SweetHome

[sweetvoidstuff]

Masterlist

Autors Note: I haven't written stories in quite a while, but I have the desire to pick it up again. English isn't my native language, so I welcome any constructive criticism.

Updated: 23.12.25

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Sweet Home

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Not Dead 21.12.25 News 03.02.25

[sweetvoidstuff]

One Decision, One Call, and You

Hybrid!Jungkook x Reader I Slow Burn I Grief & Healing I Emotional Comfort I Mutual Pining I Domestic Moments I Protective Jungkook I Soft Angst I Eventual Romance I No Smut

Summary: After a sudden loss, you and Jungkook are thrown into living together under complicated circumstances that slowly reshape both of your lives. Grief turns into routine, routine into comfort, and comfort into something neither of you is quite ready to name. As your relationship changes, both of you are forced to confront fears about change, attachment, and what it really means to choose each other. Sometimes, the hardest part isn’t letting go — it’s daring to stay.

Word Count: 16K

Masterlist

Five years ago, when your dad had first called and told you he’d brought home a hybrid, you hadn’t taken it well.

“You got a what?!” you had shouted into the phone, cradling it between your shoulder and cheek as you unpacked in your dorm.

“A hybrid,” your dad had said, chipper as ever. “Some dog type. You should see his ears—they’re adorable. It’s nice having someone around again. Name’s Jungkook. Great kid. Keeps the place lively. Doesn’t eat much, though he does steal my socks, and he’s not that much younger than you.”

“Dad,” you had hissed, pausing with a box of tinkets in your hands. “You basically brought a human being!”

“Oh come on,” he’d laughed, easy and unbothered. “He’s not a pet. I’m not making him sleep in a dog bed or something. He gets his own room, his own keys. We eat dinner together. He’s just… company.”

But it had bothered you. Not because you didn’t think hybrids were people—you absolutely did. That was the problem. Your dad had always been the happy-go-lucky, go-with-the-flow type. Generous, kind, but not exactly the most logical when it came to practical decisions. You, on the other hand, leaned closer to structure, reason, facts. You didn’t like the idea of him inviting someone into his home without fully understanding the situation, without checking legal rights, emotional implications, safety concerns. You had friends who were hybrids. You knew the reality of their lives. How often people treated them like accessories. You hadn’t been sure what your dad was doing, bringing someone in like that.

And maybe that’s why it had always been awkward between you and Jungkook. Because you weren’t sure what your dad had been thinking, but Jungkook had stayed. Quietly, consistently, loyally. And now here he was. Was still here.

When you had been the one too busy to come home.

Present Day

That was the conversation you had with your dad almost every time you called—or whenever he visited. You loved your dad to bits, but college had been brutal, and you hadn’t checked in as often as you wanted to. You called often enough, sure. And once in a while, your dad would visit (always alone, because Jungkook stayed behind to watch the house). Now that you’d graduated and landed your first big job, you were determined to make more time—for your dad and, by extension, his hybrid.

But life, as always, had other plans. Your dad’s name blinked on your phone screen. You picked up without thinking.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

Silence. Long enough that you pulled the phone away from your ear to check the connection. Then, hesitantly, a voice you barely recognized came through the line.

“Y/N?”

You paused, brow furrowing. You could count the number of times you’d spoken to Jungkook on one hand. The whole situation had always made you a little uncomfortable—him being your dad’s… well, hybrid. You had hybrid friends. You didn’t see them as less. But with Jungkook, it felt different somehow.

“Yeah?” you said cautiously. “What’s going on?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“I—what? No, I’m cooking.”

“Please. Sit down.” Jungkook’s voice was tight. Uneasy.

“Jungkook… why are you calling me from my dad’s phone?”

He hesitated, then spoke softly. “He… he got into an accident. Can you come home?”

Everything in you stilled. The spoon dropped from your hand. The sizzling pan, the cluttered kitchen—none of it mattered. Something deep inside you shifted.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That had been two weeks ago.

You hadn’t hesitated. You took immediate leave from work, barely remembering calling your boss before rushing out. You made arrangements you could barely focus on—canceled meetings, postponed plans—and then caught the first flight home. When you stepped through the front door, you found Jungkook already there, pacing the living room of what was once your dad’s house. His movements were frenetic, like a caged animal unsure whether to run or curl up. He had been waiting for you.

Interacting with him had always been awkward. Jungkook wasn’t a stranger—you knew him, vaguely, from photos and the few stilted conversations you’d had over holidays or quick video calls. But you'd never learned how to be around him. Not really. Your dad had made it sound so simple: "Y/N. Just be normal." And you wanted to. You truly did. You believed hybrids were people, as fully and unquestionably as any human. But it was different when your dad—who could barely program the TV remote—had brought one into his home, almost on a whim, with that same reckless optimism he applied to stray cats and lost tourists.

You'd worried back then, sitting in your cramped college dorm, that he hadn't thought everything through. That Jungkook had been pulled into a situation neither of them fully understood. And now? Now it was just the two of you.

Jungkook was the one who had told you everything you didn’t want to hear.

Your dad had been driving home from a hardware store—he had wanted to build a bird feeder for the backyard. Someone had run a red light. While swerving to avoid hitting a pedestrian, the driver lost control and slammed into your dad’s car.

He had made it to the hospital. Made it onto the operating table. But the injuries had been too severe.

You didn’t cry when Jungkook told you.

You didn’t scream, didn’t fall apart the way you always imagined you might. You just sat there, too shocked to move, too shocked to breathe. The world had gone quiet, and so had you.

It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt—it did. The grief had hit like a freight train, but your body refused to respond. You couldn’t cry. Couldn’t speak. You just sat with your hands folded in your lap like a stranger in your own skin.

You didn’t want to break down in front of anyone. Especially not in front of all the people who had started filtering into the house. They were your dad’s friends—neighbors, old coworkers, people who meant well—but they weren’t yours. You couldn’t let yourself shatter in front of them. Couldn’t let yourself become something messy and exposed.

So you stayed quiet. Like someone pressed pause on your emotions.

It made you seem cold to some of the people who came by, maybe even distant or unfeeling. But that was only if they didn’t look close enough. Only if they didn’t know you.

Jungkook did.

He had watched you carefully, never hovering, never pushing. And even though you barely spoke a word, he could hear everything you didn’t say.

He remembered how your voice always softened when you called home and talked to your dad about something sad—even if you tried to hide it behind your usual steady tone. Jungkook had often sat nearby, pretending to read or clean, but really listening, because it was the only real glimpse he ever got of you.

He had listened, too, every time your dad proudly rambled about you. Telling story after story like you hung the moon and stars. And Jungkook knew your scent better than anyone. It clung to the old things you left in your room—soft and faded. It came fresh with the care packages you sent, even when you were busy and tired from school. Packages that always, always included something thoughtful just for him too. Little things—a scarf in winter, snacks he liked, a book you thought he might enjoy. Like you had accepted him into your family even from afar, even if awkwardly, even if you weren't quite sure how to fit him into your world.

So now, seeing you sitting there, silent and still, hurt more than he knew how to put into words. He wanted to comfort you. Wanted to go to you and do something—anything—to ease the weight he saw pressing down on you.

But he didn’t know how.

His own grief was still too raw, too overwhelming. Your father had been more than just an owner or a guardian to him. He had been a friend. And now he was gone. So he stayed close, silent and steady, because maybe that was enough for now.

At the funeral, Jungkook took care of talking to your dad’s friends.

You barely remembered organizing the funeral. Barely remembered sitting stiff in the front row, hands curled so tightly in your lap they left crescent moons in your palms. Friends, neighbors, even a few of your dad’s coworkers had come. They didn’t bother you much, for which you were grateful. You wouldn’t have known what to say to them anyway. Most of them spoke to Jungkook—leaning on him for information about your dad’s final days, leaning on him for comfort that you could not give.

And Jungkook, somehow, had carried that weight too.

Over the last few years, it seemed, Jungkook had slowly become more caretaker than companion—more family than assistant. The realization hit you like another blow. You hadn't been here to see it. Hadn’t been part of those days when your dad leaned more on Jungkook’s steady presence than Jungkook on your dad.

Your chest twisted with guilt, but you forced yourself to stand straight and nod politely to anyone who came too close. Your father would have wanted you to be strong. From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook, tense but polite, answering question after question, handling small tasks you couldn’t even think about. You were grateful. And hoped he knew.

Later that evening, after the last mourners had trickled away, you sat in the too-quiet living room, staring at the carpet. You heard Jungkook in the kitchen, putting away the untouched funeral food, moving gently so as not to disturb you.

He wanted to comfort you. He ached to. You looked so heartbreakingly fragile. Like if he touched you, you might shatter.

So, he brewed you a cup of tea, hands trembling only slightly, and placed it quietly on the table near you before retreating back into his own room. For him to grief as well. You didn’t look up at first. Couldn’t. But later, when the house was darker and lonelier, you reached for the tea—and found that it was still warming your insides beside being cold.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When it was time for the reading of the will, none of it surprised you.

You sat at the lawyer’s office, numb, surrounded by dull walls and the low hum of printers and legal talk. Your dad had been typical in his way: full of roundabout phrasing and heartfelt, if impractical, ideas. The inheritance, the house, everything—it was all yours. You could have everything. Even the stubborn old truck that barely made it up hills anymore.

Only one condition: Jungkook must not be put into a shelter. He was to live with you. He was to be cared for like family. If you couldn't or wouldn't, arrangements had to be made through a lawyer to ensure he found a proper home—one your dad would have approved of.

You sat there, the lawyer’s words washing over you in slow, heavy waves. It all felt so surreal—like you were watching yourself from somewhere far away. Without hesitation, you picked up the pen. Your hand barely trembled as you signed the paperwork. You would not abandon Jungkook. He wasn’t your blood, but he had been your dad’s heart—and that was enough for you.

The memory of Jungkook hovering in the kitchen the night after the funeral—quiet, careful, trying so hard not to intrude—flashed through your mind. Your throat burned, but you pressed the feeling down. You handed the papers back to the lawyer with a soft sigh, almost mechanically. And under your breath, so low only you could hear it, you mumbled, "StupidDad." A wobbly smile tugged weakly at your lips.

As if he really needed to spell it out in his will. As if you ever would have needed to be told.

Even without the will, you would have taken Jungkook in. Even if there had been no paperwork, no legal binds—you wouldn't have left him behind. He wasn’t some responsibility you begrudgingly accepted; he was family. Your father must have known that, deep down. Maybe he just wanted to make sure you didn’t let your logic get in the way of your heart. Maybe he was protecting both you and Jungkook, even now.

You rose slowly from the chair, suddenly tired in a way that seeped down to your bones. The lawyer said a few more things—about estate transfers, about timelines—but you barely heard. You nodded when appropriate and found your way out into the sharp, cold air outside.

Your car was parked half a block down the street.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When you got back from the lawyer’s office, the house felt different. The light coming through the curtains looked the same, the carpet still had that faint coffee stain from when your dad tripped over his own socks, and yet… everything had shifted. Jungkook sat in the living room—your living room now—perched on the very edge of the couch like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there any longer. He glanced up when you walked in, and you could see the way his shoulders tensed, his whole body taut with uncertainty. His eyes were still red-rimmed from crying earlier.

You set your bag down and took a deep breath. It still smelled like your dad in here. A mix of aftershave, laundry detergent, and that ridiculous cinnamon air freshener he insisted on keeping year-round.

“I packed all the necessary things I own,” Jungkook said. His voice was soft, but it filled the quiet room like a drop of ink in water. You nodded slowly. “Good. We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll need to check in with work, but we’ll head out early.”

He shifted on his feet, looking like he might crumble under the weight of everything that had happened. Then, with hesitance, he reached for something on the side table—a photo frame. “Um… can I keep this?” he asked, holding it toward you.

You stepped closer. It was a picture of him and your dad, standing side by side on a dock, holding up a fishing line with something barely qualifying as a catch dangling from it. Your dad’s grin was ear-to-ear, his ridiculous sunhat crooked, while Jungkook stood beside him with the stiff posture of someone not used to such casual affection—but his expression was warm, eyes squinting slightly with laughter.

“Of course,” you said, surprised at how fondly you looked at it. “We can hang it in your room. Or even the living room. It’s a good picture.”

Jungkook blinked at you, startled. “Living room?”

You nodded, your gaze still fixed on the photo. “Sure. Or, well, your room—wherever you want.”

He hesitated, and his voice came out quieter. “There won’t be living rooms at the shelter, Y/N.”

You froze. Your eyes snapped to him. “Shelter?” Your voice sharpened, coming out louder than you meant. “Jungkook, are you mental? I’m not putting you in a shelter!” The words rang out too harshly, and immediately, you felt bad—but not enough to take them back. Because how could he even think that? You stood there, staring at each other. Raw. Hurting. Lost.

“You’re not?” he asked, his voice smaller than you’d ever heard it.

“No,” you said, voice firm this time. “You’re family.”

And that was that.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning, you and Jungkook caught the earliest flight home. It was strange how automatic everything felt—like your body moved on autopilot while your brain lagged somewhere far behind. Check bags. Show IDs. Sit. Wait. Move again.

You and Jungkook didn’t speak much at the airport. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but it wasn’t hostile either—it was awkward, heavy with everything neither of you knew how to say yet. On the plane, you ended up with the window seat. Jungkook sat beside you, his legs a little too long for the cramped space. Every once in a while, his knee would accidentally brush yours, and he’d flinch back like he was afraid of bothering you.

You stared out the window for a long time, watching the airport staff bustle around below, until the seatbelt light dinged on. Once you were safely in the air, you forced yourself to try. Forced your voice past the ache in your throat. “So,” you said, your tone deliberately light, “um... What’s the worst movie you’ve ever seen?”

Jungkook blinked, caught off guard. He thought about it seriously for a second, then mumbled something about a terrible action movie that had more explosions than plot. You laughed softly—a real laugh, even if it was small. It felt strange in your chest, almost wrong, but you let it happen anyway. And then, after a long pause, you added quietly, "I'm sorry, by the way."

He turned toward you a little, confused. You kept your eyes forward, focused on the endless blue sky outside the window. "For uprooting you like this," you explained. "You had a life there. Friends. I know it sucks. I... I just didn't want to stay. And with work… I need to get back."

Your hands twisted together in your lap.

There were still a million things waiting back at the house—memories to sort, a life to pack up and either sell or rent out. You knew you should be responsible, handle it like an adult. But the thought of walking back into that house again, sorting through your father's things like they were just... things— It made your stomach twist.

You'd have to come back, eventually. Two or three more times, minimum. But that wasn’t a task for this week. Maybe not even this year, if you could get away with it. If you could be just a little bit irresponsible for once. Jungkook was still looking at you, his big brown eyes round with surprise. He clearly hadn't expected you to apologize. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. Then he shrugged a little, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice low. "I’m... fine going with you."

He wasn’t fine—not really. You could see the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin, could see the way he still carried his own fresh grief like a hidden bruise. But he meant it. He wasn’t resentful. He wasn’t angry. If anything, he seemed more worried about you than himself.

You turned your head slightly, finally looking at him properly. You tried to keep yourself together—to not let the guilt, the sadness, the overwhelming loneliness break you apart right there in the airplane seat. Jungkook offered you a shy, almost broken smile. You returned it, small and shaky, but real.

Neither of you said anything else for the rest of the flight. But when you dozed off, lulled into an uneasy sleep by the hum of the engines, Jungkook shifted closer—not touching, but close enough to be there if you needed him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Your home was... well, a mess when you finally stumbled inside with Jungkook.

You hadn't exactly been planning to leave when he called you. You’d literally just grabbed a bag and bolted. Which meant the trash hadn’t been taken out, the sink was suspicious, and there was definitely something rotting somewhere you didn't dare name yet.

As soon as the door swung open, a wave of smell hit you like a brick wall.

“Shit—sorry,” you muttered, rushing toward the nearest window and yanking it open like your life depended on it. Fresh air streamed in, but the damage was done. Jungkook winced a little behind you. His nose, sharper than yours on any day, picked up every awful detail. Still, underneath the sour staleness, he caught it—your scent. Buried under the chaos, clinging stubbornly to the walls, the carpet, the very air.

It was... comforting, in a strange way. Like even if your house was in disarray, you were here. Alive. Real. After flinging open a few more windows and muttering curses under your breath, you finally tracked down the culprit: a takeout container you’d abandoned on the counter.

You tied up the trash as fast as you could, gagging slightly, and cracked open the mailbox while you were at it—junk, bills, and a couple of weird flyers tumbling into your hands. When you turned around, Jungkook was still standing stiffly just inside the doorway, clutching the strap of his bag like a lifeline.

You licked your lips, the sound faint in the too-quiet room, then made a small clicking noise that got his attention. His head snapped up immediately, eyes wide and alert. You pointed toward the fridge, then the TV.

“There’s the fridge,” you said, your voice more businesslike now, falling into a rhythm you barely realized you were imitating—your dad’s, but sharper around the edges. “Glasses are up there—” you pointed at a cabinet, “—TV remote’s probably somewhere buried on the couch. Feel free to hook your console up if you want. Its your home now as well. After I toss the trash and check a few things, we’ll get you settled into the guest room. Well. Your room now. Okay?”

Jungkook nodded dumbly, still looking a little shell-shocked but trying his best to keep up. Something about the whole scene—the absurdity of the smell, your no-nonsense tone, the way you gestured like you were giving a tour of some rundown airbnb—made a quiet chuckle slip out of him. It surprised both of you.

You paused mid-step, looking over your shoulder. “What's so funny?” you asked, one brow arched. He shrugged, still grinning a little, like he couldn’t help it.

“You sound like your dad,” Jungkook said, voice low and a little hoarse. “But, uh... a lot more direct.”

You stared at him for a beat. Then you snorted—an inelegant, exhausted sound—and turned back toward the overflowing trash bin. “Yeah, well," you muttered, smiling gently while grabbing your keys off the counter, "one of us has to get shit done around here."

You wrinkled your nose at the smell again, slung the bulging trash bag over your shoulder like some miserable, modern-day Santa Claus, and marched out the door. The door thudded shut behind you with a hollow sound that echoed in the sudden quiet. Jungkook stood there, blinking at the empty space you’d left. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, then finally let himself move.

It felt strange — intrusive almost — being alone here, even if you had told him to make himself at home. Your apartment was small but cozy in a lived-in, unmistakably you way. The stale air was already starting to clear from the open windows, replaced by a softer undercurrent. Jungkook drifted around the living room, his steps slow, almost reverent. Photos were tucked everywhere. Tiny magnetic frames cluttered the fridge door, filled with snapshots: you squinting into the sun at the beach, making a ridiculous face with friends at a party, wrapped in a scarf too big for you in the middle of what must have been winter.

There were more formal ones too — framed and dusted — perched on the bookshelves and the little table by the window. You and your dad, grinning side by side at a barbecue, arms slung around each other like conspirators. Another one, older, of you perched on your dad’s shoulders at what looked like a county fair, a dripping ice cream cone in your hand and the kind of pure happiness on your face that made Jungkook’s chest ache unexpectedly.

And tucked between them—less polished but no less important—were a few with Jungkook himself. He hadn't known you had these. Fishing trips, afternoons spent fixing your dad’s old truck, impromptu backyard soccer games where someone inevitably ended up crashing into the bushes. In one, he was caught mid-bite of a burger, cheeks puffed out, while your dad laughed so hard his whole body was leaning sideways, almost out of frame.

Jungkook stood in front of that one for a long moment, thumb brushing absently over the corner of the photo like he could reach through it somehow. The apartment, cluttered and chaotic as it was, still spoke loudly of love. Of a kind of love that wasn’t tidy or easy but hadn’t faded either.

The sudden rattle of keys at the door startled him, yanking him out of the slow pull of memory. He straightened sharply, feeling weirdly guilty, like he’d been caught peeking at something too private. you shoved the door open with your hip, tossed your keys onto the counter with a clatter loud enough to wake the dead, and beelined straight toward the couch, pulling your phone out of your pocket as you moved.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “What kind of takeout do you want? I’m not cooking tonight. No way I’m opening that fridge.” Jungkook blinked at you, still a little dazed from the shift in energy, before huffing a soft, startled laugh. “I can cook if you want,” he offered, only half-joking. You shook your head, firm but smiling. “Nope. My treat tonight. And like hell I’m being adventurous enough to dig through whatever science experiment is going on in there.”

He laughed at that — a real one this time.

—

Late into the night, after you'd both eaten way too much greasy takeout, after you'd both bickered good-naturedly over which spare sheets weren't awful, after Jungkook had finally made the guest room look a little more his — Jungkook’s gaming console already half-set up by the TV, sneakers by the door, his duffel bag open and half-unpacked — you ended up back in the living room.

He’d disappeared into his room after helping you unpack a few things, and you figured he was probably asleep by now. The day had wrung you both out like wet towels. You sank down onto the couch, one leg tucked under you, a half-empty water bottle balancing on the armrest. The TV buzzed faintly in the background, some late-night show you weren’t even pretending to watch.

Your fingers found a framed photo lying on the coffee table—one of you and your dad, both smiling, mid-conversation, caught in a candid moment. For a long moment, you just stared at it, blinking slowly, willing the sting behind your eyes to go away. Your throat tightened.

It had been such a day—the trash, the rotting takeout, the frantic rush of settling Jungkook in. The kind of ridiculous, messy day you would have called him about. Would have complained about the garbage, laughed about the fridge, joked about Jungkook eating a pizza all by himself. You would have told him everything.

You even had your phone in your hand, thumb hovering over your contacts. Your dad’s name still there like it always had been.

But he wouldn’t pick up. Not anymore.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it. You bit it hard, willing yourself to get a grip, but it was like trying to hold back a broken dam. A sob clawed its way up your throat—small, broken—and then another, as the weight of the day finally crushed down.

You hated crying. You hated feeling this raw.

You pressed your forehead into the crook of your arm, trying to smother the sound. Tears spilled hot and fast, soaking the sleeves of your sweatshirt. The soft click of a door opening pulled you from your spiral. You froze, scrubbing at your face, swallowing hard, trying to pretend you were fine. Trying to put on the brave mask that had gotten you through the funeral, the lawyer’s office, the damn trash pile.

But when you looked up, Jungkook was there. Standing barefoot on the wood floor, sleeves tugged over his hands again, his face uncertain, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to come closer. The hallway light was still on behind him, casting him half in shadow, half in warm gold. He took a hesitant step toward you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, even though the answer was obvious.

You let out a weak, broken laugh, wiping furiously at your cheeks, more angry at yourself than anything else. “Yeah. Just—” Your voice cracked halfway through, wobbling like a snapped string. “Just... sorry for waking you. I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

Jungkook’s brow furrowed, the crease between his eyebrows deep and worried. He hovered for a second, weight shifting from foot to foot like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or give you the space you clearly thought you needed. You didn’t say anything — you couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too thick, your heart pounding so hard it was dizzying. You kept your eyes fixed anywhere but on him, blinking rapidly, desperate to hold yourself together. But your lip quivered again, betraying you, and the weight of everything pressed down harder, threatening to crush you.

You managed to whisper, your voice nothing but a broken, aching breath, “Go to bed, Jungkook. Please.” It wasn’t harsh — it was pleading. You needed space, needed to fall apart without anyone seeing. But instead of listening, Jungkook moved. He crossed the distance between you in a heartbeat and, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around you. The contact shattered the fragile wall you’d been trying so hard to hold up.

You gasped — not from surprise, but from how easily you fit against him, how desperately you needed it even if you didn’t want to admit it. And then, in a voice so raw it barely sounded like him, Jungkook whispered against your hair,

“I miss him too.”

That was all it took. The dam inside you broke, and you finally let yourself cry.

The grief ripped out of you in a violent, unstoppable wave. Fat, ugly tears spilled down your cheeks, and you sobbed against Jungkook’s chest, the sound raw and awful, like something inside you was breaking all over again. You clutched at him blindly, fists twisting into the fabric of his shirt, like if you just held on tight enough you could stop everything from falling apart. Jungkook only held you tighter in return, his arms locking around you like he could somehow shield you from the world. He rocked you slightly, murmuring soft, broken things you couldn't even understand through the roar of your own pain.

You didn’t realize at first that Jungkook was crying too. Hot tears soaked into your hair, slid down his cheeks in silence, his face pressed against the crown of your head as he clung to you. It wasn’t loud like yours — it was quieter, rougher — but no less wrecked. And somehow, somehow, feeling his grief tangled with yours made it hurt a little less. As if letting it all out together meant you didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

You didn’t know how long you cried. Time blurred, the minutes stretching out into something strange and timeless. But Jungkook didn’t let go — not once. At some point, he shifted carefully, maneuvering you into his lap so you could lean against him properly. You curled into him without thinking, trembling, exhausted. He held you fiercely, one hand splayed protectively across your back, the other cupping the back of your head like he could physically hold the shattered pieces of you together.

His hoodie was damp where your face pressed into it, but he didn’t seem to care. He just kept holding you, anchoring you, breathing with you. And somewhere in the thick, heavy aftermath of the worst of it, your body finally gave out. You cried yourself to sleep against him, your breathing still hitching every so often, tear tracks cooling on your cheeks.

Jungkook stayed where he was, cradling you like something precious. His own tears had dried, leaving his throat raw, his heart aching. He brushed a thumb gently along your temple, watching you with a tenderness so fierce it made his chest ache. In that moment, he swore to himself — with a certainty deeper than anything he’d ever felt — that he would do anything, anything, to make sure you never felt this broken again.

Not if he could help it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A couple days later, your big cry hadn’t made anything awkward with Jungkook — lucky you. If anything, it made things… easier between you. You’d both seen each other cry since then, too, a few more times when a song or a picture or a dumb memory hit too hard, but it hadn’t been so raw and painful like that first night. It was more manageable now, a silent agreement between the two of you that it was okay to be wrecked sometimes.

Somehow, you and Jungkook had settled into a kind of routine. You went to work every morning, and while you told him again and again that he didn’t need to, he took care of the apartment. Cleaning, cooking, even going grocery shopping. You didn’t love that he basically made a maid out of himself — you really didn’t — but it helped. And on top of all that, Jungkook streamed.

