too. And Hyunseok is a nurse, so he’s been good at doting on you, at taking care of you and reminding you to take your meds.
You feel like a child, but you reckon you’re allowed to be one for a little while. You’re allowed to let people take care of you, and not feel guilty about it. At least that’s what the therapist you’ve started seeing said, and you agree with her.
The strangest part of it all is, you’ve been feeling numb. Completely detached from the events that happened to you. Your therapist mentioned that your concussion could actually be some sort of blessing in disguise, since it took away the memories of the act in and of itself. Or maybe it’s you that said it.
You don’t quite remember. You’ve been having trouble with memory in general, and the doctors said it’s most likely a side effect of the concussion and of the time spent in coma. But you think it’s also just the trauma.
Why would your brain choose to remember things that hurt so much when you can just remember stuff like your book release, and your friends, and the way your whole family came to see you on the other side of the world?
You’d rather focus on that. Focus on that and avoid looking at your phone for more than a few seconds at a time. You just reply to your family, Stella, Hyunseok and Jennie, and that’s plenty enough at the moment. You’ll get around to checking the rest eventually.
Or maybe you won’t. Maybe you don’t need to read the hundreds of messages you got from close friends and not so close friends, from family members you haven’t spoken to in years. From fans and haters and from Mingyu.
You’ve only skimmed his message once so far, and it looked so much like a love confession that you got scared, and you haven’t had the courage to look at it again. It doesn’t matter – he’s still doing training right now where he’s enlisted for his service, and he shouldn’t have access to his phone for a couple of weeks still. So you still have time before having to reply, or at least you think you do.
Someone else texted you a lot for a little while. Messages that meant no sense, both in Korean and in English, with so many typos you figured he had to be drunk when he sent them. Jennie confirmed that theory earlier, before Hyunseok arrived, when she said that she, Eunwoo and Lisa had to do an intervention because he was just constantly getting plastered drunk to the point of being sick every day.
It hurts and burns and pulls on your heart so hard it almost rips out of your chest, but you just can’t reach out. You don’t have it in you, and maybe it makes you a bad person.
Or maybe you just need time. You don’t even know – numbness has also invaded that part of your brain, the one that holds the memories of him, and you just can’t bring yourself to talk to him. Not when this numbness is a blessing, a way to keep moving forward.
You don’t want to have to confront your demons. Especially not those that are shaped like him.
One thing you didn’t expect out of all that happened was for Josh to message you. But he did, telling you he heard about you in the news – apparently, you made the news back home as well – and that he wanted to make sure you were okay. You did reply to him, most likely as a force of habit, but the conversation went nowhere, and he hasn’t reached out since then.
Asshole. He probably only reached out originally because he felt like it was expected of him. Maybe his mother, who always loved you, forced him to do it.
You don’t care. Like many things lately, you just don’t care.
“That house will not survive,” Hyunseok teases you as he glances at your gingerbread house after focusing on his own masterpiece for a while.
You blink out of your thoughts to see that, as a matter of fact, it has already crumbled.
“Yikes,” you let out flatly.
“Let me help,” he suggests, and you push the plate towards him before glancing at Jennie.
She’s so focused on whatever she is drawing on her house that her tongue is poking out of her mouth, and you chuckle at the sight. She looks up, meeting your gaze.
“What?” she asks.
“Who are you pulling your tongue out at?”
She snorts, and she pushes some hair off her forehead with the back of her hand so as to not put some icing in the silky strands. “You, bitch.”
You widen your gaze, making a face that must be funny, because she bursts out laughing. It brings a rare smile to your lips.
“What have I done?” you ask.
“You suck at making gingerbread houses,” Hyunseok provides.
“Hey, that’s unfair!” you let out. “Try lifting your arms when your ribs are cracked.”
Note to self – do not joke about your trauma. Indeed, the atmosphere instantly turns heavy, awkward, and you look up at the ceiling, sighing dramatically.
“That was a joke, thank you very much.”
Jennie chuckles. “Bad delivery. Maybe you should work on it a little.”
“Yeah, that definitely sucked,” Hyunseok jumps in. “Literally no one laughed.”