Apparently, he had a small but loyal fanbase — not enough to live off of yet, but enough to refuse money from you (except for groceries, which you forced on him anyway). It was… kind of impressive. You hadn’t realized how funny and charming he could be until you caught bits of his streams sometimes, when he forgot to close his door and you heard him talking to his chat.

You made it clear early on: if he ever needed anything — new equipment, classes, help to chase whatever dream he had — he just had to tell you. You wanted him to tell you.

And Jungkook was grateful. You could see it every time he looked at you with that soft, careful kind of expression. But for now, he said he was happy. Content with the freedom, the safety of it. You didn’t push. Things were calm. Stable.

Until your friends invited themselves over.

It started with a text from Mina: "Coming over tonight! We miss you! Ordering food, don’t fight me on this."

And before you could even type out a protest, another one from Taehyung: "Bringing beer. And Mario Kart. Hope you’re ready to lose."

You stared at your phone like it had personally betrayed you.

“Oh, no,” you muttered, running a hand down your face. Across the living room, Jungkook, who had been fiddling with the console cables, looked up at you, curious. “What’s wrong?” he asked, half-smiling because he knew you well enough by now to sense the brewing chaos. You sighed dramatically. “My friends. They’re... uh. They’re coming over.”

Jungkook blinked. “Tonight?”

You nodded grimly. “Tonight.”

He didn’t look upset — not exactly. But there was a flicker of tension in his shoulders, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to leave or hide or introduce himself with a handshake and a power-point presentation.

You winced. “Sorry. They’re just... excited. And loud. And they don’t really knock.”

Jungkook chuckled under his breath, but it was a soft, uncertain sound. "It’s fine," he said — even though you could tell he was nervous. "I’ll just, you know… vibe." But you didn’t smile this time. Instead, you hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek. "They’re… not just coming to hang out," you admitted quietly. "They want to cheer me up. After everything. They just… want to be there for me."

Jungkook blinked at you, his expression easing into something softer, more understanding. You shifted awkwardly on your feet, heart beating faster with guilt. "But you — you’re still getting settled," you said quickly. "You’re still in my— no, our home. I don’t want to throw a bunch of strangers into your space. Even if they’re my annoying, ridiculous friends that I love to bits."

Jungkook opened his mouth to argue, but you lifted a hand, cutting him off.

"I’m serious," you insisted. "If you don’t want them around — yet or ever — it’s fine. I’ll tell them not to come. You don’t owe me anything, okay?" You fidgeted with the hem of your hoodie, nervous. "And also, just so you know… Mina’s boyfriend is probably coming too. His name’s Jin. He’s a quokka hybrid. Super harmless, really nice. But still. Another hybrid in your space."

You hated how rushed you sounded, how desperate you were to make sure Jungkook didn’t feel cornered. But you meant it. Jungkook, for his part, just stared at you for a long moment. And then his face softened even more, his whole posture loosening with a kind of quiet amazement.

"You're really thinking about all that?" he asked, almost disbelieving.

"Of course," you said, voice thick. "You matter too. Not just me."

Jungkook looked down, hiding a small, shy smile, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. His cheeks pinked, just a little. "It’s fine," he said, voice low. "This is your home. They should be able to come."

You still didn’t feel entirely convinced — he could be saying that just for your sake — but you didn’t push. Instead, you waited as he thought for another beat, his eyes flicking toward the hallway, toward the guest room that was now his.

"Just…" he said slowly, "if it gets too much, can I go back to my room? I… it helps if I have something that still smells just like me. Still feels untouched."

You nodded immediately, your heart aching a little. "Of course," you said, voice fierce. "Your room is off-limits, no question. And if it gets too much for you at all, just say the word and I will throw them out. No questions asked."

Jungkook looked up at you then, something warm and grateful and trusting flickering in his dark eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It hadn’t been long — maybe an hour or two — when your door rattled violently, like someone was trying to break it down.

Jungkook’s head snapped up so fast you flinched. The hair on the back of his neck bristled, muscles tensing under his hoodie. And for the first time since you met him, he didn’t just look hybrid — he felt it too. His lips peeled back in a low, rumbling growl, teeth flashing, body coiled and ready to attack whoever dared threaten you.

Your heart jumped into your throat, but not from fear of him. From fear of what might happen if he acted on that instinct. Quickly — carefully — you stepped into his line of sight, keeping your voice low and soothing. "It's okay," you said, holding your hands up. "That's probably Taehyung."

Jungkook blinked at you, the word what? punching out of him almost like an accusation. The growl cut off immediately, but he didn’t fully relax — his eyes flicked suspiciously between you and the door, his whole frame still humming with tension.

And then — like it was scripted — a loud, triumphant "HAH!" rang out from the hallway. The door flung open like it had been kicked, and Taehyung stood there grinning wide, a human hurricane in baggy jeans and a ridiculous oversized sweater.

Behind him, Mina was scowling furiously, her hand tightly gripping her boyfriend Jin's, who looked equally apologetic and amused. Mina was already scolding Taehyung — "Could you, for once, just knock like a normal person?" But Taehyung only rolled his eyes and waved her off, saying something about how "expected behavior" was boring and "where’s the fun in knocking anyway?"

And then — with a few long-legged strides — Taehyung crossed the living room and scooped you up into a giant bear hug. You let out a startled laugh, arms wrapping around his shoulders automatically. It was impossible not to laugh when Taehyung was like this — loud, affectionate, completely shameless.

But Jungkook — Jungkook just stood there, frozen. Flabbergasted. Confused. And with something hot and sharp and unnameable blooming in his chest. He didn’t know what the emotion was — only that he didn't like seeing some stranger wrap himself around you like that. So easily. So familiarly. Like he belonged there.

Jungkook’s hands clenched at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms. He told himself to calm down — that you had warned him. That these were your friends, not intruders. That this was their normal. But God, he hated how small it made him feel. How left out. Like he was standing on the wrong side of a glass wall, looking in at a life he didn’t know how to be part of. Still, he kept his mouth shut, his face carefully neutral — even as his chest burned.

And when you finally pulled away from Taehyung, still giggling, you glanced over and caught Jungkook's expression.

You faltered a little, smile softening, and that — that tiny thing — made something untwist in Jungkook’s gut. Because even surrounded by your loud, bright friends, you still looked for him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You tried your best to make things as comfortable as possible for Jungkook.

You stayed close to him — kept a hand lightly brushing his arm whenever you could, shot him little reassuring glances, steered conversations to safer topics if things got too chaotic. You wanted him to know: I'm here. You're not alone.

And thankfully, Jin — sweet, steady Jin — seemed to pick up on the tension too.

At some point, while Taehyung and Mina were arguing about something ridiculous (seriously, were socks technically shoes?), Jin leaned over to Jungkook with an easy smile. "So," Jin said casually, "I’m a hybrid too. Quokka, if you couldn't guess." He pointed at himself playfully. "Got the cheeks for it, apparently." Jungkook blinked, surprised. You could feel the way he subtly leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.

"I've got an independent license," Jin continued, tone light but proud. "Means I don't need a legal owner anymore. Took a lot of paperwork and interviews, but worth it. I freelance as a private chef now."

Jungkook’s eyes widened slightly, impressed. He clearly hadn’t met many hybrids like that — free, independent, respected. He watched carefully — watched the way Jin and Mina interacted too. How Jin wasn’t beneath her, or treated like property. How she scolded him playfully for stealing a grape from the fruit bowl, and he just grinned, stuffed it into his mouth, and kissed her cheek noisily.

Jungkook didn't miss a thing.

There was no leash on Jin. No invisible chain yanking him back into submission. No "good hybrid" voice, the one people sometimes used without realizing it, cloying and patronizing like he was a pet instead of a person.

Jin laughed freely. Mina bickered freely. And they loved each other freely too — messy, playful, human. It made something heavy shift in Jungkook’s chest. And once he noticed that... he noticed something else too.

You.

How you had always treated him — since the very first day — with that same easy respect. You didn’t order him around. You didn’t touch him without asking, or without leaving space for him to pull away if he wanted. You didn't introduce him to people like he was some object you found.

You simply said, "This is Jungkook," like he was someone important just by existing.

But any progress you made helping him relax was constantly, constantly, being set back by Taehyung. Because Taehyung — being Taehyung — was an unstoppable force of chaos. He was loud in the way he loved people, always draping an arm around you, poking your sides, making you laugh with absolutely no effort. Every time you giggled at something Taehyung did — some stupid face, some dumb inside joke — Jungkook’s shoulders would stiffen just a little more.

He didn’t know why it bugged him so much. He just knew that every time you laughed for Taehyung, something sharp twisted in his chest. He got antsy the longer it went on — shifting in his seat, picking at the hem of his sleeves, glancing toward the hallway like maybe he should just disappear for a bit.

But every time he felt himself pulling back, you would casually — almost instinctively — drift closer to him. You made sure to include him in conversations, even if you had to guide him into them gently. You didn’t leave him alone. Not even once. You buffered between him and your friends the whole night — soft and careful and steady — and Jungkook didn't know how to cope with the way that made him feel either.

When Taehyung finally challenged him to a Mario Kart race — loudly proclaiming that "I refuse to let you just sit there looking cool without proving yourself!" — Jungkook took it… weirdly personal. Maybe too personal. The controllers were barely in their hands before the air turned competitive, the game way more heated than it had any right to be. And when Jungkook finally smoked Taehyung in a race, he didn’t even hide the little smirk he shot you when you clapped and cheered for him.

Taehyung only laughed, bumping Jungkook’s shoulder good-naturedly. "Beginner's luck!" he declared, flashing a grin that showed he didn’t mean it. He even stuck out his fist for a bump, and Jungkook — after a beat too long — returned it, more out of politeness than real warmth. It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But it didn’t feel small.

And when it came time for your friends to leave, it happened again.

Taehyung stepped in without hesitation, arms looping around your waist in an easy, familiar hug. It wasn’t quite as chaotic as when he first arrived, but still — it was close, intimate, warm in a way Jungkook could feel down to his bones.

You tucked your face lightly against Taehyung’s chest for a moment, laughing softly at something he murmured. Your hands fisted loosely in the back of his jacket before you pulled away, cheeks pink from the affection.

Jungkook stood off to the side, stiff and painfully aware of every inch of distance between himself and you. He forced a polite smile, something tight and brittle on his face, and gave a short nod when Taehyung and Mina waved goodbye. He even managed a fist bump with Taehyung again at the door, though it felt hollow in his chest. He didn’t retreat into his room after they left, though. He stayed in the living room, silent.

You picked up on it immediately — the way he went quiet, the way his eyes tracked you around the room without really focusing. You set down the empty cups and snack plates you had gathered, wiped your hands on your jeans, and made your way to him slowly.

"Hey," you said softly, crouching a little to catch his eye. "You okay?"

Jungkook stared at you — really stared — like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

Something in his chest cracked open without warning. And then — without a word — he moved. Two strides and he was there, crowding into your space, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. You barely had time to react before he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, arms winding tight around your waist.

The hug wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate — like if he could just hold you tight enough, maybe he could bury the awful, restless ache that had been clawing at him all night.

You froze for half a heartbeat, startled by the sheer intensity of it.

Jungkook had touched you before — little things, light brushes of shoulders, the casual way he leaned into your side when tired — but this was different.

Your heart twisted achingly in your chest. Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him just as fiercely, one hand sliding up to tangle gently in his soft hair, the other rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

"It's okay," you whispered against his ear, your voice low and soothing. "I'm here."

At your words, Jungkook squeezed even tighter, as if he was afraid you might slip away at any moment. As if he could anchor himself to you if he just held on hard enough. He buried his nose against your skin, breathing you in — something about your scent, your presence, made the frantic edges inside him dull slightly, made the storm settle just a little.

Jungkook didn’t understand it yet — the sharp, aching pull toward you — but he felt it, deep and instinctual, threaded into the very center of who he was. And somewhere inside that whirlwind of emotion, one thing stood out crystal clear: He didn’t want anyone else to have this. Not Taehyung. Not anyone.

Only him. Only he should get to see you like this — soft and real and close enough that he could feel your heartbeat against his own. The thought tightened his chest so fiercely he almost gasped. He wasn’t ready to say it out loud. Wasn’t ready to even think it fully through.

But somewhere deep in the hidden parts of himself, Jungkook knew: He didn’t want to just live with you. He wanted to belong to you.

And maybe — if he dared to dream just a little — maybe he wanted you to belong to him too.

You let him hold you for a little longer, arms wrapped tight around his solid frame, but eventually, you gently pulled away — just enough to see his face. You kept your hands light on his arms, not wanting to break whatever fragile thread was tying you together in this moment.

"You know..." you said softly, searching his gaze, "you could’ve told me if my friends were too much."

You tried to smile a little to soften the words, tried to make it easy for him to tell you if something had bothered him. Maybe Taehyung’s loudness, or Mina’s teasing, or just the sheer energy of it all had overwhelmed him. But Jungkook shook his head almost immediately, sharp and certain.

"It’s not that," he said, voice rough and low against the small space between you. He looked frustrated, like the words inside him were tangled up and refusing to come out cleanly. He dropped his forehead lightly, breathing out hard.

"It’s not that they were too much," he said, voice low and almost hoarse. For a second, he didn’t say anything more. His arms loosened slightly around you, but he didn’t let you go. His dark eyes dropped to somewhere near your shoulder, as if looking at you was too much.

There was a beat of silence — thick, stretched tight between you.

Inside, Jungkook was reeling. Not because your friends had overwhelmed him — no, it wasn’t that. It was because being around them, seeing you laugh and lean into the people you loved, had knocked something loose inside him.

Something he hadn’t fully understood before.

Something he still didn’t know how to explain, even now.

How he used to listen to your phone calls with your dad from the hallway of your house — just little snippets carried through thin walls — and how your voice, bright and easy, made the place feel warmer somehow. How he used to quietly hope you’d call again soon, even when he told himself he didn’t care.

How when you sent care packages to your dad — little boxes stuffed with snacks, cozy things, dumb little jokes written on sticky notes — sometimes there’d be an extra chocolate bar, or a pair of socks, or a keychain tucked in. You never made a big deal about it. You never even mentioned it.

But it made him feel seen. Like you’d thought of him without needing any thanks in return.

And even—your room down the hall still smelled like you — it had felt... safe. Calming.

He didn’t know how to tell you any of that. Didn’t know how to say it out loud without feeling like he was giving away something too raw, too unguarded.

So instead, he just whispered, "They made me realize some stuff."

You stayed quiet, waiting, patient.

He wished he could find the right words. Wished he could tell you how the sound of your laughter stuck to his ribs, how your thoughtfulness had rooted itself deep in his chest before he even noticed it happening.

But all he could do was hold you a little tighter, silently hoping you could feel what he couldn’t yet say. The night eased on after that, slipping into your usual quiet routine. The TV hummed low in the background while you curled up on opposite ends of the couch, the comfortable kind of silence between people who didn't need to fill every second with noise.

And over the next few days, you started noticing a shift in Jungkook.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was soft, creeping in like sunlight under a door. When you came home from work now, he didn’t just shout a greeting from wherever he was — he met you at the door. And he hugged you. The first time, you were so startled you didn’t even react, just stiffly standing there with your bag still slung over your shoulder. But Jungkook only hummed quietly against you, squeezing you once before pulling back like it was the most normal thing in the world.

After that, it became habit.

Every time you came home, he was there, wrapping his arms around you without hesitation, breathing you in like you were something he'd been missing all day.

And it wasn’t just that.

He started brushing against you more —a hand at your lower back when you squeezed past him in the kitchen, a knuckle tapping your shoulder when you sat side by side, his thigh bumping yours under the coffee table like it was the most natural thing, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. He’d playfully nudge your knee with his when you sat cross-legged on the floor together, laughing when you nudged back.

It wasn’t overwhelming.

It was just — constant.

Like he needed the connection, and now that he had it, he wasn’t willing to let it go.

And at first, you didn’t know what to do with it. It made your heart stutter painfully against your ribs every time it happened. Not because you didn’t like it — god, part of you loved it more than you should have — but because it made everything in your chest feel too big to hold. It made you wonder if you were imagining the way his hands tightened just a little when he hugged you. If you were imagining the way he sometimes looked at you — long and searching, like he was trying to memorize every line of your face.

It made you wonder if you were standing on the edge of something huge and terrifying and beautiful.

The next couple of months passed in a steady blur.

Living with Jungkook turned out to be easier — and harder — than you expected. You loved it. Your routines folded around each other like two hands fitting together — shared takeout on the couch, lazy weekends spent half-draped across each other while the TV played, late-night grocery runs just because you felt like it.

Sometimes, when you were half-asleep on the couch, you’d feel Jungkook tuck a blanket over you. Sometimes, when he stayed out late training, you’d leave a light on for him. Neither of you said anything about it. It just was.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

After an especially brutal work week — the kind that made your bones ache and your brain go fuzzy — Mina and Taehyung decided they were not letting you hide at home.

"You’re coming out with us," Taehyung insisted over the phone, voice firm and teasing. "No excuses. You need to remember what it’s like to have fun, babe."

You sighed into your shoulder as you cradled your phone, toeing off your shoes at the door. "You’re lucky I love you," you grumbled. Through the receiver, you could hear Mina laughing in agreement. Taehyung launched into the plan — some club downtown, a little more upscale than your usual haunt, where you were all supposed to meet around 9:30. "Oh," he added breezily. "And bring Jungkook, yeah? He’ll look hot in the crowd."

You snorted, just as the front door creaked open. Jungkook stepped close to you — hoodie loose over his frame, hair damp from a shower — and before you could say anything, he was already gathering you up in his arms for your usual after-work hug.

You mouthed "Taehyung" at him silently, wide-eyed, as if he hadn’t already picked up the deep, familiar voice chirping through your speaker.

Jungkook just raised a very skeptical eyebrow, squeezing you a little tighter. He still didn’t love how handsy Taehyung could be with you — he liked Taehyung fine now, after several months of getting awkwardly (and repeatedly) hugged by him — but a small, stubborn part of him still bristled whenever Taehyung got too close.

Later that evening, you floated the idea to Jungkook while you finished dinner.

"No pressure," you said easily, poking at your plate. "You don’t have to come if you don’t want. But you're welcome." Jungkook shrugged like he didn’t care either way — but the idea of you going alone sat heavy in his gut. Not that he didn’t trust you. He just didn’t trust everyone else.

"I’ll come," he said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. (But it kind of was.)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The club was already buzzing when you arrived. Lights flashed, bass thudded deep in your ribs, and the dance floor pulsed with people.

You fell into the night easily — Mina dragging you to dance, Jin buying the first round of shots, Taehyung spinning you around dramatically to the beat.

You laughed until your throat hurt, sweat sticking your hair to the back of your neck.

Jungkook hung back at first, watching from a booth with Jin, nursing a drink. But eventually, he loosened up — smirking when you tugged at his hand to pull him onto the floor, rolling his eyes when Taehyung twirled you like a ballerina, grinning when Mina shoved a fake crown on your head and declared you Queen of the Night. No one knew where she got it from. But Taehyung was upset he didn’t get one.

It was perfect. Almost.

The trouble started after a couple of hours — when the alcohol had fully soaked into your veins, and you were dancing close to Jungkook, giggling as you leaned into him.

"You’re drunk," Jungkook said, voice low against your ear. Not scolding exactly — but definitely tense. You blinked up at him, a little confused. "Yeah? That’s kind of the point tonight."

Jungkook’s mouth flattened into a line. His hand on your waist tightened subtly, pulling you closer like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the crowd. "I’m fine," you said, laughing lightly, pushing against his chest a little. "Seriously."

But Jungkook didn’t move. If anything, he crowded you a little more, body tense and wired. The two of you stumbled off the dance floor a few minutes later — not entirely willingly on your part — and the moment you were in a quieter corner, the fight started.

"You’re not watching yourself," Jungkook snapped, jaw tight.

You frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Guys were staring at you," he said, voice rough. "You didn’t even notice."

"And what?" you bit out, the buzz of alcohol sharpening your tongue. "You’re mad because I didn’t? I’m allowed to have fun, Jungkook. And maybe you should to." He flinched slightly, and instantly you regretted the words. But the anger between you was already sparking.

"I’m trying to look out for you," Jungkook said, voice low, almost a growl. "And you’re acting like I'm just—"

"Just what?" you snapped. He didn’t answer. You didn’t want to hear it anyway. "Fine," you hissed, snatching your jacket from the booth. "I'm leaving."

"I’m coming with you," Jungkook said immediately.

"Didn’t ask," you muttered, shoving through the crowd.

The cool night air hit your skin like a slap as you stumbled outside. Jungkook followed close behind, tension rolling off him in waves. You were still bickering — low and sharp — as you headed down the sidewalk.

"You’re overreacting," you said again, arms crossed tightly over your chest. "You don’t get it," Jungkook muttered, walking stiffly beside you. Before you could fire back another comment, a voice cut through the night.

"Hey," a man slurred, stepping out from a nearby alley. He was obviously drunk — eyes glassy, stumbling a little. You and Jungkook both froze. "You okay, sweetheart?" the man said, eyes sliding over you, ignoring Jungkook completely. "You need help getting away from him?"

You blinked, stunned, as the man took a step closer — hands loose at his sides, but his posture was unmistakably aggressive. Jungkook stiffened beside you, something dark flashing through his eyes.

The drunk man turned fully toward you now, lowering his voice like it was a secret between just the two of you. "You don’t gotta stay with a hybrid, y'know. You can come with me. I’ll take care of you."

You felt Jungkook move before you even registered it. A low, dangerous rumble came from his chest — something almost inhuman — and he stepped between you and the stranger so fast it blurred.

"Back. Off," Jungkook said, voice guttural, lethal.

The man paled a little, stumbling back a step, but his drunken bravado kept him standing. "What, she’s your owner or something?" he slurred, sneering. Jungkook’s hands flexed at his sides. For one terrifying second, you thought he might actually lunge at the guy.

But you knew Jungkook couldn’t really do anything. Not legally. Not safely. He was a hybrid. Technically, he was owned by you — even if neither of you acted like it, even if it made your stomach twist just thinking about it. And that ugly reality came with ugly consequences: if Jungkook defended you, even if he defended himself, there was a very real chance you would both stand trial — and Jungkook could be put down.

You wouldn’t let it come to that. Not ever.

In your drunken, bold, slightly reckless stupor, you stepped forward — practically plastered to Jungkook’s side — and barked at the drunken man before he could take another step closer.

"You even think about talking to my friend again," you snarled, voice sharp and shaking, "and you can stick it where the sun don’t shine, you pathetic creep!" Jungkook stiffened, clearly caught between panic and absolute disbelief as you clung to him, dragging him bodily away from the confrontation. The drunk guy blinked at you, swaying on his feet — then his face twisted in a sneer.

"Stuck-up bitch!" he slurred after you.

Without even thinking, you turned and flipped him the bird, your arm still locked through Jungkook’s.

Only after you’d put several blocks between you and the club — weaving through side streets, the cold air cutting the worst of your buzz — did you finally relax a little. The fight had drained out of you, replaced by a hollow, exhausted ache.

Jungkook noticed immediately.

He slowed you to a stop, stepping in front of you and lowering his head to catch your eyes. "You ok?" he asked gently, voice rough with concern. You scrubbed a hand over your forehead, nodding — though you didn’t feel ok, not really. "Yeah," you muttered. "Let’s just go home."

Jungkook didn’t believe you were ok — not really. He could feel how your hand trembled faintly against his, even as you stubbornly tried to keep walking. You had sobered up a little, the adrenaline crash hitting you hard, and he noticed how your steps grew slower, more uneven. Especially when you winced.

"You’re hurting," Jungkook said quietly, slowing his pace even more to match yours. "We’re close to home. Think you can keep walking?" You nodded without thinking — because of course you would. You'd soldier through. You always did.

But when you took the next step, Jungkook caught the sharp flash of exhaustion on your face, the way your body nearly stumbled even with such a simple movement. He sighed — a brief, soft huff — and before you could react, he swooped you up into his arms like it was nothing.

"Jungkook!" you yelped, flailing a little.

"Relax," he said with a low chuckle, adjusting his hold on you easily. "You weigh nothing. And you’re exhausted. Let me take care of you." You squirmed, cheeks burning, and half-heartedly slapped at his bicep with a muttered, "I’m not that light, you jerk." Jungkook just laughed again — warm and easy — the sound rumbling through his chest where you were now pressed against.

You played annoyed, huffing and grumbling under your breath, but you didn’t fight that hard. Not really. Because being in his arms felt safe. And right now, after the shitty week and the shitty night and the shitty creep you yelled at, you needed a little safe.

He carried you the rest of the way home, teasing you gently every time you pouted at him, until finally — at the doorstep — he set you carefully down again, one hand steady on your waist so you didn’t wobble. The mood shifted as the key turned in the lock.

Maybe it was the way Jungkook’s hand lingered at your waist. Maybe it was the way he hesitated before speaking — like the words were too heavy for him to carry and he didn’t know how to set them down right. "I’ve been thinking," he said quietly, voice almost gruff. "I want to apply for a license. An independency license."

You froze halfway through kicking off your heels. Your fingers slipped off the strap clumsily, and you blinked at him, wide-eyed, your heart lurching painfully in your chest.

Independency. The word alone hit you harder than the alcohol had all night. Was he — Was he leaving?

The thought stabbed into you so sharply you barely managed to breathe. A hundred awful scenarios spiraled in your mind, crashing into each other — Was he tired of you? Did he want a real home, somewhere without you? Had you been too much? Had he been waiting for a chance to finally get away?

Your throat tightened so hard it physically hurt to speak.

"You..." Your voice cracked on the word, almost breaking. "You want to leave?" you asked, your voice nearly breaking around the edges. You hated how fragile you sounded, but the fear slipped out before you could shove it down. It cracked in the air between you, raw and real.

Jungkook’s eyes widened, hurt flashing across his face.

"No!" he rushed out, so fast, so desperate. He stepped toward you but hesitated again like he was afraid to overwhelm you. "No, no, no, it’s not that. I swear. I don’t want to leave. I love living with you. I love being here."

You stood there, blinking at him, feeling like the floor might give out under you. You forced yourself to nod, even though it felt wrong, and you fought to find your voice again. "I—" You coughed a little, fumbling. "Whatever you need," you said, and it came out too soft, too fast. "I'll help you. I'll support you. I mean it. Always."

And you did mean it. You meant it with everything you had. Even if it shattered your heart, even if it hurt — if Jungkook needed freedom, if he needed space, you would help him get it. But Jungkook only shook his head slowly, a pained little sound escaping him.

"I don't want to be legally your responsibility anymore," he said, and his voice was rough, like it scraped raw on the way out. "I hate it. I hate that you have to answer for me like I’m a kid." he grimaced, looking down for a second, "I don’t want to be a... pet on paper. I want to be someone you can rely on. Someone who stands with you. Not because the law says you have to keep me."

Your heart splintered right there in your chest.

You stumbled over your words immediately, everything crashing together in your head, tripping over your tongue because— God, no— He couldn't think— You opened your mouth to answer, but he rushed on before you could.

"I want to be someone who can protect you, not someone you have to protect." Jungkook said, lifting his gaze again, so serious, so heartbreakingly sincere. The second he said it, you were already stumbling over your words, desperate to speak, to make him understand.

"No—no, Jungkook, that's not—!" you blurted out, your hands flailing a little as you tried to gather your spinning thoughts. "You’re not a responsibility! You’re not a burden! I—" You tripped over your words again, your voice hitching with the force of it. "You make my life better! So much better! You help me with everything, you make things easier, you—you—"

You cut yourself off with a shaky breath, your throat thick with emotion. Your vision blurred at the edges and you realized, mortified, that you were close to crying. "I don’t— I don’t want you to think I don’t want you here," you choked, blinking back burning tears. "You’re not some responsibility I’m stuck with, you’re— you're—"

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. You pressed your hand against your mouth for a second, trying to keep it together, but Jungkook saw it all. Saw the way you were crumbling.

You were stammering now, hands flailing a little helplessly because the words wouldn’t come out the way you needed them to. Because nothing seemed big enough, fast enough, to tell him the truth that clawed at your chest.

He saw everything written across your face, how deeply you had spiraled, how badly you were trying to be brave while you were breaking inside. Saw how deeply terrified you had just become — not of losing help, not of losing convenience — but of losing him. And it broke something wide open in him. Without thinking, he closed the distance between you in two long strides and pulled you into his arms. Tight and solid, wrapping around you like a shield, a home.

You stiffened for half a second, still trying to catch your breath, but then you melted into him — clinging onto his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of him, grounding yourself.

"Hey," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, steady circles over your back. "Hey, shh, no— It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I swear."

You clung tighter, desperate to believe him, desperate to just feel him there, solid and real and yours.

"I just..." he went on, squeezing you closer, like he could physically hold you together. "I just want to stand next to you. As your equal. As someone you can lean on, not someone you have to carry."

You made a small broken sound, half sob, half laugh, burying your face against his chest.

"You already do," you whispered back. "You already do, Jungkook."

He held you tighter at that, swaying you both slightly, and for a long moment, neither of you moved — just breathing, just being, together. Jungkook closed his eyes for a second, breathing you in. Your scent. Your warmth.

But I want you to be mine, too, he thought fiercely, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wasn't ready to say it aloud yet — not tonight, not when you were already so fragile — but the feeling sat there, burning bright inside him.

Jungkook held you tightly for a long time, just standing there in the dim hallway by the door, letting you calm down in his arms. Your breathing slowed first, then your trembling hands finally stilled against his chest. He could feel every tiny, exhausted heartbeat against him — feel how much trust you gave him even now. Slowly, Jungkook shifted, murmuring low into your hair:

"Come on. Let’s get you comfy, yeah?"

You didn’t even protest as he carefully maneuvered you over to the couch, keeping you close the entire time. He eased you down onto the cushions, coaxing you to lean against him again. You melted immediately, letting your weight settle into his side, cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his hoodie. As he sat there, arms loosely wrapped around you, Jungkook stared at the far wall, feeling a dull ache in his chest.

God, he thought with a small wince. What horrible timing.

You’d had a hell of a week, you were drunk-tired, and instead of protecting you, he had freaked you out — dropped something on you so heavy you’d nearly broken under it. It twisted something guilty inside him.

But at the same time... Seeing how much the thought of losing him had hurt you — how desperately you wanted him around — it made Jungkook’s decision stronger. Absolute.

He didn't want just a piece of you. He didn’t want to be someone you had to protect. He wanted to be beside you, for real. Yours. In every way that mattered.

Your breath slowed further, warm against his ribs. You shifted slightly, curling closer without even realizing it, your hand fisting lightly in the hem of his hoodie. Jungkook looked down at you, his heart cracking open so wide it almost hurt.

You were asleep. In his arms.

And he loved it. He loved that you trusted him enough to fall asleep tangled up with him. He loved that he could be the one to make you feel safe enough to finally let go. I want you to fall asleep on me every day, he thought, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat. Carefully, moving so gently it was barely a shift, Jungkook slipped one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. He picked you up again, holding you close to his chest. You murmured a soft, content noise but didn’t wake.

He padded quietly down the hall — past your bedroom door — straight to his room instead. He didn't even hesitate. It was instinct. Jungkook set you down carefully on his bed, tucking you under his covers like you were the most precious thing in the world. He fussed with the blanket for a second, making sure you were warm and comfortable, brushing hair gently away from your face.

Then, after a small pause, he climbed in beside you. Tugged himself close. He settled behind you, chest against your back, wrapping an arm securely around your waist. His nose brushed the crown of your head, breathing you in. You were still so raw from earlier — he could feel it even in your sleep — and Jungkook vowed fiercely he wouldn’t hurt you again if he could help it. He would be gentle. Patient. He would be better for you, because you deserved it.

Because he wanted you. In every way that counted.

And somehow, wrapped around you in the soft dark, it was the best sleep either of you ever had. Safe. Together. Right where you both belonged.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You woke up slowly, warmth surrounding you. Your face nuzzled against something soft — a shirt, a chest — and for a sleepy, blissful moment, you didn’t question it at all. You were so, so comfortable. It was only after a few more heartbeats that your brain sleepily kicked in, blinking groggily into consciousness.

Chest. Arm. Someone was holding you.

You peeked your eyes open and tilted your head a little, only to find yourself tucked securely against Jungkook’s side, your legs tangled with his, his hand loosely resting on your hip. He was awake — you could feel it in the slight tension of his breathing — but he said nothing. Didn’t stiffen or move away. Instead, he just rubbed his thumb in slow, lazy circles over your side. Casual. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You sighed quietly and let your eyes fall shut again, relaxing into him completely. Warm, safe. Home.

It wasn’t until a little later — after lazy coffee and some cleaning up — that you both circled back to the important topic from last night.

Adult-ish — if a little begrudgingly so.

You sat on the couch again, this time both facing each other properly. You pulled your legs up under you, feeling much more clear-headed and way less panicked than yesterday.

"Okay," you started, rubbing your palms against your thighs, "so… you want to get your independence license. And you want to stay here even after, right?" Jungkook nodded, his expression open but serious. "Yeah. I don’t wanna go anywhere. I just... don’t wanna be legally your responsibility anymore. If that’s ok."

You swallowed around a small lump in your throat but kept your voice even. "Yeah, but you’re not a burden," you said firmly, before you could even think twice. "You help me so much already, Jungkook. Seriously. You're not a responsibility to me — you're... you're my friend. My home too."

Something in his eyes softened — a deep, aching tenderness — but he didn’t push. Instead, he nodded again, looking almost a little shy. "I know. I just…" He scratched the back of his head, messing up his hair a bit. "I want you to be able to rely on me more.”

The words hit something deep in your chest, and you smiled before you could stop yourself. "Okay," you agreed. "Then we make it happen."

It was a lot, though — especially with the paperwork. You both knew you needed to inform the lawyer your dad had set up. After your father passed, he had made arrangements to ensure Jungkook could stay with you legally, back when Jungkook wasn’t allowed to make those decisions himself. But now, that would change.

"Technically," you muttered, scrolling through some documents on your tablet, "after you get your license, your living arrangements are your choice, not anyone else’s. Including mine." It felt weird to say out loud. A little bittersweet. But you liked being prepared, so you pushed through it. "Doesn’t mean anything changes unless we want it to," Jungkook said quietly, bumping his knee into yours. "And I don’t."

You smiled again, small and genuine, feeling some of the tension melt away. You both spent the rest of the morning planning things — pulling together the forms you'd need, scanning through requirements. Since it was Saturday, a lot of the actual applications would have to wait until Monday, but you wanted everything ready. While you were knee-deep in double-checking Jungkook’s ID papers, he cleared his throat a little awkwardly.

"And… I wanna pay you rent."

You blinked, looking up from your tablet. "What?"

"I mean it," he said, sitting up straighter. "If I'm officially choosing to stay, it’s only fair. I’m not freeloading."

"But Jungkook," you said carefully, "you don’t have a job-job, you just stream…"

"I make enough," he cut in gently but firmly. His dark eyes held yours, steady and stubborn. "I got a small fanbase, yeah, but it’s growing. I can pay. I want to pay." You opened your mouth to argue — to tell him you didn’t care, that he didn’t have to — but something about the way he said it made you stop. He wanted to contribute.

So you swallowed your automatic protests and instead nodded slowly. "Okay," you said, voice a little thick again. "If you’re sure."

"I’m sure," Jungkook said simply, with a smile so warm it made your heart do a helpless little flip. You smiled back at him, hugging your tablet to your chest. It was going to be a lot of work. A lot of meetings, signatures, long boring appointments. But you didn’t mind.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Three months later, you were still recovering. Not physically — though honestly, your back did ache more often now from all the stress — but mentally, emotionally.

The application process had been grueling. Every time you thought you were done, some new bureaucratic hurdle would slam down in front of you both like a brick wall. Forms missing one tiny box ticked? Start over. An office worker misfiling Jungkook’s papers? Two more weeks delay. Verification issues from his past? Endless back-and-forth.

It wasn’t even the paperwork itself that had hurt you the most — you’d had your fair share of disappointments with government offices and social aid after losing your dad — it was the way Jungkook looked every time something got messed up. Like it chipped a little more away from the confidence he had worked so hard to build.

You could not take it anymore.

You remembered the exact moment — a late Tuesday evening, sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by stacks of documents, your laptop open and buzzing with useless auto-replies from public services. You clenched your jaw, stared at your phone, and without even really thinking, dialed Jin’s number.

It had taken three rings. And when he answered, you hadn’t even said hello.

"Jin," you bit out, your voice sharper than you meant it to be. "I’m going to burn the office building down if someone doesn’t get their head out of their ass." There was a short pause, and then Jin’s familiar, teasing voice filtered through: "Well, hello to you too, sunshine. What's going on?"

You explained. Rapid-fire, breathless, voice shaking more out of frustration for Jungkook than yourself. And to his credit, Jin didn’t mock you for it. Didn’t joke about your rage or call you dramatic. Instead, he hummed thoughtfully, said, "I still know a few people. I’ll make some calls."

And he did. Jin’s quiet nudging behind the scenes didn’t erase every obstacle, but it sped things up. The road ahead smoothed out just enough for you and Jungkook to breathe again. Still, it hadn’t been easy. Not by a long shot. Between your full-time work, managing the household, chasing paperwork, and trying to be there for Jungkook emotionally, you often found yourself running on empty.

But you noticed Jungkook changing too. Putting in real effort, not just with the paperwork — but with his own dreams. He started streaming more consistently, talking to his growing audience with more confidence, upgrading his mic setup, even investing in a better video editing program that he taught himself to use from scratch. He was building something. Something of his own.

And through all of it — every frustration, every small victory — the touching never stopped.

Jungkook’s casual hugs. His hand brushing your back when he passed you. Leaning into your side on the couch after a long day. Falling asleep on said couch together. Tugging at your sleeve playfully when he wanted your attention.

You knew it wasn’t anything weird. He was always like that — a physical person, affectionate in a way that just seemed natural for him. You shouldn’t have read into it. You couldn’t. Because if you let yourself start to believe — if you let yourself think that maybe, maybe he liked you the way you had started to so desperately, painfully like him — it would only make everything more complicated.

He was your home. And if you said the wrong thing and ruined it — you’d never forgive yourself.

So you kept it quiet. Locked the feelings away. Smiled and hugged him back and pretended you didn’t feel dizzy every time his fingers brushed yours. You just… Let yourself have this much.

It was enough. It had to be.

The morning of the final court date came with a strange, heavy stillness in the apartment. You were ready hours earlier than necessary, pacing the living room with your hands tucked under your arms, nervous energy buzzing through you.

But Jungkook… Jungkook had asked you not to come.

He’d said it quietly, almost awkwardly, the night before as you were folding laundry together. "I… I think it’s better if you wait at home," he had said, not quite meeting your eyes. "I just… want to do this part alone."

You had nodded. Of course you had. You respected him too much not to. But it stung in a way you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even sadness, really. It was just that… you thought maybe he’d want you there. That maybe after everything, he’d want you standing beside him when he took this huge step toward independence.

And finding out that he didn’t — that he wanted to keep you out of it — made a little crack in your chest that you had to swallow down quickly before he could see it. So you stayed home. Sat on the couch, trying to read, trying not to stare at your phone, waiting for a text, something.

Meanwhile, Jungkook stood outside the courthouse with Jin, both of them leaning against the cold stone wall, breathing in sharp, dry morning air. Jungkook’s knee bounced relentlessly, hands jammed into the pockets of his too-thin jacket. Jin watched him for a moment, then raised a brow, amused and confused all at once.

"So," Jin said casually, "you gonna tell me why you exiled Y/N from being here today?"

Jungkook’s shoulders tensed immediately. He shrugged, looking stubbornly out toward the parking lot. "She has better things to do," he muttered, tone defensive, not even answering the actual question. Jin snorted, loudly and without a shred of subtlety. "Yeah, sure. Because the one thing Y/N loves is sitting at home twiddling her thumbs wondering if you’re okay. Real considerate of you, loverboy."

Jungkook shot him a sharp look — part glare, part shut up before I crumble — but Jin didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider, all knowing mischief. When Jungkook stayed quiet, Jin’s voice softened slightly. He tilted his head, studying the younger man carefully.

"Be honest, Jungkook," he said, voice low so nobody passing by would hear. "You're doing this mostly for her. Everybody sees it. The way you look at her... The way you nearly grow an aneurysm every time Taehyung gets too close to her..." Jin grinned at that, but Jungkook only turned red and fidgeted harder, pulling at the sleeves of his jacket.

"So why?" Jin pressed gently. "Why didn’t you want her here?"

For a moment, Jungkook said nothing. He just stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot, jaw tight, heart hammering too fast in his chest. He felt cornered. But more than that — he felt exposed.

Finally, almost too quiet for Jin to hear, Jungkook whispered: "I don’t want her to be disappointed."

Jin blinked, thrown a little off balance by the honesty in the words.

"If I get denied," Jungkook continued, his voice rough and small, "it’ll… crush me. Sure. But it’ll be so much worse if I have to see her be disappointed in me, too. I don’t think I could handle that."

Jin’s expression softened in an instant. He reached out and patted Jungkook's back — firm but gentle, a comforting pressure between the trembling tension in Jungkook’s spine.

And then, just as softly, Jin asked: "So when are you gonna tell her you’re in love with her?"

Every muscle in Jungkook's body locked up. His breath caught in his throat so hard it hurt. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because there was no simple answer. At first, he had told himself he’d say something after you helped him with the license forms — after he saw how much time and care you put into it without ever complaining. Then he thought he’d tell you once the court date was set — that would be the right moment, the fresh start. Then he thought maybe the night before the final hearing — when you both sat quietly together in the living room, your shoulder brushing his, your hand so temptingly close to his on the couch cushion.

But every time the moment came, he couldn’t do it.

Because how could he even begin to explain it? How could he tell you that you were the best thing that had ever happened to him? That you were his home, his safety, his hope — wrapped up in a messy, kind, beautiful human being who didn’t even seem to know how much she meant to him?

And worse than that—What if you didn’t feel the same?

What if you smiled in that soft, pitying way you sometimes did when you thought he was being foolish? What if you told him you cared, but not likethat? What if he ruined everything between you?

And even worse than that — the fear that kept him awake at night when you were already dozing peacefully against his side — was the possibility that if he got his license... if he earned his independence... you would tell him he didn’t need to live with you anymore.

Right now — right now he could touch you. He could curl against your side during movie nights, half-falling asleep with his head tucked against your shoulder. He could hold onto you a little too long when you hugged him goodbye before work. He could pretend — just for a little while longer — that he was allowed to want you.

But if he told you how he felt — if you knew he was in love with you — would you still let him stay? Would you still let him touch you so freely? Would you still look at him like he mattered?

Or would you, kind and regretful, tell him he needed to find his own place now? Because having him there, loving you, would just be too much. That was the thing he couldn’t survive.

So Jungkook just stood there, fists clenching and unclenching uselessly in the pockets of his jacket, staring down at the cracked concrete at his feet, and said nothing. Jin — mercifully — said nothing else. Just patted his back again, once, and stood beside him.

Waiting.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The front door creaked open.

You heard it and immediately stumbled out of the kitchen, your socks slipping slightly on the floor, heart hammering. There he was. Jungkook, standing in the doorway, the late afternoon light framing him like some sort of dream you were scared to wake from.

You froze. He froze.

Your hands fumbled with your sleeves anxiously, twisting the fabric between your fingers without even realizing it. Your hair was messy — obvious evidence of how much you'd been running your hands through it the last hour. Your lower lip was red and slightly swollen from all the nervous biting you'd done, and the moment your eyes met his — big, wide, expectant — Jungkook felt something in his chest crack open. You looked so beautifully worried, so his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

He should say something. Anything.

But the moment stretched too long. Your breath hitched, your shoulders tensed — and you took one small step closer. “A... and?” you asked, voice tiny, almost scared.

Jungkook's heart swelled painfully. He couldn't make you wait another second. He smiled — a real, bright, helplessly soft smile — and lifted his hand, holding up a small, official-looking card between two fingers. His license of independence. His freedom.

You blinked, eyes darting from his face to the card and back. For half a second, you looked like you didn’t know what to do with yourself — torn between a thousand reactions, every emotion flickering across your face too fast to catch.

And then suddenly —

You launched yourself at him. A squeaky, desperate little sound escaped your throat, and the next thing Jungkook knew, you had jumped — legs wrapped tightly around his waist, arms thrown around his neck. He caught you with a surprised huff, staggering back half a step before locking his arms securely under your thighs, laughing into your shoulder.

“You did it! I knew it! I knew you could!” you practically screamed into his ear.

Jungkook just hummed — low and pleased, almost like a purr. God, you smelled so good. Felt so good. He was legally his own problem now — not yours, not anyone else’s — but being here, like this, with you clinging to him like he was your whole world, made him realize that he needed to tell you.

After a long moment — and only because he knew he had to — he let you slide down, his hands lingering a little too long on your waist, before pushing you back just a tiny bit. Your smile faltered instantly. Your eyes clouded with concern.

“Jungkook?” you asked, soft and unsure.

He swallowed, heart thudding violently against his ribs.

"I need to tell you something," he said — and his voice shook just enough for you to notice. You blinked, confused and nervous now. The excitement draining from your face like water slipping through your fingers. Jungkook forced himself to go on. "And... and you might not want to live with me after you hear it. I— It’s fine, really. Jin already offered to take me in for a while until I can find my own place. So... you can be honest with me."

You heard the words. You heard them. But your heart — your poor, stupid heart — latched onto one thing: Jungkook... wanted to move out? He didn’t want to live with you anymore?

Your stomach dropped like a stone. Your throat closed up. Shock and heartbreak warred for control of your face as you stumbled back a step.

"You... you want to live on your own now?" you whispered, blinking at him, voice trembling. Jungkook’s eyes widened — horrified — as he realized his mistake.

“No! No, Y/N — No!” he blurted, panicking. “I want to be with you! You — you know! I love you!”

The words were messy, rushed, desperate. But you — poor beautiful fool — misunderstood again. You thought he meant it like a best friend, like a roommate, like family. You thought he was trying to reassure you. And you nodded — a broken, brave little nod — thinking you understood.

And Jungkook saw it — the way your heart cracked even more behind your eyes — and it destroyed him.

"No—no, you big dummy—" Jungkook groaned, stepping forward urgently.

Before you could pull away again, he cupped your face in his hands — so gentle, so careful — tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones tenderly, like you might shatter if he touched you too hard.

"I love you," he said again — voice lower, rougher, almost broken. "I love you, you big dummy."

And then — finally, finally — he closed the distance. His lips pressed to yours — clumsy, trembling, desperate — but so sweet. It wasn’t a practiced kiss, not perfect like in the movies. It was raw, real, aching — every bit of confusion and fear and need poured into it.

He pulled back after a second, panting quietly, eyes wide and scared, like he was bracing for the worst. But you — You had the most dreamy look in your eyes.

A breathless, wonderstruck little smile tugged at your mouth. And before he could spiral any further — before he could do something stupid like apologize — you whispered:

“Again... please.”

That tiny, broken please was all it took. Jungkook died a little right then. In the best, most devastating way. He surged forward, capturing your lips again, hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in existence. And this time — this time — the kiss deepened, slow and searching, and your arms slid around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

It was messy and sweet and utterly perfect. It was everything Jungkook had ever wanted — and never dared to hope he could have. You were everything. You were his everything.

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

[sweetvoidstuff]

Not Dead

Hey, I’m not dead yet! 😅 Even though I’ve been gone for quite a while—sorry about that. A lot of things happened, some really good and some that really sucked. I’m trying to get back into the groove though. I’m planning to write for an hour today, and who knows… maybe I’ll even finish that WIP I wanted to release around Halloween.

Anyway, I’m super happy that some of you reached out, even if I haven’t been able to write back yet. It really means a lot.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Thunder, Tents and Tattoos

Jungkook x Reader I Slowburn I music festival au I Wacken Open Air I strangers to lovers I soft smut? I camping chaos I

At a wild metal festival, an unexpected connection sparks between you and a mysterious, charming stranger named Jungkook. What begins as playful tension and shared chemistry grows into something deeper, full of humor, warmth, and slow-burning intimacy. As the rain clears and secrets surface, you have the quiet hope that something real might last beyond just one unforgettable weekend.

Word Count: 23K

A/N: I have so massive problems with my internet connection-send help. Anyway, a Wacken AU but you can probably read it as any music festival AU. Btw if any of you are at Wacken this year, let me know. 💜

Masterlist

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You cranked up the volume as your ancient but beloved hatchback roared down the autobahn, packed so full it should’ve been illegal. The car rattled slightly with every bass hit from the speaker wedged between your food cooler and a folding chair.

“Y/N! Left lane, that’s a semi-truck!” your best friend shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking as you swerved back into the middle lane. “Relax, we’ve survived four Wackens already,” you grinned, glancing at her with your sunglasses slightly askew. “What’s one more truck?”

“We’ve survived by some miracle and sheer stubbornness,” she shot back, holding onto the armrest like her life depended on it. “And this car—this poor, exhausted soul—was not built for dragging two tents, a full-size pavilion, twelve crates of beer, a portable grill, and enough food to feed a battalion!”

“Don’t forget the gothic chandelier,” you added smugly. “Oh my god. Why did you even bring that again?”

“Because atmosphere, obviously.”

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By the time you reached the dusty fields of Wacken, your voices were hoarse from singing along to Papa Roach and Sabaton, your stomachs sore from laughing too hard about absolutely nothing, and your car looking like it had been through a war zone.

The moment you drove through the gates, the familiar wave of excitement hit you both. You rolled down your window. “This is it. Holy. Ground.” Your friend let out a dramatic gasp and pressed her hand to her chest. “Take me, Odin.”

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You were lucky this year: your spot was a dream. Not too far from the toilets (but not close enough to smell them), right near a water station (but not right next to it where everyone lined up), and you were within walking distance of the Holy Ground—Wacken’s main stages. You could practically feel the bass just waiting to rattle your bones.

It was perfect.

You parked. The moment you opened the car door, gravity seemed to give up—everything spilled out: chairs, tent poles, bags, a suspiciously large jar of pickles.

The back hatch of your car swung open with a groan, immediately followed by a soft avalanche of sleeping bags, folded tarps, and one tragically crushed bag of paprika chips. You caught it with a knee and a curse, barely dodging the edge of the heavy metal cooler as it shifted dangerously.

“I told you we overpacked,” your friend mumbled from the driver’s side, already climbing out.

You snorted. “It’s not overpacking if we use everything. That’s called ‘well prepared.’”

“It’s overpacking if we can’t see through the rearview mirror, Y/N.”

You flipped her off over the roof and popped open the tent bag with a flourish.

The campground around you was already humming with early arrivals—metalheads in all forms, from spiked vests and boots to the occasional chainmail enthusiast.

To your left, a sweet-looking older couple was already halfway done setting up their modest tent. The man raised a hand in greeting. Peaceful neighbors, hopefully.

To your right, a luxurious black camper van was parked, sleek and clearly not from the same world as your dented hatchback. The windows were tinted, the door closed, but it gleamed like something off a tech showroom floor.

“Glamping at Wacken?” your friend whispered with a smirk. “Somebody’s fancy.”

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Setting up the tents went... alright. The pavilion, however, was an entirely different story. You would forgo it, if the sun couldn’t be brutal sometimes, or the rain.

“I think this pole is backwards.”

“No, you’re backwards.”

“Your face is backwards!”

You wrestled with the stubborn frame for a few sweaty minutes before realizing you needed at least two more arms and a minor miracle. You looked around, eyeing your neighbors.

“Okay, okay,” you panted. “We need help. This thing is going to be our doom.”