You close your eyes, and then you smile. You smile, and you laugh, because fuck, you’re so thankful for your friends. For them still acting normally with you, and for not walking on egg shells. You think that might be what’s been keeping you going these last few weeks.
And maybe they think you’re crazy, because they just chuckle awkwardly, but it doesn’t matter. You love them regardless.
You end up deciding to do a sleepover, Jennie and Hyunseok not having plans until the afternoon tomorrow. You lay on the couch, while they share a spot on the plush carpet in the living room, atop a pile of pillows Jennie raided from your bed. If it wasn’t for your ribs, you’d probably lie with them, but you don’t think your body can afford it.
Especially not when you’d risk getting elbowed in the ribs, and you’re pretty sure you’d murder whoever dares touch your sides right now.
But it leads to conversation that lasts well into the night – you’ve taken a liking to going to sleep early, and waking up with the morning sun, if only to avoid being awake while it’s dark outside as much as possible. So, well into the night just means some time after midnight, but you’re yawning on the bed as Jennie and Hyunseok gossip, switching to Korean occasionally, though you still manage to follow.
There’s a lull in the conversation after a moment, and you glance at them. Hyunseok is on his phone, but Jennie is just looking up at the ceiling, and she meets your gaze when she sees you looking.
“Y’all good?” you ask.
“I told you your carpet looks like the most comfortable shit ever at least five times before,” Jennie points out, which she actually did every time she came over. “I was right.”
You smile. “Good.”
She nods, rolling on her stomach as she props herself up on her elbows. “How have you been, by the way?”
You know she’s meaning to resume the conversation you had earlier, before Hyunseok arrived, from the way she grows serious, her eyes watching you intently. You feel like running, fearing the conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. Not when Hyunseok mirrors Jennie’s position, looking at you too.
“It’s been strange,” you admit. “I don’t really know how to feel. I feel like I should be feeling worse?” you say it like a question, looking up at the ceiling as holding your friends’ gaze becomes too hard. “But I don’t. Like my body hurts, but my mind is just… numb.”
“That would be the meds for you,” Hyunseok says, and you reckon it makes sense.
“You think?” you ask as your gaze slides to him.
He nods. “You’re on high dosage anti-depressants right now,” he points out, because he’s a nurse and he would know as he’s been giving you said meds. “They kind of turn off emotions.”
“Right.” You look back up at the ceiling. “That would explain it. I haven’t really felt anything at all since I came home.” Except when you threw away the pictures on your wall, but even now, thinking back on it, you don’t feel the pain you should be feeling.
“That’s good, I think?” Jennie lets out.
“For a little while, maybe?” You sigh deeply. “But it will probably start driving me crazy soon.” You wet your lips, finding a dry spot you pull on with your teeth. “What writer doesn’t have emotions?”
“Girl, you don’t need to be writing right now,” Hyunseok says. “I still think it’s crazy you wrote and published a book in the same year considering it usually takes like a year and a half.”
“You have the editors to thank for that,” you say, chuckling. “They wanted to use Jennie’s fame.”
“As if you need it. You already shine on your own.” Jennie shakes her head. “But the fact you managed to do it is admirable.”
You smile, meeting her gaze. “Thanks.”
She smiles back. “Of course.”
There’s a silence, and you see Jennie’s eyes filling with a question that will make you want to die. Maybe because you’re close enough to her now you can practically read her thoughts.
“What are you going to do about Jungkook?”
You reckon Hyunseok had the same question in mind. Because he watches you intently, and you flee their gazes, looking up again.
But also, you look up because you don’t want them to know how much it hurts to even hear his name.
“Nothing,” you say. “I don’t…” You take a breath, hold it in for a few seconds before blowing it out. “I can’t do anything about it.”
“You could,” Jennie says.
“I don’t want to see him.” Your words are firm, and shouldn’t allow for discussion, yet she keeps going.
Of course she would. She was his friend first, wasn’t she?
“He feels guilty,” she lets out.
You close your eyes, because the pain is pushing through the numbness, blowing away the clouds covering the gaping hole in your chest. “Why would he? He’s not the one that stabbed me.”