You looked around. The old couple was enjoying their beer and clearly not in a state to lift anything heavier than a sandwich. That left... the camper. Silver and sleek, decked out with solar panels and tinted windows, and had definitely never seen mud. It looked like something out of a sci-fi film. You could see your own reflection in the paint job. The word luxury hovered around it like an aura.

You and your friend exchanged a glance. “Shall we?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Let’s beg the bougie space lords,” you sighed, wiping your hands on your shorts. You approached the camper and knocked twice on the door. After a brief pause, it hissed open a moment later, revealing two men—both dressed in black, both suspiciously attractive.

The one who answered the door had shoulder-length dark hair and a sleek jacket with a subtle diamond texture. He looked like he hadn’t sweated a day in his life. The second man appeared behind him, hair falling over his eyes, wearing a loose black shirt scrawled with white letters over a tank top, leather pants like it was nothing.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“Hi,” you managed. “Sorry to bother you—our pavilion’s waging war, and we’re losing. Any chance you could help hold a pole or two before one of us gets impaled?”

The guy with the long hair raised a brow, glanced at the other, and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Yeah, no problem,” the younger tattooed one added with a small grin, stepping out into the sun with a casual stretch. “Better than just sitting around.”

“Thanks,” your friend beamed. “We owe you a beer. Or ten.”

A few minutes later, the four of you were hunched over the mangled skeleton of the pavilion. Jungkook—though you didn’t know his name yet—held up the center post while you tried to force the crossbar into place.  “So…” he said, grunting slightly as he adjusted the pole. “You two do this often?”

“Fifth Wacken,” you said proudly, bracing one foot against the cooler for leverage. “We’re veterans.”

“This whole setup’s kind of a ritual,” your friend added, sweeping a hand at your gear, your patch-covered flag staked beside the tent, and the collapsible table stacked with pre-cooked meals.

“I like it,” Jungkook said. “We’re kind of… new to this.”

You raised a brow. “No kidding. Most people don’t roll up in a tiny house on wheels.” He laughed, dimples flashing. “Yeah, we weren’t sure what to expect.” You gestured toward the nearly-complete pavilion, sweat already beading down your neck. “This thing’s a lifesaver. Might not look like much, but once the rain hits—and it will hit—or the sun decides to turn us into roast pigs, we can still survive. Some shade. Some cover. A little windbreak. It’s not glamorous, but it works.”

Yoongi—still a mystery to you—stepped back and crossed his arms, surveying the half-standing structure. “Smart,” he said simply. “I didn’t even think about sun protection.”

“That’s because you brought the Millennium Falcon,” your friend muttered.

“I heard that,” Yoongi replied, not even looking at her. You laughed, finally clicking the last piece into place with a triumphant grunt. “You guys must be pros at something. This came together way faster with help.”

“We’re good at… logistics,” Jungkook said vaguely. “And disappearing,” Yoongi added, voice dry. “We were told this place was chaos. Thought we’d blend in.”

“You probably will,” you said, giving them both a lingering look as you hung the gothic chandelier into the middle. “Unless one of you secretly headlines the main stage.”

They both paused—just for a second.

Then Jungkook smiled again. “Nope. Just fans of loud music.”

“Well, in that case,” your friend said, cracking open a cold beer and holding it out like an offering, “welcome to Wacken.”

Despite the pavilion fiasco and the blazing sun trying to melt everyone alive, things were settling in nicely. You and your friend slipped smoothly into your usual festival routine—decades of metal shows and chaotic outdoor setups had made you two an efficient duo. While you chatted with your unexpected helpers and learned their names, you were also simultaneously:

Shoving your rolled sleeping bags into the tent with your foot.

Tossing your clothes into the corner on top of the foam mats.

Spreading an extra blanket across the bottom for comfort and insulation.

Setting up your foldable table and clicking your camping chairs into place like it was second nature.

You cracked a beer open, handed another one to Yoongi and one to Jungkook, who accepted them with surprised little smiles. The kind that said “Oh… you’re really being nice?”—like they hadn’t expected this level of relaxed hospitality from random strangers.

“Cheers,” you said, lifting your can.

“Cheers,” they echoed, clinking aluminum with hesitant amusement.

The conversation flowed easily—well, mostly on your and Jungkook’s side. He was more talkative, curious, full of little observations about the crowd and the energy of the campground. Yoongi mostly nodded, sipped his beer, and made the occasional deadpan comment that had you snorting into your drink.

Eventually, once the most important parts of camp were in order and the sun had shifted just enough to make moving less miserable, you stood up and stretched. “I’m gonna grab water,” you said to your friend, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. “Handcart’s in the car still, yeah?”

“Yep. Same place as last year.” You moved to get the little foldable cart from its place in the car, and Jungkook blinked at you. “Wait. You’re going to get water now?”

“Yeah?” You glanced back, puzzled. “Before the queues get ridiculous.”

Yoongi frowned slightly. “There’s… no water hookup?”

Your brow creased. “Not unless you pre-register for one of the premium mega-camps. They get those huge 100-liter tanks delivered, but the rest of us? Nah, it’s the refill stations or nothing.” They both stared at you like you’d just told them they had to milk a goat for hydration.

“I thought we’d just… get piping or something later,” Jungkook muttered to Yoongi in Korean, trying to keep it low. “Or pay someone,” Yoongi whispered back.

You, completely unaware of the whispering, went on cheerfully, “There’s a decent shop area just before the Holy Ground, usually with some water canisters left if you’re lucky. I can show you if you want?”

There was a pause.

Yoongi looked… quietly alarmed. Like he was calculating how many liters of water two grown men needed per day and realizing he hadn’t brought a single bottle. Your friend just stared at them both, one hand dramatically on her forehead, muttering, “Of all things not to think about... water?”

Jungkook looked at you. Really looked at you. There was a strange flicker in his eyes—like you’d just offered him shelter from a storm. His mouth tugged into a small, sheepish smile. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said softly.

“Not at all,” you grinned. “Let’s go.”

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The two of you made your way through the chaotic footpaths between tents, dodging a guy in a unicorn onesie carrying a box of Jägermeister and a woman wearing nothing but leather straps and sunscreen. The festival was in full pre-opening chaos, with people dragging crates, testing out speakers, yelling for lost friends.

Jungkook kept close to your side, pulling the handcart while you led the way like a seasoned general. “You really come here every year?” he asked as you passed the massive Wacken entrance arch. “Yep. Rain, shine, or ankle-deep mud. Even the year everything flooded and we build a trench around the tent with a camping spoon.”

He laughed, genuinely. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. That was the same year the refill station was about a mile away. We didn’t have this cart back then, so we had to carry our water—carry, like peasants. I had 10 liters strapped to each arm, sweating like a sinner in church.” Jungkook was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you still came back?”

“Oh yeah,” you said easily. “Wacken’s a pilgrimage.” He nodded slowly, and you caught him glancing at you now and then like he was trying to figure something out.

You found a shop vendor you trusted, and after some cheerful haggling (and giving up your remaining paprika chips), you helped Jungkook snag two solid 20-liter canisters.

Back on the path, you showed him how to load them into the handcart for balance. “You really know what you’re doing,” he said, impressed. You shrugged. “You learn or you suffer.”

There was a little silence. Not awkward—more thoughtful.

Then you turned to him, head tilting. “Sorry if this is weird, but… do I know you from somewhere?” you asked suddenly. “You look super familiar.” Jungkook froze mid-step. He blinked once. “Uh… I don’t think so?” You narrowed your eyes, not convinced, but let it drop.

“Huh. Weird. You’ve just got that… familiar vibe, I guess.”

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Must be my face.”

“Could be,” you said lightly, letting the conversation slide back into safer territory. “So what bands are you most excited for?” Jungkook visibly relaxed. “Machine Head. And maybe Gojira, if the schedule lines up.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” you grinned. “You’ve got taste.”

And so the two of you kept chatting, dragging 60 liters of water through dust and chaos, your laughter mixing with the distant sound of someone already playing a guitar solo on a portable amp. Neither of you mentioned that strange moment again.

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As the two of you returned to camp, the sun had finally dipped behind the trees, casting the festival grounds in that warm, golden twilight that made everything look like the calm before the storm. The dust from the footpaths still hovered in the air like fog, and the low thrum of distant soundchecks vibrated through the earth beneath your boots.

When you reached your little setup, your friend and Yoongi had already taken charge of dinner, much to your surprise. “You’re back just in time,” your friend said, crouched over the camp stove, flipping something sizzling in a pan. “We’ve got veggies and noodles, and yes, I seasoned it this time.”

“Luxury,” you grinned. “How’d you get him to help?” Jungkook added, nodding at Yoongi, who was calmly chopping something with the focus of a man who cooked to survive. “I bribed him with gummy worms,” she deadpanned. Yoongi lifted an eyebrow. “And silence.”

Soon the food was served, warm and salty in the best kind of way. You all ate cross-legged around the little foldable table with mismatched bowls and tin mugs, drinking another round of beer as the camplights around you lit up the dark like flickering stars. Music blasted from a few nearby tents, competing genres and tempos overlapping in a chaotic harmony only a metal festival could love.

The atmosphere was casual, loud, ridiculous—and perfect.

You played some card games, mostly ones that didn’t require real rules. Someone nearby had a soap bubble machine going. Another guy walked by in a full suit of armor and shouted “Viking funeral at midnight!” like it was a totally normal thing.

You laughed until your cheeks hurt.

As the night deepened, your friend stretched and yawned, her eyes glassy from laughter and beer. “I’m calling it. Tomorrow’s gonna be chaos, and I need sleep if I wanna survive the beer yoga and not die.”

Yoongi was already halfway to the camper. “Same. Wake me if someone lights a flare indoors.”

“Not again,” you groaned. And just like that, it was quiet.

Only you and Jungkook remained under the canopy, the light from your camp lantern casting soft shadows across his face as he leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, half-finished beer resting loosely in his hand. He looked incredibly at ease—but not bored. His gaze kept flicking toward you whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You stood up with a stretch, your arms reaching high above your head. “Time to do the glamorous teeth-brushing-at-a-water-station ritual,” you said, grabbing your hygiene bag and flashlight. “Ah, yes. True festival luxury,” Jungkook chuckled. “You get to do it in a camper. With a sink,” you added dramatically, mock-offended. He grinned. “I know. I almost feel guilty.”

“Don’t. You’ve earned it just by not complaining once about pulling our water wagon.” That made him laugh, and the sound was warm, low, and genuine. It did something strange to your chest. He stood too, dusting his pants off. “Well… good night.”

You hesitated for just a second. “Yeah. Sleep well, Jungkook. Thanks for hanging out.”

“Thanks for… everything,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Really.” There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… full. And warm. Then you turned, flashlight beam bouncing ahead of you as you walked toward the water stations, brushing your teeth to the soundtrack of someone playing Iron Maiden too loud and a couple drunkenly arguing about tent poles.

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Jungkook stayed behind, staring at where you disappeared into the dark. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was glad you hadn’t recognized him.

When you’d tilted your head and asked if he looked familiar, his heart had stopped. But then you’d let it go, and he’d never been more grateful in his life. He liked being here like this—just Jungkook. Not the guy on stage. Not the idol. Just some dude in the dust with a cheap beer and a camp chair, talking to a girl who felt strangely magnetic from the moment he met her.

You were easy to talk to. Genuinely funny. And kind without any showiness about it. And there was something else, too.

It was how unbothered you were. How natural. Like you had no interest in pretending to be anything other than exactly who you were. That, more than anything, had caught Jungkook’s attention. He could still hear your laugh echoing in his ears as he turned and finally made his way toward the camper, the quiet crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound in the dark space between tents.

He hadn’t expected this. But he was glad he came after all.

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The morning sun spilled across your tent in streaks of gold and heat, waking you with the unmistakable sound of a hangover groan from your friend.

“Coffee… is needed,” she mumbled into her sleeping bag, barely visible aside from a dramatic hand flopped over her eyes. You chuckled and stretched before crawling out of the tent, already feeling the stickiness of dust on your skin. After some half-hearted brushing of teeth and shoving on yesterday’s hoodie, the two of you decided to hit the little farmer’s market that had popped up along the back end of the camping grounds.

It was a Wacken tradition at this point—buying fresh bread still warm from the oven, locally cured meats, spiced cheese, tomatoes so red they looked fake, and whatever strange but delicious-looking thing someone was grilling under a handmade sign.

By the time you returned to your camp hours later, the sun had shifted lower in the sky. You had bags of ingredients in your arms, plus some obscure metal band patches your friend insisted on sewing into her vest before the concerts started. Your legs were tired but your mood was light. The buzz of anticipation for the next day—the opening of the holy ground—had started crackling in the air.

As you rounded the corner to your tent, the sleek black camper next door suddenly hissed as its door swung open. Almost like it had been waiting.

Jungkook stepped out.

He looked like he’d just finished changing, a loose tank hanging off one shoulder and his dark hair still damp and curling slightly from a quick rinse. He paused mid-step when he saw you, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost startled.

“Oh—hey! You’re back,” he said, his voice a little too bright, his words overlapping slightly like he wasn’t sure which greeting to land on. You smiled, lifting your grocery bag in greeting. “Hey, neighbor. Miss me?”

He blinked, then laughed—sheepish and warm. “...A little.” You quirked a brow. Cute. Dorky and cute. “Well,” you said, dropping the bag onto your fold-out table, “since you're here and still alive, dinner together again?”

Jungkook lit up. “Definitely.”

Later, the four of you gathered again around your modest table under the pavilion. Your friend cooked while Yoongi cut more vegetables in eerie silence that somehow screamed “deep thoughts.” Jungkook helped you sort utensils and drinks, a calm rhythm to it all as twilight began to settle over the camp.

You were seated cross-legged in your chair, chewing a tomato slice, when your friend asked, “Are you guys ready for the chaos tomorrow?”

“Oh,” you perked up, grabbing your crumpled band timetable from your jacket pocket. “Let’s compare. I need to plan or I’ll miss everything.” Jungkook and Yoongi exchanged a look before digging out their own schedule, three schedules side by side, the chaos of overlapping bands and clashing stages staring back at you like a logistical puzzle.

“Okay, so I definitely want to see Rotting Dreams and Ashbone,” you said, circling two sets with your finger. “What about you? Do you guys have overlap?” Jungkook tilted his online timetable to compare. “Yeah—same here. But then I want to see August burns red during the overlap with Within Temptation. That’s gonna suck.”

“I’m skipping Within Temptation for Beyond the Black,” Yoongi muttered, tapping his phone decisively. You sat back, considering the layout in your mind. “So not all of our choices match up… but some. We could go together to the bands we all want to see.” Jungkook nodded. “Makes sense. More fun that way, too.”

“Yeah, but finding people in the crowd’s a nightmare,” Yoongi pointed out. Your friend perked up and said brightly, “Then we should just swap numbers. Makes it way easier.” She was already pulling out her phone when you noticed it—the subtle shift across the table.

Yoongi went still, his eyes flicking briefly to Jungkook. A moment passed between them, silent and compact, like they were exchanging a whole conversation with a single look. You weren’t sure what it was—hesitation? Concern? Caution?

Your brows lifted slightly, the shift in their energy not lost on you. But you didn’t want to make it awkward. “I mean,” you said lightly, offering a small shrug, “no pressure. We can always just agree on a meeting point and time beforehand. We just have to be smart about not getting swallowed by the sea of metalheads.”

Yoongi opened his mouth—you could see the polite refusal forming already, lips parting in that diplomatic rhythm—but Jungkook jumped in before he could speak.

“I’ll give you mine,” Jungkook said suddenly.

His voice was steady, but the speed gave it away. It was like ripping off a bandage—fast, slightly awkward, but committed—like he was worried the chance would vanish. His tone was calm, measured, but you noticed the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I mean… sticking to a place and time might get tricky. If one of us is running late or gets held up, it’s kind of a pain to wait around pointlessly. It’s better to just message.” There was something warm and sincere about the way he said it. Practical, sure—but also a little hopeful.

Yoongi looked at him for a long second—hard to read, but definitely calculating something.

You offered your phone to Jungkook without comment. He took it, typed his number in, then hesitated a second before giving you your phone back to save his contact.

You smiled to yourself as you saved the contact: JUNGKOOK (WACKEN WARRIOR 🤘)

He leaned forward to look. “Did you just call me a warrior?”

“Would you rather ‘Camper King’? Or maybe ‘Water Rookie’?”

That got a real laugh out of him, his eyes crinkling slightly. “Nooo. Don’t spread that story.”

“Too late,” your friend said, sipping her beer. “It’s legend now.”

That got a full laugh from him, low and warm. “I’ll take Warrior then. Sounds cooler.” Jungkook smiled, his eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. And even though your friend kept chatting, and Yoongi had returned to scribbling something on his schedule, there was a quiet charge between you and Jungkook now—something unspoken and just beginning to build.

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The first day on the Holy Ground was chaos. The best kind.

You’d had a quick breakfast with your friend, coffee steaming in mismatched mugs, cereal in plastic bowls, already buzzing with adrenaline. Jungkook and Yoongi joined you later, fresh from their camper, looking too clean, too rested, like they hadn’t been swallowed yet by the storm that was Wacken.

Together, you stepped onto the sacred dirt.

It hit them immediately. The noise. The press of bodies. The thick scent of beer, sweat, and damp earth. The sound of guitars tuning up like battle cries. Flags fluttering. Spikes glinting in the sun. Boots stomping in rhythm. The Holy Ground breathed metal.

Jungkook’s eyes were wide behind his sunglasses. Yoongi tilted his head like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. Or hearing.

You grinned.

They were rookies. Not just to Wacken—but to metal. You saw it in how they looked around too long. How they flinched when someone screamed “Slayer!” right next to them. How they held their beers like breakable glass, instead of as shields in a sonic warzone. You weren’t a mosher, never had been. But this? Their confusion? It was almost adorable.

Still, they had fun.

Especially Yoongi, when a band hit the stage with a vicious metal/rap fusion that had the crowd thrashing. His eyes lit up. His mouth moved with the lyrics. He was bouncing on his heels, fists clenched, nodding hard. That joy—real, raw joy—was something you weren’t expecting from the quiet one.

The day spun by in dust and distortion.

You split up before the last band block. Yoongi and Jungkook wanted to see Iron Fang. Your friend had wandered off to catch the Wacken Firefighters and get drenched in foam. You headed toward a smaller stage for a niche band you'd been dying to see.

You would meet up with them later. It was easy to have some down time here.

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By the time you found Jungkook and Yoongi again near the big stage, the sky was a bruised purple. The air buzzed with static before the lights hit. The crowd was gathering fast. It was crowded heavy, with way to many people trying to see the band.

Jungkook stepped closer, just enough that his presence was a shield. Not hovering. Just there.

He bumped your shoulder with his. “Stay close.”

So you did.

The lights exploded. The speakers roared. You let yourself be pulled into the sound, into the crowd, into the thrum of bass that shook your bones. You stood between Jungkook and Yoongi as the lights flooded the stage. The band tore into their first song, and the crowd moved like a living, thrashing sea.

You didn’t care about anything else.

The boys were fun to watch. Jungkook had this subtle bounce to his shoulders, barely noticeable unless you looked for it. Yoongi nodded along to the beat, eyes scanning the stage with quiet interest, the occasional smirk curling his mouth when something surprised him.

The three of you didn’t speak much. Just stood in the sound. Let it hold you.

After the show, the walk back to camp was calm, almost quiet—except for the wind. The temperature had dropped fast under the stars. You zipped your hoodie higher, arms wrapped around your chest. Boots crunching in the gravel, tents glowing faintly in the dark.

Jungkook watched you when you weren’t looking.

Your friend had skipped the last concert. Met up with other friends, said she’d be fine. And yeah, of course, you didn’t need to be glued together. But still. Jungkook found himself drifting closer to you as you walked. Not close enough to be weird. Just... near. Just in reach.

You and Yoongi had fallen into easy conversation—some debate about a setlist, or whether the second band of the day had botched their live mix. Yoongi was sharp, sarcastic, dry. You were more animated, gesturing with your hands, laughing when he made a face.

And Jungkook just listened. Not to the words—but to you. How your voice moved. How it warmed, even in the dark.

Back at camp, you wasted no time. Grabbed your hygiene kit and turned toward the water stations, hoodie pulled tight, your flashlight flicking on as the gravel crunched underfoot.

But before you got too far—

“Wait.” Jungkook stepped forward, hand raised. You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“I’ll walk you,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes didn’t match. Too serious. Too still. You tilted your head, surprised. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve done this walk a hundred times.” His jaw flexed. “I know. Still. Its late.” There was something under his voice.

You hesitated. Then you nodded. “Okay.”

Yoongi, standing by the camper door, lifted a brow. A slow, knowing look. Then he slipped inside without a word. The walk was quiet at first. Lights from the tents made strange shadows, and the night air had a bite to it. Jungkook kept pace beside you, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, head low.

A beat of silence passed. Then—

“What do you do?” you asked. “You know. When you’re not out of place at a metal festival.” He laughed—caught off guard, deep and low. “That obvious, huh?” You smiled. “Little bit.”

“I... travel a lot. Work with music,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Behind the scenes. Some writing. Producing. I guess I live kind of weird. Not a lot of nine-to-five in my life.”

“Sounds freeing.”

“It is. But... sometimes I wish I could just show up somewhere like this and be.” He didn’t say what he meant. But you could feel it. Like he wanted to tell you something just out of reach. “And you?” he asked, eyes on you now. “What do you do when you’re not fighting your pavilion and dragging rookies into mosh pits?”

You laughed. “University. Economics, believe it or not. Numbers and theories. Metal’s more fun, though.”

“Smart and metal?” he said, playful. “Dangerous combo.” Your eyes met. For a second, the path behind you and the stars above didn’t exist. Just the two of you. The breath between words. You reached the water stations.

“I’ll wait here,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Thanks, I will be quick.”

You emerged from the wash station, face clean, teeth brushed, skin chilled by the night air. Jungkook was still there, leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed loosely. He straightened when he saw you, falling into step without a word as you both headed back to camp.

The path glowed faintly under your flashlight. Tents loomed like sleeping beasts in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, someone was still blasting a leftover guitar solo, tinny and defiant against the quiet.

A soft chime broke the air. Both your phones buzzed at once.

You pulled yours out, thumb brushing the screen. “Storm warning tomorrow,” you read aloud. “Rain, maybe thunder. Be ready to shelter in your car. Or ask fellow metalheads if you don’t have one.” Jungkook glanced at his own screen. “Storm?”

You nodded, lifting your chin to gesture around you. “Open fields. Metal flagpoles. Not exactly ideal during lightning.” Realization flickered across his face. He looked around—really looked now. At the vast sprawl of tents. The sea of poles stabbing into the sky. Then to your little car by the edge of your camp. Then to his and Yoongi’s camper, and the other vehicles around them.

You smiled, half fond, half teasing. “It’s actually kinda fun. Scary too, sure. But when the rain’s pounding on the roof, and you’re stuck with people... there’s this weird calm. Like you’re sealed into a world apart.” He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes were a little wide. Like he hadn’t expected that kind of thought from you. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to smile at the storm. Softly—“You’ve done this before?” You nodded. “Two years ago. Rain hit like a drumline. We were stuck in the car for hours, watching lightning crawl across the sky. It was... kind of beautiful.”

The wind stirred your jacket. Cold brushed your skin. You reached your tent. His camper was a few meters off. “Well,” you said, stepping back, voice warm but quiet. “Good night. Sleep well.”

You hesitated, just a breath. Then stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Quick. Gentle. But real. He stiffened for half a second—surprised. His breath caught. You pulled away just as fast, smiling up at him. “Thanks again.”

And then you slipped into your tent, zip rustling softly in the dark. Jungkook stood there. Stunned. Your warmth still on his chest. That brief press of closeness branded into him like heat. He blinked. Looked down at his hands like they might’ve missed something. He wished he’d held onto you. Just a second longer. He turned, quietly walked to the camper. Opened the door.

Yoongi was already passed out, one arm flung over his face, the faint hum of the small fan the only sound inside. Jungkook slipped in, lowered himself onto his bed in the corner. His heart still beat a little too fast.

The tent outside was quiet.

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You'd been lucky all day. The sky had threatened—low, grey, heavy with promise—but the rain held off. Instead, the wind cooled your skin, and the clouds kept the sun from burning through your clothes. It was the kind of weather that let you dance without sweating buckets. You could breathe. You could move. You could feel the music without being drowned in heat.

After hours of noise and chaos, you finally had a break. A two-hour gap before the next band you wanted to see. You’d planned it carefully: head back to camp, get real food—something that didn’t come wrapped in foil or served with lukewarm fries—and grab your hoodie for the night.

Yoongi had peeled off already, something about catching a niche band with distorted vocals and an industrial set. Your friend was off again too, somewhere on the other side of the grounds, but she kept sending texts and blurry pictures, so at least you knew she hadn’t been kidnapped by the Vikings or accidentally joined a medieval metal cult.

Jungkook, surprisingly, hadn’t planned to leave the holy ground at all. But when you mentioned heading back, he looked at his phone, then back at you, and said—

“I’ll come with.” Simple. Like it didn’t mean anything. But it made your chest tighten just a little. The walk back was quieter. Less screaming fans. Just the soft crunch of boots over trampled grass. Jungkook matched your steps without trying. When you glanced at him, he was watching the sky.

Back at camp, the place felt almost serene.

Your car sat waiting like a loyal dog, dusted with pollen and dirt. The pavilion overhead—your pride and nemesis—stood tall. It had tried to kill you during setup, almost decapitating your friend when the wind caught it wrong. But now it stood strong, defiant against the weather.

You pulled out your tiny stove, popped the lid, poured water into the pot. The hiss of gas and the gentle roar of flame filled the silence. Jungkook dropped into a camp chair with a low sigh, stretching out his legs. He looked more relaxed than he had all day. You watched the water bubble. Steam curled into the air.

Then—plip. One drop. Then two. Plip. Plip. Plip. Rain.

You both froze for half a second. It wasn’t heavy yet. Just a drizzle. Soft fingers tapping against the canvas above. But the air shifted. The scent of wet grass and cooling earth rolled in.

“Damn,” you muttered, reaching for the ramen packs. Jungkook tilted his head up, watching the water collect and roll off the sides of the pavilion. “Good timing,” he said, voice low, almost impressed. You grinned. “This stupid pavilion was almost worth the blood sacrifice it took to get it up.”

He laughed—sharp, real, teeth showing.

The wind picked up slightly, making the plastic sides flutter. The camp felt distant from the chaos now. Just the two of you, the stove, the sound of rain tapping rhythm on canvas. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had stepped back to give you a moment.

The water boiled. You dumped the noodles in, added seasoning, stirred with a half-melted plastic fork. Jungkook leaned in, his arm brushing yours briefly. Not enough to call it intentional. But enough that you felt it. He didn’t move away.

The rain came steady now—tapping against the canvas roof in a rhythmic pitter-patter, soft but constant. You sat beneath the shelter of your stubborn pavilion, steam from your ramen curling into the cool air like smoke signals. Jungkook sat cross-legged beside you, bowl balanced in one hand, chopsticks in the other. The world felt distant, muffled by rain and canvas. A pocket of peace.

You both ate in comfortable silence. The food was simple—salty broth, slick noodles—but it tasted like heaven after a long day of sweat, dirt, and loud music. Warmth pooled in your belly. You leaned back in your chair with a contented sigh.

Then, the wind came.

A single strong gust slammed into the pavilion like a shoulder. The table rocked hard—nearly tipping your empty bowls. You jumped, catching the edge just in time.

“Shit,” you muttered, standing fast. The wind picked up again—restless, urgent, almost alive. Jungkook was already on his feet, eyes scanning the flapping corners of the canopy. He didn’t ask questions. Just moved.

You moved, too. Fast.

You tossed the table and chairs into your tent without folding them properly—just cramming them in dry. Your stove came next, packed away with shaking fingers. The wind howled louder, tugging at everything not nailed down. You ducked low, moved quickly, began unhooking the legs of the pavilion to lower the whole thing before it flew straight into another camp.

Jungkook came up beside you without a word, grabbing the other side. His movements were strong, precise. Together, you collapsed the legs one by one, the metal groaning in protest.

And then—crack.

Thunder. It rolled deep, like the growl of some ancient beast crawling out of the sky.

A second later, both your phones buzzed at once. A notification from the Wacken app lit up your screen: ⚠️ Incoming storm. Seek shelter. Concerts paused. Stay in your vehicle or find a safe indoor location.

You looked up at the open field around you, as you closed your tent to keep the rain out. Flagpoles. Empty tents. Metal frames. “Perfect lightning rods,” you mumbled under your breath, heart kicking up a notch.

Jungkook's eyes flicked between your tent, your car, and the sky. Then without a word, he stepped closer, hand wrapping gently but firmly around your arm. Not forceful. But there was no question—he meant for you to follow.

“Jungkook, I can just—”

He tugged once, already pulling you with him toward the camper. Rain soaked the ground, turning dirt to mud as you both sprinted the few meters across the campsite. You tried not to slip, hoodie pulled low over your head, eyes squinting against the sheets of rain now falling faster, heavier.

Then—you were at the camper door.

Jungkook opened it fast and shoved you gently inside, one hand guiding your lower back. The warmth hit immediately. Dry air. Solid ground. A faint scent of citrus and something clean—maybe fabric softener. You stumbled in, breathless, heart still racing. Jungkook followed, shutting the door hard behind him. The sound of rain drummed against the roof now, angry and wild. Lightning flashed white against the tinted window. Thunder cracked close behind it.

“Thanks,” you breathed, wiping water off your face. He nodded. His hair was slightly messy from the wind but otherwise dry. He hadn't let the rain touch him much. Or you.

“I could’ve waited it out in my car,” you added, quieter. “I don’t want to bother you.” He looked at you like you’d just told him you believed the Earth was flat. “Bother?” he repeated, voice low, almost incredulous. “Why the hell would you bother me?” You blinked. Heat crawled up your neck.

Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed again. A message from your friend.

"Safe! Sheltering with the concert group. Their car was way closer. Stay warm!! ❤️"

You smiled softly and texted back quickly. Another buzz—this time from Jungkook’s phone. He glanced at it, then said simply, “Yoongi’s good too. Found a place to wait it out.” You nodded. That was a relief. You didn’t ask where. Jungkook didn’t elaborate. He and Yoongi had booked also a hotel room, just in case. But he didn’t bring it up. To avoid showing off. He didn’t want to give you another reason to try and place his face.

And god—you had seen him before. Somewhere. A music video? A poster? An old festival lineup?You pushed the thought away. You peeled off your hoodie and shoes, setting them neatly aside. Jungkook offered you a blanket from the small overhead compartment. You accepted it with a soft thanks, settling into the cushioned bench across from him.

Warm. Safe. Dry.

Outside, the storm raged like the world was cracking in two. But in here—it was calm. Soft light. Subtle hum of power. A quiet between you. Jungkook leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out, head resting against the side wall of the camper. He watched you for a second too long. Not creepy. Not possessive.

Just… watching.

Like he was trying to make sense of something in you.

Or in himself.

You sat tucked into the corner of Jungkook’s camper, knees drawn to your chest, wrapped in the soft fleece blanket he’d handed you. The hum of the small generator filled the silence between thunderclaps, a gentle reminder of comfort in chaos. A warm light above flickered slightly as the storm howled outside—wind screaming, rain slamming like fists on the camper roof. Lightning split the sky in wild flashes, each followed by a low, rolling boom of thunder that vibrated through your bones.

You checked your phone again. The Wacken app loaded slowly. A storm alert still sat at the top of the screen. You refreshed the weather app. It didn’t look good. The dark red blob of the storm stretched wide, unmoving.

You sighed. “I’m hope I still get to see some bands tonight,” you muttered, rubbing your face. “If not that would suck.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook replied from the opposite bench, his voice low, warm. “But you’d have been soaked in your car. Alone.” You looked at him—hair pushed back, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a faint smile playing on his lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Thanks again,” you murmured. “I’m really glad you pulled me along.” He just nodded, eyes meeting yours with something unreadable behind them. Something softer.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through a small collection of downloaded movies on the camper's screen. Basic power, basic comfort—but compared to your car? This was luxury. “Oh my god,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “You and Yoongi are so bougie. A whole-ass camper? With power? A TV? You brought a blanket that’s softer than my bed at home.”

Jungkook snorted, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “You want to talk about bougie?” he shot back. “I saw your cooler. You brought fancy oat milk.”

“That’s survival-grade equipment,” you said, deadpan. “Not luxury.” He grinned at that. His dimple flashed. A moment passed. “Where did you guys get this camper?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “It’s suspiciously perfect. Like—too perfect.”

He shrugged. “Rented it.”

“From where? NASA?” He chuckled but didn’t offer more. You squinted at him. “You deflect like someone used to hiding expensive purchases from their parents.” Jungkook just shook his head, still smiling as he browsed through the small list of downloaded movies, head tilted, eyes scanning the titles with exaggerated seriousness.

Finally, he gave a small, satisfied nod. “This one,” he said, selecting something without much fanfare. You didn’t even check what it was. Just shifted over to the bench seat that had the best view of the camper’s little screen. It was cozy and narrow, the cushions slightly worn but warm from where you’d sat earlier.

Jungkook joined you a second later, moving with the quiet grace he always carried. He sat down beside you—not close, not far. Just there. Present. Your knees were almost touching. Without thinking much, you reached for the blanket he’d handed you earlier, and as he settled in, you tossed the corner of it over his lap. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He didn’t react. Didn’t joke or fidget. Just pulled it a little higher on his legs, adjusting without a word. The movie began. Some action-adventure you half-remembered. Thunder cracked overhead, a sharp burst that rattled the walls. Rain drummed on the roof, insistent and steady. Jungkook sat still beside you, arms crossed lightly, one foot tucked under the bench.

At first.

Over time—slowly, subtly—he shifted. You barely noticed it happening. One lean during a funny scene. A slow slide closer as the blanket tugged. His thigh brushed yours lightly. Then stayed. Your eyes flicked to him once, but his were on the screen. Calm. Focused. But his arm now rested just behind you, barely touching the backrest.

Warmth radiated from him in waves.

Another thunderclap. You flinched a little this time. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulder bumped yours again, more deliberate now. You let it happen.

The storm outside hadn’t let up. If anything, it had gotten worse. The wind howled like something alive—something furious—snapping at the camper’s walls and making the metal groan. Every few minutes, thunder cracked so loud it shook the cabinets. A fork rattled in the sink.

But inside?

It was warm. Safe. A soft pocket of light and breath, thick blanket shared between you, your legs brushing under the fabric. The small screen flickered with half-forgotten explosions from the movie, sound turned down to a soft hum—just enough to make the silence feel less fragile.

You weren’t watching.

Not really.

Your eyes wandered. To the condensation gathering along the camper windows. To the slow, measured rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest beside you. He sat beside you—silent, steady. He didn’t hover or push. He was just… there. His presence warm like a fire without flames. His fingers were resting on his thigh, calm, save for the gentle motion of his thumb grazing a loose thread from the blanket.

Another flash of lightning ripped across the sky—so bright it lit up the inside of the camper like a camera flash. A beat later, thunder followed. Loud. Cracking. Close.

Your phone buzzed.

Wacken App Notification:⚠️ All remaining concerts cancelled for the day. Storm conditions expected to continue through the night.

You stared at the screen, jaw tight. Your stomach sank. Three bands you'd been dying to see—gone. Canceled. You’d been waiting all year to see one of them. Disappointment curled in your chest like smoke—but under it was something else. Heavier. Dread.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Your thoughts went to your car. The cramped back seat. Cold air leaking in through the doors. Windows fogging up. Rain hammering on the roof as you tried to sleep half-curled in damp clothes. Thunder jerking you awake every time. Alone.

You hadn’t even said anything yet—hadn’t made a move to get up—when Jungkook’s voice cut through the quiet. “You can just sleep here.”  He said it softly. Without looking at you. Like it was nothing. Like it made perfect sense , like he hadn’t just offered you something huge.

Your head turned toward him, blinking.

He wasn’t watching the screen anymore—his gaze rested somewhere near the corner of the small camper, far off. Casual. But there was something in the way he spoke. Calm, but sure. The way someone offers something they’ve already decided they want to give.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

At that moment, Jungkook’s phone lit up too—just briefly. A message from Yoongi. He read it, locked the screen. Didn’t mention the hotel room Yoongi had decided to crash in. Didn’t say they’d booked it months ago—just in case the camping experience wasn’t for them. Didn’t tell you they’d dropped more on that hotel than some people paid for their entire week at Wacken.

Instead, he said simply, “Yoongi found a place to crash too. He’s good.” Nothing more. No flex. No explanation. Just reassurance. Another flash of lightning. Another snarl of thunder, this one close enough to make your bones feel it.

And then—buzz.

Your phone again. This time, your friend. “People I watched the show with are letting me stay in their van for the night. Looks like no more concerts anyway 💀 stay safe!!”

You exhaled, tension bleeding from your shoulders. Relief hit hard and fast. She was safe. Thank god. “Thanks,” you murmured, turning slightly to face him. “For letting me stay.” Jungkook gave a faint nod. “It’s no trouble.” He nodded, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything more back.

Without really thinking, you leaned in. Rested your head gently against his shoulder.

The fabric of his hoodie was soft beneath your cheek—worn, warm, and carrying the faint scent of rain and something that was just… him. For a second, he froze. You felt it immediately—the subtle way his body stiffened, the slight hitch in his breath. Your heart stuttered.

Shit. Had you misread this? Gone too far?

You shifted, ready to pull back—But before you could move an inch, Jungkook’s arm came around you. Steady. Sure. Drawing you in. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just close. And you let yourself go. Your body curved into his like it belonged there.

Outside, the storm tore at the sky—lightning splitting it open, thunder cracking like the earth itself was breaking. Jungkook’s hand rested lightly at your waist, fingers warm through the blanket. Your breaths matched. Slow. Careful. The movie flickered, forgotten. The thunder could scream all it wanted.

You weren’t moving.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

By the time the movie faded into end credits, you were asleep. Your head had slipped from his shoulder down to his chest, cheek pressed right over his heartbeat. A small puff of your breath warmed the fabric of his hoodie with every exhale. One hand had curled loosely against his side, fingers twitching slightly in sleep. You looked peaceful. Soft. Completely unguarded.

Jungkook glanced down at you and chuckled under his breath. God, you were cute. Cool, too—quick-witted, sharp-eyed, grounded in a way he rarely saw. You didn’t fawn over him, didn’t ask weird questions, didn’t treat him like some walking idol. You just… existed. Real. Warm. Completely yourself.

He liked that. More than he probably should.

Your friend had been fun earlier too—friendly, chaotic in a good way—but with you… it was different. Something about the way you talked, moved, looked at him without that flicker of recognition or pressure. Something about the way you trusted him now, curled up beside him like you’d known him for years. Something just clicked.

The storm outside still hadn’t let up. If anything, it sounded worse. Rain pounding the camper roof like it wanted in. Wind pushing hard enough to rattle the frame. Jungkook frowned slightly. For your sake, he hoped your tent would survive the night. The thought of you waking up to soaked clothes and a collapsed canopy made something tug in his chest.

You shouldn’t stay out here on this tiny bench. You deserved the real bed.

Carefully, Jungkook shifted, readjusting his arm beneath you. One hand moved gently across your back, the other curling around your legs to lift you. You stirred just as he shifted to lift you. His arm moved to brace your back, but your fingers lightly caught the fabric of his hoodie.

“Mmm…?” Your voice came out low and scratchy, sleep-rough. You blinked up at him, eyes heavy, confused but not alarmed.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost whispering. “Movie’s over. Let’s get you ready for bed, yeah?” You hummed again and stretched like a cat, arms above your head for a moment before flopping back against him. “’M fine here,” you mumbled.

Jungkook chuckled. “You’ll cramp up on that bench. I’ll lend you some clothes. Bed’s more comfortable.” You yawned, rubbing at your eyes. “Clothes would be great. Thanks…” He got up, reluctantly peeling himself away from your warmth, and dug into a small cabinet near the back. A few seconds later, he came back with a faded black shirt and soft gray sweatpants.

You took them without hesitation.

“Perfect,” you said, already tugging your hoodie over your head. Jungkook blinked.

You weren’t stripping completely—of course not—but your casualness caught him off guard. Confident. Comfortable. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Tank top. Then the hoodie off. Pants next. You turned slightly to the side for modesty, but you didn’t hide. Like sharing space like this with him was… natural.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. It was a festival. Privacy was a myth out here. But still—watching you so at ease in your skin made Jungkook’s throat go dry. He turned around fast, ears burning. “Warn a guy, maybe?” His ears went red. You laughed. “You offered the clothes. Don’t get shy now.” He made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan, face still hidden as you pulled the shirt on.

When you were done, you flopped down on the bed, testing the mattress with a lazy bounce. “This yours?”

“Yeah.”

You yawned again, half-asleep already. “We will both fit, right?” Jungkook’s brain short-circuited.

“We—what? I mean—uh—you don’t mind?” he stammered, standing awkwardly with a blanket still in his hands. You cracked one eye open, frowning faintly. “Didn’t mean to kick you out or anything. It’s your bed. You offering was sweet, but I thought… I mean, it’s not weird to share a bed, right?”

He was blinking at you like you’d just suggested skydiving together. “I just… I thought you’d want space. Privacy.” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Where? In the luxury four-by-four closet? And force you to sleep where—no.” He sputtered. “I—okay, fair.”

You laughed, then caught the look on his face—eyes wide, ears pink, expression flustered. You realized what you’d said—how it sounded. Your face lit up in a rush of heat. “Oh.” You paused, suddenly sheepish. “Did I… misread that?” Jungkook opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He burst out laughing. The tension cracked wide open. “No, no—I got it,” he grinned. “You just have a very casual approach to bed-sharing.” You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Kill me.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, still laughing, still red in the face. “It’s fine. Really. It’s… kinda nice.” You peeked at him through your fingers. “You sure?” He nodded. “Yeah. We’ll fit.” He clicked off the lights, leaving only the soft glow from a battery-powered lantern on the counter. The storm still roared outside, thunder rolling endlessly, but in here it was calm. Steady.

You both crawled under the blanket—awkward at first, trying not to bump knees, too aware of every brush of fabric and skin. But it didn’t take long before you settled again. The way you had on the bench. Easy. Warm. Real.

Jungkook lay on his side, arm tucked under his head. You shifted closer. He didn’t stop you. Eventually, your forehead brushed his shoulder. And he smiled. Quiet. Content. Outside, lightning split the sky again. The camper rattled in the wind.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears. You shifted, curled into him with a little sigh.

He exhaled slowly.

You had melted against Jungkook’s chest like you belonged there. Wrapped in the soft hush of his shirt, surrounded by the scent of cedar, faint soap, and something warm and masculine underneath. Each breath you took was slow. Steady. You felt… safe. Anchored.

Jungkook’s arm curled around you—hesitant at first, almost unsure. Then firmer. Secure. Like instinct.

His fingers began to move. Slow. Gentle. He traced aimless shapes on your back through the shirt he’d given you—swirls, lines, little touches that had no meaning but carried weight all the same. Slow, lazy patterns that lulled you deeper into peace.

You hummed softly. A sound of comfort. Of surrender. Your hand flexed where it rested on his chest, clutching a small fistful of his shirt. He felt it.

Each pass of his fingers made your shirt inch upward. Just a little. Enough for the cool air of the camper to kiss the strip of skin exposed near your lower back. Enough that when Jungkook’s knuckle brushed bare skin—accidentally—he froze.

His fingers stilled mid-gesture. His breath caught. The soft rise of your spine under his palm made something catch in his throat. He hadn’t meant to—but he didn’t pull away either.

Had that been too far?

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you pressed closer. Not shy. Not startled. You let your forehead sink deeper into his chest, nuzzling the soft fabric like it soothed something in you.

Jungkook let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

And then he moved. Bold this time. A quiet choice. A quiet risk.

With a flick of his wrist, his hand slipped under the hem of your shirt. Heat met skin. His palm was broad, warm in a way that made you shiver. His fingers danced directly against your skin. He dragged slow strokes across your bare back—up the ridges of your spine, then down again, curving around your sides. Warm. Deliberate. Intimate.

Your breath hitched.

The sound was soft—but it cut through him. And then you gripped his shirt tighter. Jungkook swallowed hard, lips parted, heartbeat thunderous in his chest. He tilted his head, his voice drop low, lips brushing your hair as he murmured low, “Does this feel nice?” A whisper only meant for you.

The words sank into your skin like warmth in cold water. He felt your answer more than he heard it—your temple burrowed deeper into his chest, lips barely moving. Then you whispered, breath brushing his skin: “Very.”

That single word cracked something open in him.

Jungkook’s hand moved again—this time with intent. Desire. Need. Wonder. No more laziness in his touch. He pressed deeper, mapped more of you. The curve of your waist. The slope of your spine. He caressed upward, gliding from your hip to your shoulder blades and back down again. Slow, firm strokes that left fire in their wake. He was exploring now. Learning the map of your back like he meant to memorize every inch.

Your skin responded to every touch—warming beneath him, drawing his hand like a magnet. You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in. Every pass of his hand ignited something deeper in you. A want that curled like fire low in your belly. Then his hand slowed. He reached your neck.

His fingers paused there, spread wide, thumb just below the base of your skull. He tilted his hand slightly—just enough to nudge your chin up, a subtle, unspoken ask. And you let him. Your head tipped back, lashes low, lips slightly parted.

Jungkook looked down at you—eyes dark, searching, hungry and hesitant all at once. You could see everything in his expression. The way his lips parted slightly. How his brows twitched like he couldn’t believe this was real. You felt breathless. Weightless. Anchored only by the steady pressure of his hand on you.

The distance between you shrank, like gravity made the final call. You weren’t sure who moved first. It didn’t matter. The thunder outside faded into static. The wind disappeared. There was only him. Because the moment his lips met yours, the rest of the world vanished.

The taste of him—warm and soft and a little shy. Not just the heat of his mouth but the way he kissed—careful but deep, like he’d been waiting. Like he didn’t want to rush but had to taste you. like he was still afraid to ask too much. You answered with a tilt of your chin, a soft press back.

That was all it took. Jungkook deepened the kiss.

His hand on your back tightened, pulling you flush against him until there was nothing left but breath and heat and want. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb grazing just beneath your cheekbone. Grounding you. Holding you there, like you were something precious. Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And god, it felt good. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just good. Deep and slow and curling in your belly like fire finding fuel. You sighed into his mouth. Or maybe you moaned—it blurred together. The sound slipped past your lips like it had been waiting for him, and Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

His mouth opened wider, and his tongue met yours—slow and hot and curious. He tasted you. Explored you. The brush of him against you was soft at first, but it built—growing bolder, more intense. A rhythm. A pull. You tried to match him. Tried to keep up with the push and slide and drag of him. But each time you found your footing, he kissed you harder. Deeper. And your thoughts vanished entirely.

You gripped his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. The fabric bunched in your fist, stretched tight across his chest, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Your free hand slid up his torso, feeling every inch of muscle beneath cotton. His body was unreal—firm, warm, alive. His chest was solid under your palm, his heartbeat thunderous. Your fingers climbed higher, brushing over his pecs, his collarbone, until they threaded into the soft hair at the back of his neck.

You curled your hand there. Held him close. Held him to you. Kissed him like you were afraid he might disappear. He moaned into you. The sound vibrated against your mouth—needy, low, his. It punched through your chest, dark and low, raw and needy.

And then—with your next breath—you were on your back.

Jungkook hovered above you, eyes burning, mouth kiss-swollen, chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths. His hand stayed at your throat—not squeezing, just there, firm and grounding, his thumb brushing the skin beneath your jaw as he angled you perfectly for him and looked down at you like you were something he could devour.

His other hand gripped your hip, fingers spreading wide, holding you in place like he owned you. Possessive. Protective. One of his legs had slid between yours. Solid. Heavy. Pressed firm against your thigh. Close—but not nearly close enough.

Not where you needed him. Not where your body burned for him.

Still, it made your breath hitch. The ache in your body bloomed—slow and consuming. Your legs shifted restlessly around his thigh, needing more friction, more of him. And Jungkook—he just watched. Breathing hard. Lips parted. His tongue darted out to wet them, catching briefly on the silver hoop in his lip—the glint of it dizzying up close. The contrast of soft skin and cold metal made your stomach flip.

He leaned down—lips brushing yours, breath hot and trembling against your skin—and whispered, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me if I go too far.” You arched into him, chest heaving, thighs tightening around his leg. “Not even close.”

And then—his mouth was on yours again. Hotter. Deeper.

This kiss wasn’t tentative. It was need, distilled. Wild. Like he’d been waiting to taste you properly and now couldn’t stop. His hand on your hip moved—up, under the soft cotton of the shirt he’d lent you. The fabric lifted inch by inch with every pass of his fingers, revealing skin to the storm-warmed air. His touch was slow but deliberate, like he wanted to memorize you.

He kissed you relentlessly, tongue sliding over yours, pulling soft gasps from your lips as his hand explored the curve of your waist, then higher—up your ribs. Then he found your breast. You moaned into his mouth as he cupped it, but the thin fabric of your bra still kept him from really feeling you. You shifted beneath him, growing impatient, the ache spreading wider now.

Your hands fumbled between your bodies, fingers working fast at the clasp behind your back. You barely broke the kiss, desperate to give him more. As the bra snapped free, Jungkook’s breath caught.

You didn’t wait. Your hand immediately moved to his shirt, riding it up his torso, palms grazing his warm skin, the lines of muscle tightening under your touch. You felt everything—the dip of his waist, the sharp cut of his abs, the softness at his sides. Your breath hitched.

He growled softly against your lips.

With your bra loose, his fingers slipped beneath the cups, finally touching you without barrier. Skin to skin now—nothing in the way. Nothing stopping him from touching, from learning. His hands were big, warm, careful—but confident. He squeezed gently, rolling his thumbs over your nipples with expert pressure. You whimpered. The pleasure coiled low and fast in your belly.

Then he pinched—firm, teasing.

“Jungkook—” It came out broken. More exhale than word. His name on your tongue like prayer. He grinned against your mouth. You could feel it—the shape of his lips stretching into a smug curve. His lip ring caught your skin as he kissed you again. Cool metal. Hot mouth. A jolt to your spine.

And then—he shifted.

His thigh wedged between yours, the pressure maddening. He pressed himself against you, rutting slightly for relief. Even through layers, you could feel the hardness of him, thick and hot and aching. The friction sent sparks through your nerves. You gasped, rocking into him, needing more. The promise of more a whisper against your core.

You gasped. Your hips moved on instinct. Chasing that pressure. He groaned into your mouth. Low. Ruined. “You sound…” He broke the kiss, barely an inch away. “God, you sound so good.” You were too far gone to answer. All you could do was nod, kiss him harder, pull him closer.

Your hand trembled as you grabbed his shirt as you pulled it higher, bunching it toward his chest. Tugged it up over his ribs. You needed him bare. Needed skin. Heat. Him. He chuckled, breath hitching. That soft rasp buzzed against your lips.

Then he sat back. Just enough. Hooked his arms behind his head. Pulled the shirt off in one fluid motion. And god—he was beautiful. Lean muscle, golden skin, tattoos dancing across his chest and arms. Your eyes drank him in. Every inch. Every detail. He caught you staring and smiled.

You blinked up at him, dazed and hungry.

“You too,” he said, tugging at the shirt you wore—his shirt. “Fair’s fair.”

He peeled it off you slowly, revealing your bare chest. The fabric smelled like him. Felt like him. You hesitated for just a second, “Guess it’s only right.” then let him tug it off in one smooth pull. His hands brushed your sides, soft and reverent, thumbs grazing your ribs. His eyes darkened as he took you in, but there was a softness to it too—like he wasn’t just looking at your body, but you.