The silence that follows is heavy, like you’re stupid and should understand. But why would he feel guilty? He made a choice, and that choice was to lie to you.
You haven’t been able to forget that. Even with the numbness.
“You fought that night, didn’t you?” she asks.
You clench your teeth as a lump grows in your throat. “He told you?”
“He…” she trails off, and she sighs. “He did.”
You wondered when she truly would approach the subject with you. It didn’t seem like she would, but you should have known it was coming.
“What did he say?”
It takes Jennie a moment before she answers. “He said he lied to you about going to see Sara.”
“Ah.”
It’s the only thing you manage to say. Not because of the lump in your throat, or of anything else, really, but just because there is nothing to say. There are no words down the hole in your chest, just primal pain that you hope will fade with time.
“You’re not planning to see him again, are you?” Jennie asks.
You cry. You can’t stop it. A tear spills out of your eye, dropping to the couch under your head.
“I can’t,” you whisper, because saying the words too loud would break. “I just can’t.”
Another silence falls upon you. And then she says, “He’s going back on tour.”
You’re happy for him. You know music is his passion, and you reckon being with his band mates will likely help him feel better. He won’t have time to constantly drink himself stupid anymore, at least. Though Jennie did say earlier that he seems to have entirely stopped drinking for now.
“Good,” you let out.
“Y/n.” It’s Hyunseok speaking, and you dry your eyes with your thumbs before turning your head to look at him.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to say something that will probably piss you off, but you shouldn’t push him away like that.”
You frown. “He lied.”
“And?” He gives you time to answer, but you don’t find anything to say. “He lied, but then he spent days just watching over you at the hospital. Don’t you feel like… the lying was inconsequential compared to everything else that happened?”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“He had coffee with his ex that has cancer, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t cheat.”
You’re angry. A red, hot ball of fiery anger lighting up the hole in your chest, revealing all its jagged edges.
“Why are you defending him?” you ask.
“Because you were so in love with him, and you almost died, and he’s still just right there wanting to be with you. And you can’t even talk to him.”
“Fuck you,” you spit out.
“But it’s true,” Hyunseok says. “Right?”
That question is aimed at Jennie, who gives you an apologetic expression. “I’m not going to say you should get back together with him,” she says, much calmer than Hyunseok. “But I think you guys should at least talk a little.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Y/n, I’ve never seen him in such a state. He’s doing horrible.”
So am I? you think. But you don’t say it. Because you’ve just been so numb, and it would be a lie.
You’ve had phases in your life where you felt worse than this. And your therapist has been keen on making you understand that you shouldn’t feel guilty about it.
“I…” You shut your eyes hard, trying to not think of those big, doe eyes, of the emotions that used to swirl in their depths. “I just can’t. Not right now.”
Jennie – or maybe it’s Hyunseok? – reaches out to squeeze your hand.
“That’s okay,” Jennie says softly. “Just promise you’ll talk to him someday, when you’re ready.”
More tears fall down your cheeks, and someone gets up. But your hand is still being squeezed, and you open your eyes to meet Jennie’s gaze.
“I don’t know when I’ll be ready,” you admit, and you shatter.
A sob breaks through, and Jennie squeezes your hand harder.
“Girl, I’d take you in my arms, but I don’t want to hurt your ribs.”
You chuckle. A sad, pitiful sound that rips some of the jagged edges of the hole in your chest and throws them in your face. “Girl,” you choke out.
She just swipes her thumb on the back of your hand. “Take your time, bubs. But just promise me you’ll talk to him.”
You meet her gaze, give her a small nod. “I will.”
And it’s all you can say before you truly rupture, the numbness fading to be replaced by a truck of emotions hitting at full speed. Hyunseok comes back with tissues, drying your cheeks, and Jennie holds your hand through it all.
Without them, you’d crumble. But they hold you up and maybe, just maybe, there is light at the end of the tunnel.
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I am sobbing out here. i think this chapter alone is the saddest thing i've ever written. i apologize to you all, feel free too scream at me
All rights reserved to @oddinary4bts, 2026. Do not copy, repost or translate.