You were bare beneath. Exposed. Breathing hard. He stilled. Eyes dark. Lips parted. His hands came to your sides. Soft. Like he didn’t want to startle you. His thumbs brushed your ribs. Then slid up. His gaze never left your face. “God,” he breathed. “You’re... you’re beautiful.”

You bit your lip, still breathless, flushed all the way to your ears under the weight of his praise. But the smile tugging at your mouth wouldn’t go away. “I liked wearing that shirt,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. “Technically, it’s mine now.” Jungkook huffed a laugh, warm and crooked. “Yeah? I’ll allow it.” He leaned in, nose brushing yours. “But I might steal it back… if you wear it in my bed again.”

You didn’t get the chance to reply. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. Lower. His lips ghosted over your neck—soft, then a sudden nip of teeth. You gasped. Then his chest met yours again.

Bare skin on bare skin.

He settled over you, a slow, careful weight. All lean muscle and quiet strength. His hand returned to your hip, thumb brushing over bone, grounding you. His thigh pressed higher between yours—closer. Close enough to make your breath stutter. Still, his kiss stayed gentle. Tender. Like he wanted you to feel everything. And you moaned straight into his mouth.

That sound— It cracked something open in him.

A deep, low groan rumbled from his chest, straight into yours. Then his hips rolled, slow and deliberate, right into you. The pressure made your back arch. A firm press, not quite where you needed, but close enough to steal your breath. You whimpered his name, desperate, breathless.

“Jungkook—” His kisses trailed lower. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. To the swell of your breast. His mouth was reverent. Curious. Devoted. You shivered as he kissed a path over your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast. His hand stayed firm on your hip, pressing you down into the mattress as your body tried to chase more—more friction, more of him.

His mouth closed around one nipple. You gasped.

He took his time. His lips, warm and plush. His tongue, slow. Careful. His teeth grazed lightly, just enough to make you arch. Then he flicked his tongue, pulling your nipple between his lips and sucking just hard enough to make you mewl. He groaned in response. “God, you’re so responsive,” he murmured hot against your skin. “So pretty like this.”

He gave your other breast the same attention—maybe even more. His hand pinned you down by the hip, steady, unmoving. And god, you needed to move—needed friction—but he held you still. Just to feel you strain beneath him. Just to hear that helpless whimper catch in your throat.

Your hips tried to lift, to grind into him, but his palm flattened, steadying you. His strength made you ache in the best way. Jungkook chuckled low in his throat, lips trailing lower still. “You’re already trying to move?” he teased softly, mouth still on your skin. “So impatient.”

You could only moan in reply.

His kisses moved lower. Over your ribs, your stomach. Slow. Intentional. Worshipful. Down to the curve where the sweatpants—his sweatpants—hung low on your hips. His breath tickled your skin, hot and humid. He pressed a kiss to your hip. Smirked. “These also technically yours?” You huffed, breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes,” you said. “But… you can have them back… for now.”

“Oh,” he hummed, amused, dragging his lips along the waistband. “So generous.”

Your breath hitched. One hand gripped the sheets. Your other hand threaded through his hair. Needing him. Pulling him. You didn’t know what you were begging for anymore—you just wanted more. His pretty fingers, decorated with soft tattoos and calloused pads, toyed with the waistband, slow, like he had all the time in the world. His eyes flicked up, watching your face the whole time.

You helped him. Pushed the sweats down, exposing your thighs to the cool air. A sharp contrast to the heat blooming between you. His eyes followed the motion like a man starved. Through the thin fabric of your panties, it was obvious. How much you wanted him. How ready you were. When he saw the sheer wetness darkening the front of your panties, he nearly groaned. His jaw flexed.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a tease—but you beat him to it. “On second thought…” Your voice was raspy, playful. “You want to borrow my panties too? I don’t think I need them right now.”

Jungkook blinked. His jaw dropped for half a second. Then he grinned. That stupid, adorable grin you were starting to love. He looked absolutely wrecked with affection. And lust. And disbelief.

God, he was beautiful. A dork. A gorgeous, flustered dork with a body sculpted by the gods.

He let out a low laugh, leaning in. “Sure. If they’re causing you any trouble… I’d be happy to help.” You laughed, breathless. “Please.” His touch turned reverent again. He slid them down—slow, careful, his fingers brushing your thighs. He kissed the inside of one, and then the other. You trembled. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to reach him first.

He looked up at you through his lashes. Tender. Hungry. Spellbound.

Then he slid back up. Jungkook guided your legs gently apart, one hand to each thigh, not forcing—just inviting. Positioning himself between your thighs just enough so he could settle between them. The closeness was dizzying. His breath, his hands, his eyes—every inch of him was focused on you. Worshipful. Intent.

He hovered there. One hand framing your face. The other resting beside your hip. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, rough with restraint. “You still want this?” You cupped his face, eyes searching his. “I want you, Jungkook.”

That was all he needed. Jungkook hovered above you, breath mingling with yours, his weight braced on one arm as the other stayed anchored at your hip. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hand moved. Slowly. Intentionally. Down. Over the curve of your waist. The dip of your lower belly. Then lower still—until his fingers brushed between your legs.

You startled, instinctively twitching at the first contact. But he stilled, eyes never leaving yours. You relaxed. Opened to him. Trusted him. He let out a breath—relieved, maybe. Or reverent. You couldn’t close your thighs with the way his hips were nestled between them. And you didn’t want to. You just gripped his bicep, grounding yourself as the pressure of his touch grew.

Then finally—He found you. Warm. Soft. Soaked.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered, chest rising as his fingers slipped through the slick heat between your thighs. His touch was light at first, almost reverent. Slow. Careful. Watching every flicker of reaction cross your face.

A low, guttural sound escaped him—half growl, half praise. He pressed his forehead to yours for a heartbeat, like he needed a second just to process it. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re already this wet for me?”

You bit your lip, face burning, but you couldn’t look away from him. Not with the way his eyes were locked on yours—dark, wide, almost stunned. He chuckled, breathless. “God, that’s so hot.” Then his fingers moved—just slightly—and the sound that followed made your spine arc. His touch was unhurried, testing, sliding through everything you gave him with devastating care.

When he finally slipped one finger inside, you gasped. Your walls fluttered around him, eager and welcoming. Jungkook moaned. Not softly. Not shyly. Deep and full, like he felt it in his chest. “Damn,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. “You’re perfect. You feel—fuck, you feel incredible.” Your hands scrambled for him, curling into his biceps, needing something to hold on to as he pulled out… then pushed in again, just a little deeper this time.

The sound of your wetness filled the space between you—intimate, obscene, beautiful. It made your breath hitch, made your thighs tense instinctively. He didn’t let you close them. His hips stayed planted between yours, spreading you wide, keeping you open.

“Jungkook—” you whimpered, already shaking, already lost. He watched you—closely. Eyes flickering from your parted lips to the flush on your cheeks, to the slight tremble in your body as he added another finger. The stretch made you moan. Louder this time. Unfiltered. Your back arched just slightly, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him.

And Jungkook looked wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your temple. “You like that? Hm?”, but it wasn’t really a question. He could see it written all over your face. Still, he wanted to hear it. You tried to answer, but your thoughts were falling apart—dripping between your fingers like water. Your breath stuttered as you struggled to form words. You nodded frantically, panting. “Yes. So good. Please, Jungkook—more.” That got his attention.

He raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched. “More?” he teased, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over your clit now—light but maddening, perfectly timed with the rhythm of his fingers moving inside you. “More fingers? Or faster?”

The touch made you jolt—hips twitching, thighs straining—but he kept you open, his body locked between your legs, grounding you. Your voice caught in your throat. Words felt distant. Everything narrowed to that—his fingers curling inside you, his thumb dragging sparks through your nerves like fire catching dry grass.

You hesitated, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand inside you, moving so deliberately, so gently it felt like torture. And then—he curled them again. Just a little. Just enough. A broken moan clawed its way out of you.

“Faster,” you begged, the word trembling off your tongue. “Please… Jungkook—just—faster.” He groaned against your neck, the sound low and warm, like thunder rolling through your bones. And then he smiled—Dark. Devoted. Hungry. Like he’d been waiting for you to ask.

His pace shifted. Faster. Deeper. Precise. Each stroke was intentional, measured, like he was playing a melody only your body could hear. His thumb brushed lower, circling with maddening care, and your whole body jerked, breath catching in your throat. The wet sound of movement filled the quiet between you, between hitched breaths and your name—falling from his lips like he needed it to breathe.

Jungkook watched you like he couldn’t get enough—eyes fixed on your face, taking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every arch of your back. Like every twitch of your hips, every helpless gasp, was proof he was doing something right. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with hunger, but filled with something softer too—something worshipful.

You clung to him, fingers digging into his back, then curling into his hair as pleasure swelled like a wave rising fast, stealing every thought, every breath, until all you knew was him. You needed him close. Grounded.

Then—he found it. That spot deep inside that made your hips jolt, made your whole body lock against his, straining toward him. He didn’t stop. Just stayed right there, relentless and perfect, until you broke.  “God,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your throat. “You’re so beautiful like this.” He was prepping you. Opening you. Worshipping you with his hands and mouth and eyes. And all you could do was feel. Burn. Breathe him in. This was a promise. That he’d ruin you completely.

The pleasure overwhelmed you, crashing like a wave. Your eyes rolled back. You shattered around him with a cry, burying your face in his shoulder, riding out the crest as it rolled through you. Your nails dragging down his back. Your body trembled, legs quivering on either side of his hips.

He held you through it—slow strokes, grounding breath, whispered words you couldn’t even process yet. You trembled. Chest rising and falling fast. But his fingers… His fingers slowed, yes—but didn’t leave. Didn’t stop.  You expected him to stop. To let you breathe. He didn’t.

“Jungkook?” your voice was shaky, confused. Your body was oversensitive and slick with heat. But he just hummed like he hadn’t just wreckedyou moments ago. His fingers still moved—gentle, coaxing, too much and not enough all at once. He hummed against your neck, unfazed. Gentle. “Still with me?”

Your breath hitched. “Jungkook, wait—I just—” Your legs tightened around him instinctively, holding him close, unsure if you were trying to stop him or pull him in deeper. “It’s… too much. I don’t know if I can…” His gaze softened. His voice was warm. “Is it painful, or just intense?” he asked softly, the pads of his fingers still stroking. You hesitated, breath trembling. “It’s not pain. Just… a lot.”

Jungkook’s smile was soft but mischievous. Tender, but greedy. “Then I am sure you can,” His fingers moved again, slower this time, but deep—certain. “But tell me if you need me to stop.” You nodded, dazed. Your grip on him never loosened—legs still tight around his hips, your hand locked in his hair.

He didn’t wait. He pressed his mouth to yours—soft and grounding—while his fingers worked between your thighs, determined and loving, like he already knew this second wave would break you harder than the first. And when it did, he was there to catch you.

His fingers moved with greater intent now—steady, relentless, coaxing your body like it was an instrument he was born to play. And then he shifted, slowly lowering himself, slipping through your trembling hands, mouth trailing heat down your stomach. You felt his breath first. Hot. Teasing. Right between your thighs.

You gasped, back arching, as his lips met you. His tongue parted you softly—then with bold purpose. He licked between your folds like he needed to taste you. The contrast of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem made your entire body jolt. You were already so close—already too far gone—and now you were unraveling all over again.

Your head fell back, your spine curving with the overwhelming rush. You were sure your thighs clenched too tightly around his head, but Jungkook didn’t mind. Didn’t pause. He growled into you—devoured you—like this was what he came here for.

He licked you again. Then again, slower. Deeper. And still, his fingers moved inside you, curling with practiced precision. You whimpered his name, words falling from your lips like broken glass. “Too much… Jungkook… I—I don’t know… what to—” You were shaking. Legs trembling. Hands clawing for something—anything—to hold on to. But Jungkook was listening. Even through your incoherent pleas, he was tuned to every breath, every flutter of resistance, every sound of bliss.

He was watching you. Listening for pain. But hearing none. Only pleasure. Only need.

Another long, languid lick. Then a precise curl of his fingers that hit just right—deep and perfect. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, not just anchoring—pulling. You dragged him closer. You wanted more. Needed him there—against you, in you—his mouth and hand working together like he was trying to break you open just to put you back together again. Hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth with a raw, aching need. Your thighs caged his head. Your body pulsed against his lips, slick and hot and trembling.

Jungkook groaned—deep and rough—at the feel of your hands in his hair, your thighs squeezing around him, your body giving in. He lost it. Not his rhythm, no. That stayed—fast, deep, mercilessly skilled. But inside, he was crumbling. You rutted into his face, shameless and soaked. He felt every twitch, every grind, every heartbeat through your cunt. The way you clung to his hair, pulled him deeper, used him to chase the high still clawing up your spine—it undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his tongue and into you. He needed the taste of you. Needed to give this to you. But he was struggling. Down between your legs, hidden in the heat of you, Jungkook rocked his hips into the mattress. Slow at first—seeking friction, seeking anything—as the ache in his cock grew sharp and near unbearable. The pressure had been building from the moment his fingers slipped inside you, but now? Now he was leaking into his boxers, rutting down with a quiet grunt every time you whimpered his name like a plea.

He was losing control.

You were so wet. So wet for him—his chin coated in it, his fingers sliding effortlessly inside you as your body clamped around him. Your scent. Your taste. Your voice. Your need. It was enough to make him shake. He could feel his own orgasm taunting him, threatening to tear through without a single touch to his cock. And the more you gave in—the more you took from him—the closer he got.

“Fuck,” he groaned into you, fingers curling hard, tongue dragging up your center with shameless hunger. His hips bucked into the bed again—rougher now, desperate—as your thighs squeezed tighter. You cried out, voice cracking around his name, grinding harder into his face. And Jungkook snapped. He needed you to come. Now.

His hips ground down, stiff and erratic, chest heaving between your thighs. His fingers plunged deeper, stroked harder—searching for that spot that would wreck you completely. Your body tensed. Your grip in his hair tightened. Your voice—high, shattered, divine—rang through the room as your second orgasm tore through you, raw and sharp and all-consuming.

Jungkook moaned, the sound ragged with the power, the feeling of your body trembling under him.. His eyes fluttered as you came on his tongue, and he let you. Let you drown him. Your release flooded his tongue, your walls clenching around his fingers so tight it stole his breath. As you hold him there. Letting your body take what it needed. His eyes rolled back, fists clenching in the sheets beneath you. He was so close—just from this. Just from you.

But he held back. Barely. Because this was for you. All of it.

He didn’t stop until your body sagged, limp with release, breath shaky and raw in your chest. And when he finally pulled his mouth away, his lips were swollen, his face slick, his chest rising like he’d run a marathon. He looked ruined—and proud. He looked up at you like you were something holy. Something he would kneel for again and again. And the hunger in his eyes said clearly:

He wasn’t done yet.

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You were wrecked. Breathless. A trembling heap of sensation and heat, nerves still firing with aftershocks. You didn’t even know what planet you were on—only that you were here, with him. Jungkook sat between your trembling thighs, sweatpants low on his hips, chest rising and falling with ragged breath. His chin still glistened with you, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark with something primal. Something reverent. His fingers gently traced the inside of your thighs in slow, soothing motions, grounding you even as you floated.

But it was his face—the way he looked at you—that made your breath catch again. His expression was open. Raw. Awed. And god, his eyes. Dark. Hooded. Desperate. Like he’d die if he didn’t get to feel you now. You swallowed hard, tried to clear your throat, but your voice came out low and wrecked.  “Jungkook…” His name was a whisper. A plea.

You reached for him—fingers skating up his stomach, tracing the firm lines of muscle that jumped beneath your touch. He twitched under your fingertips, his breath stuttering.

You looked down.

His sweatpants were a mess. The outline of his arousal strained tight, painfully hard against the weight of his need—and darkened with a wet spot that had spread wide and deep. He had been rutting into the mattress beneath you while he worshipped you, hips grinding into the sheets, chasing even a whisper of relief.

God, you wanted to taste him. To return every aching second of what he gave you. “Jungkook, I want you in my mouth,” you whispered, voice shaking with want. “I want to taste you.” His eyes slammed shut. He groaned—raw, wrecked. His hand flew to his cock, gripping himself tight at the base through his sweats with a force that made his arm shake. The tension in his jaw said everything. He was close. He was barely holding on. He hissed your name like a curse, like a prayer.

“I—fuck—I can’t, I need to be inside you,” he groaned. “If you touch me like that… I won’t last. I want it—God, I want your mouth—but not yet.” You nodded. Weakly. Wantonly. Every inch of you screaming yes. You were still trembling, still soaked in the echo of your second high, and your body was barely keeping up with the pleasure it had already endured.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t want him. Especially not after how good he was to you. You saw the way he looked at you, hovering just above—equal parts restraint and desperation. His fingers gripped his own waistband, trembling with the effort not to rush.

You nodded again. That’s all he needed.

In one fluid motion, Jungkook pushed his sweatpants down a single desperate motion, his cock springing free. The sight of him made your breath stall. He was flushed, thick, beautiful—and clearly aching for you.

He hovered above you, strong arms caging you in, his chest brushing yours as he searched your eyes. He paused. Took you in. The flush of your cheeks. The sweat at your brow. The dazed shine in your eyes as you looked up at him like he was salvation. His lips parted like he was going to speak—but all that came out was a ragged breath. “I won’t stop,” he whispered, voice wrecked with hunger. “If I’m inside you—if you let me—I won’t stop.”

“I don’t want you to,” you breathed. His lips ghosted over yours. “You sure?” You pulled him closer with your legs, hips rising instinctively to meet the thick heat of him as he lined himself up. “Please.” That was all it took. The last of his restrain snapped. Or bloomed.

And then he kissed you—slow, deep, devastating.

With a groan torn from deep in his chest, Jungkook pushed forward. Stretching you. Filling you. Inch by devastating inch. He bottomed out in one slow, brutal push. You gasped. A groan tore from his throat—raw, helpless. “Fuck. You feel—” his voice broke, hips stuttering, “—too good.”

He wasn’t going to last. Not like this. Not when you clenched around him like you were made for it. The feeling was overwhelming—too much and not enough, hot pressure blooming deep as your nails dug into his back. He buried his face in your neck, panting, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Letting you feel every part of him. Letting you adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel so good. So tight. So warm. I—I can’t…”

And then—he moved. Fast. Hard. Unrelenting. The rhythm was sharp from the start. No easing in. Just need. Pure, primal need. He was panting above you, his muscles tense with the effort to hold himself back—but his pace betrayed him. Wild. Ruthless. He needed you too much to be gentle now.

He shifted—pushed himself up on one arm to watch. Watch how your breasts bounced with every snap of his hips. Watch how your mouth fell open, gasping. How your eyes fluttered back like you couldn’t handle it.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Take it. Just like that. Look at you.”

You tried—you really did—to obey. To keep up. But every thrust had you shaking. Crying out. Your body clenching down on him like it wanted to drag him even deeper. And Jungkook loved it.

His gaze dropped to where you took him, where his cock disappeared inside you over and over again, slick and swollen and so fucking tight. He groaned—deep, guttural. “God, I see myself in you and I—fuck—I need you to come again. Need to feel it.”

“I—I don’t know if I can,” you choked out, overwhelmed, pleasure spinning through you like static. He snarled—a sound nearly angry, animalistic. “Yes, you can.” Then his hand was between you. Thumb snapping to your clit, rubbing with firm, practiced flicks. Fast. Targeted. No mercy. You gasped, body jolting beneath him.

And when you fluttered around him—tight, pulsing—his rhythm faltered for just a second. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna—oh, fuck—”

And you did. Your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Back arching. Eyes rolling. One leg kicked out, sharp and uncoordinated—reflex, raw instinct. He caught it mid-thrust, fingers digging into your thigh, and shoved it to the side.

Pinned you open. Pinned you down. Kept pounding through your high like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “Shit—I’m,” he gasped, hips slamming into you once—twice—Then he was gone.

Coming hard with a broken sound in his throat. Hips bucking. Muscles shaking. His face contorted in something close to pain, close to bliss, as he emptied himself deep inside you. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer. And then he collapsed—chest heaving, body trembling, still buried in you.

Silence. Only your breathing. His sweat dripping onto your skin. Your hearts racing in sync. You were ruined. And he—he was still holding you like he’d never let go.

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Jungkook’s breathing was still ragged. Hot puffs against your neck. Yours had just started to steady. Your chest rose and fell beneath him, slick with sweat, heart still racing beneath the haze.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t speak. He just pressed his mouth to your skin—soft kisses to your neck, your jaw. Each one slow. Reverent. His weight hovered over you, arms shaking slightly from the come-down, but he still held himself up. Careful not to crush you.

His body was warm. So warm. He still hadn’t pulled out, and your bodies trembled with every little twitch, every aftershock. But your leg— The one he’d pinned and forgotten—was aching now. Cramped and trembling at the awkward angle. You turned your head, lips brushing his temple. “Kook,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “My leg.”

He froze. Then immediately released it, hands gentle and apologetic as he smoothed down your thigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice cracked—still breathless, still wrecked. “Did I hurt you?” You shook your head, stroking his hair. “No. Just sore.”

That made him move. Finally—slowly—he eased himself out of you with a low, broken groan. The wet drag of it made both of you wince, your bodies too raw, too sensitive. You clenched around the absence, already aching for more, even as you trembled overstimulated. He sat back on his heels. His eyes—wide, reverent, a little dazed—dragged over every inch of you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. What you’d let him do to you.

“Let me,” he whispered, already reaching.

His arms wrapped around you as he helped you sit up, cradling you against him like something precious. Then he moved, reaching for a towel, dampening it with warm water, his touch steady despite the aftershocks still shaking through his limbs. The Campers simple luxuries.

You spread your legs for him, tired but trusting. And Jungkook… he was so gentle it nearly broke you open again. He cleaned you first—slow, soft strokes between your thighs, dabbing at the mess he’d left behind. His cum leaked from you, thick and warm and unmistakable, and he caught it tenderly, careful not to press too hard. His knuckles brushed over your folds, your clit—swollen, tender—and you flinched.

“Sorry,” he murmured, kissing your knee. But you weren’t sorry. Not for any of it. You watched him work, too quiet to speak. His brow furrowed in focus. His tongue tucked into his cheek. His thighs trembling from effort. And that’s when you saw it.

His cock—still flushed, still half-hard—gave a twitch as he wiped your cum-slick skin. The sight of you still ruined, still dripping with him, was enough to stir him again. Not fully. But he throbbed in the open air, heavy and wet and aching, like he could never quite get enough of you.

Your breath caught. God. He was beautiful like this. Wild and undone. His strength wrapped in tenderness He didn’t rush, even though his own thighs trembled and his cock still sat heavy between his legs, glistening with your slick. When he finally finished, wiped himself down. Still kneeling between your legs. Still looking at you like you’d just undone him completely. The towel discarded, his fingers smoothed over your thigh absentmindedly, as if reassuring himself you were still there. Still his.

You leaned back on your elbows, legs still loose around his hips, and tilted your head. The storm outside had dulled to a soft patter against the camper roof, a lullaby of rain and wind-blown peace. “Lie down, Jungkook,” you whispered, reaching out to trace his forearm with lazy fingers.

His brows lifted, lips parted. Still breathless, still caught in the fog of everything you’d just done. “Yeah?” You nodded, voice silk-slick and low. “I want you on your back. Let me touch you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed hard.

He obeyed, shifting beside you until he was on his back, hair mussed and chest rising slow and deep. He stretched out across the sheets—long, beautiful, undone. His chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, hair wild, damp at the temples. Eyes tracking every move you made like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You slid closer, straddling one of his thighs carefully.

Testing your legs. Your inner muscles still fluttered with the echoes of him, still sore and stretched. But this time, you moved at your own pace.

Jungkook looked up at you, eyes wide with wonder. You ran your palms down his chest, feeling every twitch of his abs, the flex under your touch. He was so sensitive—still half-hard, but eager. Waiting. You raked your nails lightly down his torso, watching him twitch, watching his cock jerk in anticipation.

Then your voice—soft, dangerous—cut through the quiet. “You said I could taste you later.” Jungkook sucked in a breath. Sharp. Audible. You leaned forward, brushing your mouth over his sternum. A slow kiss. Then another. “Its later.” His head tipped back. A shaky moan slipped out of him, like he couldn’t hold it in. “You—fuck…” You kissed down the center of his chest, tongue flicking lightly at the sweat cooling there. Your hands smoothed over his abs, and they tensed under your touch. Twitching. Obedient. Yours.

“I want to feel you fall apart,” you whispered, mouth ghosting lower. “Want to feel you in my throat. Want to hear you beg.” His hips lifted off the bed with a sharp, involuntary jerk. His knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets, already so close to breaking.

Then you leaned down, kissing over his chest. Your lips dragging across his skin like silk, breath warm and slow. His nipple pebbled under your tongue, and Jungkook hissed. “God—Y/N.” Jungkook was fully hard again. Achingly so.

You hadn’t even touched him properly. Just words. Just the promise in your voice. And he was ready to explode. His chest heaved. His eyes burned into yours. “Sweetheart,” he warned, low and shaking. “I won’t last.” You didn’t blink. “That’s the point.”

Your hands trailed lower, slipping over his stomach. His hips arched slightly off the mattress. He was already leaking again, the tip of his cock flushed red, twitching. “I’m gonna take care of you now,” you whispered. Your voice, syrup-thick. Intent.

And the way he looked at you—utterly undone, desperate and trusting—made your stomach twist with heat. You kissed your way down his body. And this time, he was the one trembling.  Your tongue dragged slowly across the tip of him—hot, wet, deliberate. Jungkook choked on a moan. His hips bucked violently, caught between instinct and restraint.

You took him in—inch by inch, slow and cruel. Until your lips stretched wide around him, your throat tightening. And he groaned. Loud. Filthy. “Fuck—yes. God, your mouth. So good. You’re so good at this.” You hummed around him, and he shuddered.

You pulled back just slightly, your lips still wrapped around the flushed tip of him, tongue flicking slow. Then you let go of him entirely. One hand rested on his thigh, the other came up to your own head—fingers threading loosely through your hair.

You looked up at him, voice husky, breathless. “If you want…” you whispered, licking the corner of your mouth, “you can fuck my throat.” Jungkook stilled. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Every muscle in his body froze, straining against the flood of want that hit him like a truck.

“What?” he breathed, stunned. You nodded, slow. Daring. “Put your hands in my hair. Guide me. Take what you need.” A shudder racked through him, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted to come or collapse. He groaned, long and broken. His hands found your head instantly—gentle at first, like he couldn’t believe you meant it. Like he was scared to hurt you. Pushing some strands behind your ear.

But you leaned into it. Moaned low. “Don’t hold back, Jungkook.” And just like that—he snapped. Fingers tightened at your scalp. Hips flexed. The thick weight of him slid over your tongue, deeper now, pulled in with force and need. “Fuck—fuck, Y/N,” he growled, voice shaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.” And god, that was exactly what you intended.

Jungkook's hips stuttered, jerking up into your wet, willing mouth, and for a moment—he swore he saw stars. His hands tangled deep in your hair now, knuckles white from how tightly he gripped. Each thrust grew more reckless, more unhinged, the muscles in his thighs flexing beneath your touch. His breath hitched on every exhale, uneven and raw.

Gone was the Jungkook who teased and smirked. Gone was the boy with swagger and restraint. This was need, stripped bare. And you—God, you were loving every second of it. One of your hands crept lower, cupping his balls with gentle fingers, massaging just right. Jungkook’s whole body seized. He cursed loud, voice breaking. “Y-You’re gonna make me—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But just as his body tensed to let go, you pulled off him with a slick, obscene pop. Your hand gripped him tight at the base—firm and unforgiving. Jungkook collapsed back into the mattress, groaning from deep in his chest. It wasn’t frustration. It was torment. Glorious, wrecked torment.

“Are you serious?” he rasped, eyes wide and dark as his head dropped back. One hand flew into his own hair, yanking hard. His abs flexed beneath your mouth. As he tried to control his breathing. “What the fuck—you’re evil.” But he wasn’t mad. He couldn’t be. Not with you looking at him like that.

Your lips were shiny with him. Your eyes, half-lidded, burning with wicked heat. You smiled—slow and smug—before leaning in to kiss his stomach, open-mouthed and hot. His muscles jumped under your tongue. You dragged your kisses up, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting sweat, skin, want.

He twitched violently in your grip—his cock so hard it felt like steel wrapped in velvet. Throbbing. Leaking. Aching. From his denied orgasm. Then you shifted. His cock trapped perfectly between your soaked folds, not inside, just there —just nestled there, sliding through your wetness, hot and thick and twitching. So close it was torture.

Jungkook choked.

His hands flew to your hips, holding you in place like his life depended on it.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you whispered, your lips brushing the sweat-slicked skin just under his ribs. He swallowed hard, voice shaky. “You said you were sore. Are you okay?” You nodded. Then—slowly, deliberately—you rocked your hips. And Jungkook saw stars.

You weren’t riding him. Not yet.

But your slick heat dragged over him with every slow grind. Wet and messy and slow. Your folds kissed his length, his tip catching against your clit, sending shocks up your spine. Jungkook’s whole body locked. His mouth dropped open.

“F-Fuck… don’t—don’t do that unless you want me to lose my mind,” he begged, voice ragged. But you did it again. And again. You were soaked, every movement a mess of heat and friction. Each pass sent sparks through your body, each stroke teasing the edge of too much.

He gasped as your slick lips glided over him, as if you were molded to his shape. Then his tip caught just right—and you flinched. Gasped. “Shit,” he moaned, dragging a hand up your back to your neck. “You’re so fucking wet… I can feel everything. Like this. Just like this. Please…” His voice was high, tight, raw. Barely holding on. And so were you.

You felt empty. Desperate. Your walls fluttered—clenching around nothing. But Jungkook could feel it, too, with how close you were pressed together. “F-Fuck,” he groaned, frantic now. His hands roamed like he didn’t know where to hold, what to cling to—your hips, your waist, your thighs, your face.

“Please, Y/N. Please. Let me—let me in. Let me feel you. Please.”

You were shaking, breath uneven, your legs barely steady under you. “Jungkook… I…” You nodded, even as your body trembled. And the second you did, he moved. He guided your hips up just enough, his other hand wrapping around himself, lining up. The head of him kissed your entrance, and both of you moaned at the contact.

Then—you sank. All the way. In one slow, devastating push.

Both of you gasped. Jungkook’s head slammed back. You clenched around him immediately—so tight, so warm, so full it stole the air from both of your lungs. You bottomed out—hips flush, chest heaving. He was inside you, buried to the hilt, and it felt like he was everywhere.

“Holy shit,” he panted, gripping your waist with shaking hands. “Y/N… are you okay? Can you move? Please—fuck—I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You tried to answer, to move—but your body trembled too hard. Every muscle tensed, your hands splayed across his chest for balance. “I… I can’t,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Jungkook—I’m—”

That was all it took.

With a growl, he flipped you—fast, but careful—keeping himself inside you the entire time. One moment you were straddling him, the next you were beneath him, head pressing into the pillows, his breath hot on your mouth.

He braced himself with one hand. The other found your throat, not squeezing—just holding you there. Grounding you. Claiming you.

Then—he thrust. Once. Hard. Deep.

The second thrust ripped a cry from your chest. Your body shattered—walls pulsing around him, coming undone before you could stop it. Your back arched. Your legs logged around his waist. Your whole body convulsed.

You hadn’t meant to come. Not yet. But it was too much. Too deep. Too sensitive.

Jungkook froze above you, eyes blown wide. “Did you just—” Jungkook stared down at you like he’d just witnessed something holy. You were still trembling beneath him. Chest rising fast. Lips parted in shock. Your body still spasming around him, fluttering in tight pulses that made him curse through his teeth. He was mesmerized.

“You just… fuck,” he whispered, breath caught in his throat. “You came that fast? That hard? Just from that?” He looked stunned. Wrecked. Like you’d taken the air out of his lungs. And then something shifted in him.

His hips drew back—slow. Dangerous. Your walls fluttered around him as he did. Then he slammed forward, hard enough to jolt the breath from your lungs. He set a rhythm that made your head spin—deep, rough thrusts that must have the camper rocking and your thighs quivering.

He was lost in it. In you. But your orgasm took the edge off him. Let him focus. Let him last.

His hand tightened at your throat—not choking, just holding, grounding, claiming. The other gripped your waist, dragging you up to meet every thrust like he needed you closer. Your body, still sensitive from the last orgasm, lit up again—each stroke like a live wire. You moaned helplessly, fingernails clawing down his arms.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “So fucking tight. You came so fast—fuck—I can't believe how good you feel.”

But then— You let out a small sound. A breathy huff. Almost like a whimper. And it didn’t sound like just pleasure.

Jungkook froze instantly. His hand slipped from your throat to your cheek. His eyes were wide, frantic, scanning your face. “Hey. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “I’m okay. Just…” You swallowed hard, voice soft. “You’re so big. There’s just… so much of you inside me.”

He paused. Then—he grinned.

A low, breathless laugh escaped him. “Ohh. So that’s it, huh?” You hid your face in his shoulder, embarrassed. His lips brushed your ear. “Is it the soreness?” You nodded. Shy. Small. And just like that—his pace changed. Gone was the brutal tempo. The hungry rhythm. Instead, he rocked into you slow. Deep. Controlled. And still, he kissed you like you were sacred. Touched you like you were breakable. Ruined you like you were his.

He pulled out nearly all the way, then slid back in with agonizing grace, dragging every inch along your soaked walls. It made you gasp. Clench. Moan low and long into his skin. “There we go,” he whispered. “That better, sweetheart?”

You nodded again, wrapping your arms around his back. His muscles rippled under your touch. He moved like water over fire—fluid and hot, making you melt with every stroke. Now you had space to feel him. The way his back flexed under your fingers. The curve of his shoulder. The tremble in his thighs from holding back. How his jaw tightened every time you pulsed around him.

You couldn’t stop touching him. You were in awe. Your hands explored every inch you could reach. Up his arms. Across his chest. Through his damp, dark hair. You traced the sweat-slick lines of him like a worshiper at the altar.

And still—he kept fucking you slow. Deep. Drawing it out. Teasing you with every stroke, letting you feel the full weight of him. The stretch. The fill.

Jungkook groaned into your neck, voice cracking. “You feel too good. Too warm. You keep fluttering around me like that and I—fuck—I’m not gonna last.” Your walls pulsed again. Pure instinct. His breath hitched. He cursed.

Then—you felt it. The sharp thrust. The stutter in his hips. The gasp he couldn’t hold back.

“Shit—I’m—” His body slammed into yours one last time, and he spilled into you with a broken cry. His whole frame tensed—thighs locked, muscles drawn tight, face twisted in something close to agony. Heat flooded you. His cock twitched, buried deep, his moans falling into your shoulder.

And as he came, the pulse of it—his body giving in to yours—ripped another sound from you. A strangled, breathless sob. Not another orgasm. Just—too much. Overwhelmed. Wrung out. Full in every sense of the word.  Jungkook collapsed on top of you, panting, his heart racing against yours.

“Shit,” he whispered, lips against your jaw. “You ruin me.”

Jungkook was still panting against your neck when your quiet chuckle vibrated beneath him. A low, breathless sound that made his lips curve before he even pulled back.

“You’re saying I ruined you?” you whispered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. “Jungkook, have you seen yourself?”

He snorted, chest rising with a ragged laugh. “Touché.” The grin he gave you was crooked. Loose. Completely wrecked. And maybe a little smug. But then his eyes softened again. Concern flickering behind all that post-orgasm haze. “You okay?”

You nodded, still dazed. “Yeah. Just… used. In the best way possible.”

His smile faltered—only to come back gentler, deeper. Like you’d just handed him something fragile and he wanted to hold it right. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Tender, unhurried.

“You did so good,” he whispered, brushing his nose along your temple. “Took all of me… every bit.” You hummed, letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. You were floating—body buzzing, boneless under the weight of his affection.

Eventually, the heat between your legs made shifting unavoidable. Jungkook finally stilled, then gently eased himself out of you with a soft hiss, as if the separation physically hurt. You winced a little too, the aftershocks of everything making your legs tremble.

“Shit,” he murmured, immediately checking your expression. “Too much?”

“I’ll survive,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “But maybe… help me clean up before I turn into roadkill?”

He snorted again and got up, tugging on a fresh boxer before helping you sit up. Everything was warm and tender now. No teasing. Just soft sighs and quiet laughter as he dabbed you gently with a wet towel, murmuring apologies when you flinched.

“You know,” you said sleepily as he tossed the used towel to the side and climbed back into bed, “you have this whole ‘ruined me six ways to Sunday’ thing going on…” Jungkook paused mid-crawl, eyes squinting at you. “Me? You broke first. I barely did anything.”

You raised a brow.

He grinned, catching himself. “Okay, fine. I maybe did… a lot.”

You snuggled under the thin blanket with a wince. The camper didn’t exactly offer luxury accommodations, but at least it was warm and better than your tent. Jungkook pulled you in instantly—pressing his chest to your back, nosing into your hair like a bear curling into hibernation.

And, true to form, one of his hands—without hesitation—found your breast and settled there like it was second nature. You barked a soft laugh, craning your head just enough to glance at him. “Really?”

“What?” he mumbled into your hair. “That’s where your hand goes? After everything?” He groaned sleepily. “It’s my comfort spot.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered.

Everything ached. Deep. Sore in places you hadn’t even known could feel pleasure. And Jungkook, the smug, overachieving menace curled around you like he belonged there, had the nerve to cup your breast like it was his God-given right.

Voice husky and rasped from every moan he’d ripped out of you, you muttered, “Swear to me you’re gonna give me at least eight hours. Minimum. I need time to walk again. “You are dramatic,” he murmured. But there was something in his tone—softness, reverence—that curled into your bones like heat.

Then his lips found the delicate skin behind your ear. A kiss so tender it made your lashes flutter. “Deal,” he whispered, the words grazing your skin like a promise. “Eight hours. Scout’s honor.”

“Liar,” you breathed, but your lips curved into a smile anyway.

The camper around you had settled into silence, save for the soft pitter-patter of rain against the roof—gentle now, like the sky itself had exhaled. No more thunder. No wind. Just the quiet, tender rhythm of storm’s end.

And slowly, your muscles began to unwind. You melted into the mattress, into the warm circle of his arms, and let the fatigue pull at your edges. You listened to the sound, your body sinking deeper into his hold. His breath slowed against your neck. The hand on your breast stayed exactly where it was—possessive, familiar.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt still. Safe. Warm. Because no matter how wrecked you felt—your body sore and used, your soul stretched wide open—right here, in Jungkook’s arms, you wouldn’t change a thing.

But something kept you tethered to the moment. Not his hands, not the soreness blooming between your legs. His tattoo. Your gaze flicked down, half-lidded and bleary, to the back of the hand still cupping your chest like he couldn’t help himself. The ink was faint in the low light, just shadows and shapes—but you knew that symbol. Even if you weren’t a fan.

You weren’t deep into the K-pop scene or anything, but you’d heard the songs—on radios, in passing cars, the occasional playlist. Some of them were annoyingly catchy. Some stuck with you more than you cared to admit.

And that logo…

That was BTS. Big. Global. Ubiquitous. Impossible to miss once you knew it.

Your brows knit, with curiosity. You didn’t know exactly who Jungkook was. Not yet. But you were starting to have a damn good guess. With his tattooed hand now so close to you. And just before the pull of sleep dragged you under, you made a mental note: Ask him in the morning. Ask why someone with hands that ruined you so thoroughly… also had the most recognizable band inked on his skin.

The thought danced in your mind—half curiosity, half awe. But it faded as warmth overtook you, heavy and sweet. And finally, you let go. Let sleep take you. Your eyes fluttered shut. Tucked beneath the sound of soft rain. You were raw. Your body used and shaken, sore in the best way. Your throat dry from gasping his name. Your skin still damp with sweat, kissed with bruises and love. But none of it mattered.

Held in arms that felt far too good to be real.

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You woke to a sound so absurd, so wrong, it nearly made your soul leave your body.

Not screeching guitars. Not deep bass growls. Not the aftermath-of-a-storm kind—though that had its own weight—but something far worse in its own way: But bubblegum pop. Something sugary, chirpy, offensive—blasting from a nearby speaker.

You groaned, dragging the blanket higher over your head. Jungkook groaned too, rolling toward you, face buried in your shoulder. His arm flung around your waist like it belonged there. “Who the hell is playing that?” he mumbled against your skin, voice gravel-rough with sleep. “Make it stop.” You snorted, face buried in the pillow of his arm. “We’re cursed.”

Still tangled together in your makeshift camper bed, you melted into the warmth of him. His skin was soft and sticky from sleep, his breath slow. The camper was warm with shared body heat, tangled limbs, and the lingering scent of sex and rain. The storm had stopped sometime in the night—you’d felt the quiet settle over you as you drifted off. Now, only the soft rustle of wind moved the canvas outside, punctuated by the occasional splatter of water dripping off the awning.

Jungkook curled closer, nuzzling into your hair. His arm pulled you tighter against his chest like he couldn’t help it, and for a second you just… exhaled. And you smiled. You’d thought it might be awkward. Worried, briefly, as your eyes fluttered open. Wondered if there’d be tension or embarrassment between you.

But it wasn’t. Not even a little.

All you felt in the silence was peace—just comfort. A slow, sleepy kind of gentle closeness that wrapped around you like the worn blanket half-tangled at your feet. A lazy morning unspooled before you—slow kisses, warm touches, quiet laughter that felt like it belonged to something real.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pulled yourselves up and out. The world was soaked. Soft. Damp earth and fallen leaves. The sky was still gray, but it was a calm gray. Gentle. Forgiving. All in all, your little camp had survived better than expected. The damage from the storm wasn’t bad. Not really.

Your tent still stood, stakes holding firm. The pavilion—blessedly— had made it through, too. The extra effort you and Jungkook scrambling put in together—half-laughing, half-panicking in the rain—had paid off. It flapped now in the breeze, soaked but standing proud.

Together, with lingering hands and wordless glances, you and Jungkook got to work setting things back up with easy teamwork. You brushed past him once, and he caught your wrist briefly—his thumb smoothing along your pulse, his eyes dark with memory. Neither of you said a word.

Then—familiar voices in the distance.

“Yooo!”

Your friend’s voice rang out through the trees, followed by Yoongi’s dry tone, “You’re alive. Good to know.” They appeared on the muddy path, looking a little tired, a little smug, and entirely pleased with themselves. Your friend let out a victorious whoop the moment she saw the camp intact. “Hell yes! I don’t have to rewash everything!”

You all ate together—hot instant oatmeal and coffee made on a camp stove, bread slightly soggy but edible. The four of you sat in a circle, the chill in the air slowly warming with the sun, and plans for the day began to form: what shows to see, what vendors to hit, where the cleanest porta-potties might still be. Conversation bounced easily.

But your eyes kept drifting. Again and again, to Jungkook. You couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t help the pull. You caught yourself staring more than once. There was something there. In his face. In the curve of his lip, the cut of his jaw. In the way his tattoos shifted when he pushed his sleeves up, the ink across his hand catching the sun now that you had a proper look.

Your eyes lingered. The delicate calligraphy. The tiny symbols. The logo. You knew it.

You weren’t a fan—not in the hardcore sense. But you’d heard a song or two. And now… now it scratched at your memory like a locked door someone had cracked open. Once. Twice. You caught Jungkook staring, grinning back at you, as your gaze lingered. And each time, that grin—boyish and bright—spread across his face like he’d caught you stealing something.

You smiled back every time. Dumbly. Powerlessly. Couldn’t stop that either.

He was so... dorky. So easy to like. A man who had blown your mind in bed, yes—but also someone who laughed with you. Touched you gently. Looked at you like you mattered. And right now—sitting in the morning light, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, legs stretched out lazily in front of him, eyes crinkling as he teased Yoongi about something—you couldn’t stop watching.

You didn’t want to. Your heart fluttered once, then again, sharper. Harder this time.

Who was he?

You fumbled for your phone beneath the table, careful to keep it hidden from your friend and Yoongi. Then, with a few quick taps, you sent him a message. “Hey… can we talk later? Just the two of us?” You didn’t add more. Didn’t need to.

Across the camp, Jungkook’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, brow arching in surprise. You watched the shift in real time. First confusion. Then curiosity. Then something else entirely—his expression dimming just slightly, lips parting like a quiet breath had caught in his chest.

He looked up. Found your eyes. You smiled, small but reassuring. Jungkook smiled back, but it didn’t reach all the way.

Because now his heart was thudding. He’d hoped—maybe—that you were just flirting. Maybe planning round two. His thigh bounced slightly where he sat, hopefully. Another kiss. Another hour wrapped up in him. But then... his smile faded as he really looked at your reassuring smile.

Now he wasn’t sure. A small knot twisted in his chest. Did you… know? Did you recognize him? The tattoos. The voice. That logo etched into his skin. Panic whispered at the edge of his mind. He wasn’t just a guy at a festival anymore. Wasn’t just the man who held you through a storm.

His fingers flexed. Would this change everything? He didn’t know yet. Still, he typed back.

"Yeah. Of course. Whenever you want."

Then he looked up. Met your eyes across the table. And smiled. A little nervous. A little shy. But still that same grin. The one you were already falling for.

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The sun had begun to sink low, casting everything in that warm, golden hue that made even the mud-glazed festival grounds look almost romantic.

You’d spent the whole day with your friend and the boys, laughing through sets, dancing until your legs ached, screaming lyrics you barely knew. There hadn’t been much time to be alone with Jungkook. But it didn’t matter. He was there—brushing against you when the crowd surged, catching your eye when something funny happened, tugging you gently closer when a slow song played like it might carry you away without warning.

Still, by evening, you craved a moment with him. Craved him. You stretched with a groan and casually announced, “I’m kind of snackish. Gonna grab something.” It was barely a full sentence, but Jungkook had stood up immediately. “I’ll come.”

You exchanged no glances. Said nothing more. Just walked—quiet at first—side by side through the thinning crowds, past flickering string lights along a gravel path littered with paper cups and crushed plastic and the dull hum of bass from a nearby stage.

A breeze tugged at the edge of your jacket. The buzz of the day settled into your bones like warmth after a fire. Then Jungkook broke the silence, voice soft but laced with something nervous. “You… said you wanted to talk.” You glanced up, heart stuttering.

He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes forward. “Everything good? With us?”

Us. He said it like a question, not a statement. Like he didn’t want to assume, but hoped. Like maybe—for the length of this festival, at least—he wanted there to be an us. That little swell in your chest pulsed warmly.

You nodded fast, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good. I just…” You flushed, eyes darting to your feet as you walked. “It’s not about last night. I liked— I mean, really liked it. I didn’t want you to think…” At that, a blush touched your cheeks. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way his body moved with yours—it flashed in vivid color behind your eyelids. You cleared your throat, flustered. Jungkook glanced at you. A small smile tugged at his lips.

You tried not to get distracted.

You sucked in a breath and forced the words out. “You said you work in the music industry. Producing, right?” His posture stiffened slightly, caught off guard his eyes flicked away. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. Low. Careful. But he didn’t deny it.

You nodded slowly. Then quietly, almost shy, you tilted your chin toward his hand—the one with the tattoo. Your voice dropped to a murmur. “That’s BTS logo, right?”

The moment froze. He stopped walking. Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just looked at you.

You stopped walking, only a step ahead, and turned to face him fully. Your heart fluttered against your ribs like a moth in a glass jar. The moment stretched long between you, your breath caught in your throat. His eyes searched yours, unreadable. You chewed your lip, nerves twisting tight. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, heart picking up.

“Listen,” you began, suddenly sheepish. “If I… if I googled the band… I mean, this is stupid. Forget it.” You sighed, annoyed at yourself. Eyes darting everywhere but at him. Was it even important? Who he was? He had been nothing but kind. Soft. Gentle even when he’d held you down, filled you up, made you see stars. If he was a diehard fan—or even if he was someone—you weren’t sure it changed anything.

Still. The thought tumbled through you like a slow avalanche.

Jungkook watched it all play across your face. The doubt. The nervousness. The way your bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were trying not to say something you needed to.

And then—softly, almost more to himself—he said, “No. It isn’t stupid. Please. Just ask.”

Your eyes snapped back to his. His face was so open now. Not panicked. Not cold. Just—honest. Like he owed you that much. You still weren’t sure what answer you wanted.

Your voice trembled. “Are you…” You hesitated, fingers curling at your side. “If I googled BTS… would I see you?” He swallowed once. A small motion. Barely visible. Then he nodded. Slow. Gentle. Honest. Your breath caught.

It was like staring at someone you thought you knew—and realizing there was an entire other world behind their eyes. You blinked. You weren’t sure what you felt. Shock. Surprise. Stupidity. The image of him—sweaty and loud and laughing with you—didn’t quite line up with the dazzling, hyper-polished world you’d imagined for an idol. But now you could see it. The voice. The eyes. The tattoos.

“Why,” you breathed, “are you even at a metal festival?”

A ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “New inspiration,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Plus… it’s not really our scene. So, people don’t really expect to find us here.” You stared at him.

And then stepped a little to the side—away from the crowds, finding a quieter corner near the back of a merch tent where the lights faded and the crowd thinned. The grass was a little trampled, and the smell of sweet fried things lingered in the air.

You stopped, half-laughing, still trying to catch up with your own thoughts. “Okay,” you said, eyes wide. “So… that was a bit of a reveal.” Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, chuckling lightly. “Kinda dropped that one, huh?”

You snorted, your head shaking. “I mean, I did ask.”

“Still,” he said, voice soft, “sorry I didn’t say anything earlier.” You waved it off without hesitation, grinning. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not like there’s a rule about announcing your global fame before sharing a beer and dancing like an idiot to death metal.” Jungkook laughed at that—really laughed, head tilting back for a second. The sound warmed your chest.

You looked up at him, squinting slightly. “You’re really in BTS. Like, that BTS. The biggest band on the planet after ACDC?” He made a face like he wanted to downplay it but couldn’t exactly deny it. “Only on certain days,” he said with a shrug.

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he admitted, smiling again. “Most days.” You took a moment, let it sink in. “Wow. So that makes… Yoongi?” Jungkook nodded. “Yep.”

“And here I was thinking he just had really cool producer energy.”

“He’d be flattered,” Jungkook said, amused.

You paused for a beat, glancing out over the festival grounds—the blur of lights, the chatter, the echo of bass. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full—with questions, with feeling, with what could come next.

“So…” you began, glancing down at your shoes before forcing yourself to meet his gaze, “what does that mean now?”

Jungkook blinked. “What do you mean?”

You bit your lip, flushing. Then you smiled, small and embarrassed. “I liked you,” you admitted. “Still do. I just… You know… I kind of hoped we’d stay in touch after the festival. Maybe?”

He turned to you, brows raised. “You did?”

You nodded, a little shy but still smiling. “If you wanted to. I—Yeah. I mean, you’ve been fun to hang with. But…” you shrugged. Your eyes found his, nervous. “But now I know who you are. Well now I do. And I figured maybe that kind of thing—this kind of thing—doesn’t work —”

You cut yourself off, biting your lip again. You felt foolish. Like maybe you were asking too much from someone who lived in a different world. Who wasn’t just a guy at a festival, but someone known.  Jungkook looked at you for a long, quiet moment.

There was a softness in his expression then. His voice dropped just a little. “I like you too.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him even without touching. And then, softly, he smiled. “I’d like to stay in touch too,” he said simply. “Really.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes searched his. You both stood there for a second in that cozy pocket of space—no pressure, no big declarations, just two people a little surprised by how much this fleeting festival moment had started to mean.

“I don’t care if it’s three days or three months,” Jungkook said, voice steady but hopeful. “If you want something after this… if you want to see where this could go—then I’m down to try.” Your heart gave a full, aching thud in your chest.

He looked at you like he wasn’t just waiting for an answer, but giving you room to choose, no pressure in his gaze—just quiet sincerity. And it floored you. Your lips parted in a soft breath, a smile teasing your face. “You sure? I mean… I might have to go through four layers of management just to text you.”

Jungkook let out a breathy laugh, shoulders easing. “Nah,” The rest of the world faded, the sounds of music and shouting dulled like they were behind glass. It was just him now. Just the way his hand reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. The way his eyes flicked to your mouth. The way his voice dropped to a whisper meant for only you. “I’ll make it easier for you. I promise.”

The air shifted—gentler, thicker, sweet with something unspoken.

His fingers brushed your wrist, then slid up, slow and deliberate, until they found your hand. His thumb grazed your knuckles.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you bumped his shoulder. “Okay, but—serious question… do I have to go to your concerts?” His brows lifted. “What?”

“I mean,” you grinned, biting back laughter, “I’m more headbanging and screaming guitars than glitter and choreography. No offense, but I’m not sure my metal soul can survive the sparkly fan light experience.” Jungkook let out a real laugh this time, full and bright. “You secretly want to see me on stage.” You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “Excuse me?”

“You do,” he grinned, voice low and teasing. “You’re curious. I can see it. You wanna know, curious little metalhead, wondering what I look like in a silk shirt under stadium lights.” You scoffed, but it was useless—you were already smiling. “Please, not exactly my scene.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed knowingly. “Keep telling yourself that. I bet I can make you lose your mind.” You huffed a laugh and leaned into him just a little. “You showed me yesterday how to lose my mind without any clothes at all.” That made his grin spread wide—mischievous and proud.

You tilted your head, still smiling but letting a sliver of genuine curiosity into your voice. “Should I be worried? Do you make every girl lose their mind like that?” Jungkook’s cocky expression softened just slightly. “No,” he said without hesitation. “I only intend to do that with you.” Your stomach fluttered. God. The way he said it—like it wasn’t even a question. Because there was something in his tone, light but sure, teasing but real.

You nudged his arm, trying to defuse the warm ache in your chest. He nudged you playfully back. “Besides, you didn’t seem too upset about it.” You scoffed, nudging him again. “I’ll need written confirmation that your goal is not to ruin me completely.”

“No promises,” he whispered with a smirk, then leaned in to kiss you.

Your mouths met in a kiss soft enough to make your stomach flip, but full of the kind of promise that rooted deep. His lips moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm, and your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t showy.

It was real.

And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the fading festival noise. You smiled against him. “Fine,” you whispered. “But just because I really want to try.”

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it.

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Thunder, Tents and Tattoos

Jungkook x Reader I Slowburn I music festival au I Wacken Open Air I strangers to lovers I soft smut? I camping chaos I

At a wild metal festival, an unexpected connection sparks between you and a mysterious, charming stranger named Jungkook. What begins as playful tension and shared chemistry grows into something deeper, full of humor, warmth, and slow-burning intimacy. As the rain clears and secrets surface, you have the quiet hope that something real might last beyond just one unforgettable weekend.

Word Count: 23K

A/N: I have so massive problems with my internet connection-send help. Anyway, a Wacken AU but you can probably read it as any music festival AU. Btw if any of you are at Wacken this year, let me know. 💜

Masterlist

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You cranked up the volume as your ancient but beloved hatchback roared down the autobahn, packed so full it should’ve been illegal. The car rattled slightly with every bass hit from the speaker wedged between your food cooler and a folding chair.

“Y/N! Left lane, that’s a semi-truck!” your best friend shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking as you swerved back into the middle lane. “Relax, we’ve survived four Wackens already,” you grinned, glancing at her with your sunglasses slightly askew. “What’s one more truck?”

“We’ve survived by some miracle and sheer stubbornness,” she shot back, holding onto the armrest like her life depended on it. “And this car—this poor, exhausted soul—was not built for dragging two tents, a full-size pavilion, twelve crates of beer, a portable grill, and enough food to feed a battalion!”

“Don’t forget the gothic chandelier,” you added smugly. “Oh my god. Why did you even bring that again?”

“Because atmosphere, obviously.”

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By the time you reached the dusty fields of Wacken, your voices were hoarse from singing along to Papa Roach and Sabaton, your stomachs sore from laughing too hard about absolutely nothing, and your car looking like it had been through a war zone.

The moment you drove through the gates, the familiar wave of excitement hit you both. You rolled down your window. “This is it. Holy. Ground.” Your friend let out a dramatic gasp and pressed her hand to her chest. “Take me, Odin.”

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You were lucky this year: your spot was a dream. Not too far from the toilets (but not close enough to smell them), right near a water station (but not right next to it where everyone lined up), and you were within walking distance of the Holy Ground—Wacken’s main stages. You could practically feel the bass just waiting to rattle your bones.

It was perfect.

You parked. The moment you opened the car door, gravity seemed to give up—everything spilled out: chairs, tent poles, bags, a suspiciously large jar of pickles.

The back hatch of your car swung open with a groan, immediately followed by a soft avalanche of sleeping bags, folded tarps, and one tragically crushed bag of paprika chips. You caught it with a knee and a curse, barely dodging the edge of the heavy metal cooler as it shifted dangerously.

“I told you we overpacked,” your friend mumbled from the driver’s side, already climbing out.

You snorted. “It’s not overpacking if we use everything. That’s called ‘well prepared.’”

“It’s overpacking if we can’t see through the rearview mirror, Y/N.”

You flipped her off over the roof and popped open the tent bag with a flourish.

The campground around you was already humming with early arrivals—metalheads in all forms, from spiked vests and boots to the occasional chainmail enthusiast.

To your left, a sweet-looking older couple was already halfway done setting up their modest tent. The man raised a hand in greeting. Peaceful neighbors, hopefully.

To your right, a luxurious black camper van was parked, sleek and clearly not from the same world as your dented hatchback. The windows were tinted, the door closed, but it gleamed like something off a tech showroom floor.

“Glamping at Wacken?” your friend whispered with a smirk. “Somebody’s fancy.”

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Setting up the tents went... alright. The pavilion, however, was an entirely different story. You would forgo it, if the sun couldn’t be brutal sometimes, or the rain.

“I think this pole is backwards.”

“No, you’re backwards.”

“Your face is backwards!”

You wrestled with the stubborn frame for a few sweaty minutes before realizing you needed at least two more arms and a minor miracle. You looked around, eyeing your neighbors.

“Okay, okay,” you panted. “We need help. This thing is going to be our doom.”

You looked around. The old couple was enjoying their beer and clearly not in a state to lift anything heavier than a sandwich. That left... the camper. Silver and sleek, decked out with solar panels and tinted windows, and had definitely never seen mud. It looked like something out of a sci-fi film. You could see your own reflection in the paint job. The word luxury hovered around it like an aura.

You and your friend exchanged a glance. “Shall we?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Let’s beg the bougie space lords,” you sighed, wiping your hands on your shorts. You approached the camper and knocked twice on the door. After a brief pause, it hissed open a moment later, revealing two men—both dressed in black, both suspiciously attractive.

The one who answered the door had shoulder-length dark hair and a sleek jacket with a subtle diamond texture. He looked like he hadn’t sweated a day in his life. The second man appeared behind him, hair falling over his eyes, wearing a loose black shirt scrawled with white letters over a tank top, leather pants like it was nothing.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“Hi,” you managed. “Sorry to bother you—our pavilion’s waging war, and we’re losing. Any chance you could help hold a pole or two before one of us gets impaled?”

The guy with the long hair raised a brow, glanced at the other, and shrugged. “Sure.”

“Yeah, no problem,” the younger tattooed one added with a small grin, stepping out into the sun with a casual stretch. “Better than just sitting around.”

“Thanks,” your friend beamed. “We owe you a beer. Or ten.”

A few minutes later, the four of you were hunched over the mangled skeleton of the pavilion. Jungkook—though you didn’t know his name yet—held up the center post while you tried to force the crossbar into place.  “So…” he said, grunting slightly as he adjusted the pole. “You two do this often?”

“Fifth Wacken,” you said proudly, bracing one foot against the cooler for leverage. “We’re veterans.”

“This whole setup’s kind of a ritual,” your friend added, sweeping a hand at your gear, your patch-covered flag staked beside the tent, and the collapsible table stacked with pre-cooked meals.

“I like it,” Jungkook said. “We’re kind of… new to this.”

You raised a brow. “No kidding. Most people don’t roll up in a tiny house on wheels.” He laughed, dimples flashing. “Yeah, we weren’t sure what to expect.” You gestured toward the nearly-complete pavilion, sweat already beading down your neck. “This thing’s a lifesaver. Might not look like much, but once the rain hits—and it will hit—or the sun decides to turn us into roast pigs, we can still survive. Some shade. Some cover. A little windbreak. It’s not glamorous, but it works.”

Yoongi—still a mystery to you—stepped back and crossed his arms, surveying the half-standing structure. “Smart,” he said simply. “I didn’t even think about sun protection.”

“That’s because you brought the Millennium Falcon,” your friend muttered.

“I heard that,” Yoongi replied, not even looking at her. You laughed, finally clicking the last piece into place with a triumphant grunt. “You guys must be pros at something. This came together way faster with help.”

“We’re good at… logistics,” Jungkook said vaguely. “And disappearing,” Yoongi added, voice dry. “We were told this place was chaos. Thought we’d blend in.”

“You probably will,” you said, giving them both a lingering look as you hung the gothic chandelier into the middle. “Unless one of you secretly headlines the main stage.”

They both paused—just for a second.

Then Jungkook smiled again. “Nope. Just fans of loud music.”

“Well, in that case,” your friend said, cracking open a cold beer and holding it out like an offering, “welcome to Wacken.”

Despite the pavilion fiasco and the blazing sun trying to melt everyone alive, things were settling in nicely. You and your friend slipped smoothly into your usual festival routine—decades of metal shows and chaotic outdoor setups had made you two an efficient duo. While you chatted with your unexpected helpers and learned their names, you were also simultaneously:

Shoving your rolled sleeping bags into the tent with your foot.

Tossing your clothes into the corner on top of the foam mats.

Spreading an extra blanket across the bottom for comfort and insulation.

Setting up your foldable table and clicking your camping chairs into place like it was second nature.

You cracked a beer open, handed another one to Yoongi and one to Jungkook, who accepted them with surprised little smiles. The kind that said “Oh… you’re really being nice?”—like they hadn’t expected this level of relaxed hospitality from random strangers.

“Cheers,” you said, lifting your can.

“Cheers,” they echoed, clinking aluminum with hesitant amusement.

The conversation flowed easily—well, mostly on your and Jungkook’s side. He was more talkative, curious, full of little observations about the crowd and the energy of the campground. Yoongi mostly nodded, sipped his beer, and made the occasional deadpan comment that had you snorting into your drink.

Eventually, once the most important parts of camp were in order and the sun had shifted just enough to make moving less miserable, you stood up and stretched. “I’m gonna grab water,” you said to your friend, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. “Handcart’s in the car still, yeah?”

“Yep. Same place as last year.” You moved to get the little foldable cart from its place in the car, and Jungkook blinked at you. “Wait. You’re going to get water now?”

“Yeah?” You glanced back, puzzled. “Before the queues get ridiculous.”

Yoongi frowned slightly. “There’s… no water hookup?”

Your brow creased. “Not unless you pre-register for one of the premium mega-camps. They get those huge 100-liter tanks delivered, but the rest of us? Nah, it’s the refill stations or nothing.” They both stared at you like you’d just told them they had to milk a goat for hydration.

“I thought we’d just… get piping or something later,” Jungkook muttered to Yoongi in Korean, trying to keep it low. “Or pay someone,” Yoongi whispered back.

You, completely unaware of the whispering, went on cheerfully, “There’s a decent shop area just before the Holy Ground, usually with some water canisters left if you’re lucky. I can show you if you want?”

There was a pause.

Yoongi looked… quietly alarmed. Like he was calculating how many liters of water two grown men needed per day and realizing he hadn’t brought a single bottle. Your friend just stared at them both, one hand dramatically on her forehead, muttering, “Of all things not to think about... water?”

Jungkook looked at you. Really looked at you. There was a strange flicker in his eyes—like you’d just offered him shelter from a storm. His mouth tugged into a small, sheepish smile. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said softly.

“Not at all,” you grinned. “Let’s go.”

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The two of you made your way through the chaotic footpaths between tents, dodging a guy in a unicorn onesie carrying a box of Jägermeister and a woman wearing nothing but leather straps and sunscreen. The festival was in full pre-opening chaos, with people dragging crates, testing out speakers, yelling for lost friends.

Jungkook kept close to your side, pulling the handcart while you led the way like a seasoned general. “You really come here every year?” he asked as you passed the massive Wacken entrance arch. “Yep. Rain, shine, or ankle-deep mud. Even the year everything flooded and we build a trench around the tent with a camping spoon.”

He laughed, genuinely. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. That was the same year the refill station was about a mile away. We didn’t have this cart back then, so we had to carry our water—carry, like peasants. I had 10 liters strapped to each arm, sweating like a sinner in church.” Jungkook was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you still came back?”

“Oh yeah,” you said easily. “Wacken’s a pilgrimage.” He nodded slowly, and you caught him glancing at you now and then like he was trying to figure something out.

You found a shop vendor you trusted, and after some cheerful haggling (and giving up your remaining paprika chips), you helped Jungkook snag two solid 20-liter canisters.

Back on the path, you showed him how to load them into the handcart for balance. “You really know what you’re doing,” he said, impressed. You shrugged. “You learn or you suffer.”

There was a little silence. Not awkward—more thoughtful.

Then you turned to him, head tilting. “Sorry if this is weird, but… do I know you from somewhere?” you asked suddenly. “You look super familiar.” Jungkook froze mid-step. He blinked once. “Uh… I don’t think so?” You narrowed your eyes, not convinced, but let it drop.

“Huh. Weird. You’ve just got that… familiar vibe, I guess.”

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Must be my face.”

“Could be,” you said lightly, letting the conversation slide back into safer territory. “So what bands are you most excited for?” Jungkook visibly relaxed. “Machine Head. And maybe Gojira, if the schedule lines up.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” you grinned. “You’ve got taste.”

And so the two of you kept chatting, dragging 60 liters of water through dust and chaos, your laughter mixing with the distant sound of someone already playing a guitar solo on a portable amp. Neither of you mentioned that strange moment again.

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As the two of you returned to camp, the sun had finally dipped behind the trees, casting the festival grounds in that warm, golden twilight that made everything look like the calm before the storm. The dust from the footpaths still hovered in the air like fog, and the low thrum of distant soundchecks vibrated through the earth beneath your boots.

When you reached your little setup, your friend and Yoongi had already taken charge of dinner, much to your surprise. “You’re back just in time,” your friend said, crouched over the camp stove, flipping something sizzling in a pan. “We’ve got veggies and noodles, and yes, I seasoned it this time.”

“Luxury,” you grinned. “How’d you get him to help?” Jungkook added, nodding at Yoongi, who was calmly chopping something with the focus of a man who cooked to survive. “I bribed him with gummy worms,” she deadpanned. Yoongi lifted an eyebrow. “And silence.”

Soon the food was served, warm and salty in the best kind of way. You all ate cross-legged around the little foldable table with mismatched bowls and tin mugs, drinking another round of beer as the camplights around you lit up the dark like flickering stars. Music blasted from a few nearby tents, competing genres and tempos overlapping in a chaotic harmony only a metal festival could love.

The atmosphere was casual, loud, ridiculous—and perfect.

You played some card games, mostly ones that didn’t require real rules. Someone nearby had a soap bubble machine going. Another guy walked by in a full suit of armor and shouted “Viking funeral at midnight!” like it was a totally normal thing.

You laughed until your cheeks hurt.

As the night deepened, your friend stretched and yawned, her eyes glassy from laughter and beer. “I’m calling it. Tomorrow’s gonna be chaos, and I need sleep if I wanna survive the beer yoga and not die.”

Yoongi was already halfway to the camper. “Same. Wake me if someone lights a flare indoors.”

“Not again,” you groaned. And just like that, it was quiet.

Only you and Jungkook remained under the canopy, the light from your camp lantern casting soft shadows across his face as he leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, half-finished beer resting loosely in his hand. He looked incredibly at ease—but not bored. His gaze kept flicking toward you whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You stood up with a stretch, your arms reaching high above your head. “Time to do the glamorous teeth-brushing-at-a-water-station ritual,” you said, grabbing your hygiene bag and flashlight. “Ah, yes. True festival luxury,” Jungkook chuckled. “You get to do it in a camper. With a sink,” you added dramatically, mock-offended. He grinned. “I know. I almost feel guilty.”

“Don’t. You’ve earned it just by not complaining once about pulling our water wagon.” That made him laugh, and the sound was warm, low, and genuine. It did something strange to your chest. He stood too, dusting his pants off. “Well… good night.”

You hesitated for just a second. “Yeah. Sleep well, Jungkook. Thanks for hanging out.”

“Thanks for… everything,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Really.” There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… full. And warm. Then you turned, flashlight beam bouncing ahead of you as you walked toward the water stations, brushing your teeth to the soundtrack of someone playing Iron Maiden too loud and a couple drunkenly arguing about tent poles.

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Jungkook stayed behind, staring at where you disappeared into the dark. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He was glad you hadn’t recognized him.

When you’d tilted your head and asked if he looked familiar, his heart had stopped. But then you’d let it go, and he’d never been more grateful in his life. He liked being here like this—just Jungkook. Not the guy on stage. Not the idol. Just some dude in the dust with a cheap beer and a camp chair, talking to a girl who felt strangely magnetic from the moment he met her.

You were easy to talk to. Genuinely funny. And kind without any showiness about it. And there was something else, too.

It was how unbothered you were. How natural. Like you had no interest in pretending to be anything other than exactly who you were. That, more than anything, had caught Jungkook’s attention. He could still hear your laugh echoing in his ears as he turned and finally made his way toward the camper, the quiet crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound in the dark space between tents.

He hadn’t expected this. But he was glad he came after all.

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The morning sun spilled across your tent in streaks of gold and heat, waking you with the unmistakable sound of a hangover groan from your friend.

“Coffee… is needed,” she mumbled into her sleeping bag, barely visible aside from a dramatic hand flopped over her eyes. You chuckled and stretched before crawling out of the tent, already feeling the stickiness of dust on your skin. After some half-hearted brushing of teeth and shoving on yesterday’s hoodie, the two of you decided to hit the little farmer’s market that had popped up along the back end of the camping grounds.

It was a Wacken tradition at this point—buying fresh bread still warm from the oven, locally cured meats, spiced cheese, tomatoes so red they looked fake, and whatever strange but delicious-looking thing someone was grilling under a handmade sign.

By the time you returned to your camp hours later, the sun had shifted lower in the sky. You had bags of ingredients in your arms, plus some obscure metal band patches your friend insisted on sewing into her vest before the concerts started. Your legs were tired but your mood was light. The buzz of anticipation for the next day—the opening of the holy ground—had started crackling in the air.

As you rounded the corner to your tent, the sleek black camper next door suddenly hissed as its door swung open. Almost like it had been waiting.

Jungkook stepped out.

He looked like he’d just finished changing, a loose tank hanging off one shoulder and his dark hair still damp and curling slightly from a quick rinse. He paused mid-step when he saw you, and for a heartbeat, he looked almost startled.

“Oh—hey! You’re back,” he said, his voice a little too bright, his words overlapping slightly like he wasn’t sure which greeting to land on. You smiled, lifting your grocery bag in greeting. “Hey, neighbor. Miss me?”

He blinked, then laughed—sheepish and warm. “...A little.” You quirked a brow. Cute. Dorky and cute. “Well,” you said, dropping the bag onto your fold-out table, “since you're here and still alive, dinner together again?”

Jungkook lit up. “Definitely.”

Later, the four of you gathered again around your modest table under the pavilion. Your friend cooked while Yoongi cut more vegetables in eerie silence that somehow screamed “deep thoughts.” Jungkook helped you sort utensils and drinks, a calm rhythm to it all as twilight began to settle over the camp.

You were seated cross-legged in your chair, chewing a tomato slice, when your friend asked, “Are you guys ready for the chaos tomorrow?”

“Oh,” you perked up, grabbing your crumpled band timetable from your jacket pocket. “Let’s compare. I need to plan or I’ll miss everything.” Jungkook and Yoongi exchanged a look before digging out their own schedule, three schedules side by side, the chaos of overlapping bands and clashing stages staring back at you like a logistical puzzle.

“Okay, so I definitely want to see Rotting Dreams and Ashbone,” you said, circling two sets with your finger. “What about you? Do you guys have overlap?” Jungkook tilted his online timetable to compare. “Yeah—same here. But then I want to see August burns red during the overlap with Within Temptation. That’s gonna suck.”

“I’m skipping Within Temptation for Beyond the Black,” Yoongi muttered, tapping his phone decisively. You sat back, considering the layout in your mind. “So not all of our choices match up… but some. We could go together to the bands we all want to see.” Jungkook nodded. “Makes sense. More fun that way, too.”

“Yeah, but finding people in the crowd’s a nightmare,” Yoongi pointed out. Your friend perked up and said brightly, “Then we should just swap numbers. Makes it way easier.” She was already pulling out her phone when you noticed it—the subtle shift across the table.

Yoongi went still, his eyes flicking briefly to Jungkook. A moment passed between them, silent and compact, like they were exchanging a whole conversation with a single look. You weren’t sure what it was—hesitation? Concern? Caution?

Your brows lifted slightly, the shift in their energy not lost on you. But you didn’t want to make it awkward. “I mean,” you said lightly, offering a small shrug, “no pressure. We can always just agree on a meeting point and time beforehand. We just have to be smart about not getting swallowed by the sea of metalheads.”

Yoongi opened his mouth—you could see the polite refusal forming already, lips parting in that diplomatic rhythm—but Jungkook jumped in before he could speak.

“I’ll give you mine,” Jungkook said suddenly.

His voice was steady, but the speed gave it away. It was like ripping off a bandage—fast, slightly awkward, but committed—like he was worried the chance would vanish. His tone was calm, measured, but you noticed the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I mean… sticking to a place and time might get tricky. If one of us is running late or gets held up, it’s kind of a pain to wait around pointlessly. It’s better to just message.” There was something warm and sincere about the way he said it. Practical, sure—but also a little hopeful.

Yoongi looked at him for a long second—hard to read, but definitely calculating something.

You offered your phone to Jungkook without comment. He took it, typed his number in, then hesitated a second before giving you your phone back to save his contact.

You smiled to yourself as you saved the contact: JUNGKOOK (WACKEN WARRIOR 🤘)

He leaned forward to look. “Did you just call me a warrior?”

“Would you rather ‘Camper King’? Or maybe ‘Water Rookie’?”

That got a real laugh out of him, his eyes crinkling slightly. “Nooo. Don’t spread that story.”

“Too late,” your friend said, sipping her beer. “It’s legend now.”

That got a full laugh from him, low and warm. “I’ll take Warrior then. Sounds cooler.” Jungkook smiled, his eyes lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. And even though your friend kept chatting, and Yoongi had returned to scribbling something on his schedule, there was a quiet charge between you and Jungkook now—something unspoken and just beginning to build.

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The first day on the Holy Ground was chaos. The best kind.

You’d had a quick breakfast with your friend, coffee steaming in mismatched mugs, cereal in plastic bowls, already buzzing with adrenaline. Jungkook and Yoongi joined you later, fresh from their camper, looking too clean, too rested, like they hadn’t been swallowed yet by the storm that was Wacken.

Together, you stepped onto the sacred dirt.

It hit them immediately. The noise. The press of bodies. The thick scent of beer, sweat, and damp earth. The sound of guitars tuning up like battle cries. Flags fluttering. Spikes glinting in the sun. Boots stomping in rhythm. The Holy Ground breathed metal.

Jungkook’s eyes were wide behind his sunglasses. Yoongi tilted his head like he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. Or hearing.

You grinned.

They were rookies. Not just to Wacken—but to metal. You saw it in how they looked around too long. How they flinched when someone screamed “Slayer!” right next to them. How they held their beers like breakable glass, instead of as shields in a sonic warzone. You weren’t a mosher, never had been. But this? Their confusion? It was almost adorable.

Still, they had fun.

Especially Yoongi, when a band hit the stage with a vicious metal/rap fusion that had the crowd thrashing. His eyes lit up. His mouth moved with the lyrics. He was bouncing on his heels, fists clenched, nodding hard. That joy—real, raw joy—was something you weren’t expecting from the quiet one.

The day spun by in dust and distortion.

You split up before the last band block. Yoongi and Jungkook wanted to see Iron Fang. Your friend had wandered off to catch the Wacken Firefighters and get drenched in foam. You headed toward a smaller stage for a niche band you'd been dying to see.

You would meet up with them later. It was easy to have some down time here.

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By the time you found Jungkook and Yoongi again near the big stage, the sky was a bruised purple. The air buzzed with static before the lights hit. The crowd was gathering fast. It was crowded heavy, with way to many people trying to see the band.

Jungkook stepped closer, just enough that his presence was a shield. Not hovering. Just there.

He bumped your shoulder with his. “Stay close.”

So you did.

The lights exploded. The speakers roared. You let yourself be pulled into the sound, into the crowd, into the thrum of bass that shook your bones. You stood between Jungkook and Yoongi as the lights flooded the stage. The band tore into their first song, and the crowd moved like a living, thrashing sea.

You didn’t care about anything else.

The boys were fun to watch. Jungkook had this subtle bounce to his shoulders, barely noticeable unless you looked for it. Yoongi nodded along to the beat, eyes scanning the stage with quiet interest, the occasional smirk curling his mouth when something surprised him.

The three of you didn’t speak much. Just stood in the sound. Let it hold you.

After the show, the walk back to camp was calm, almost quiet—except for the wind. The temperature had dropped fast under the stars. You zipped your hoodie higher, arms wrapped around your chest. Boots crunching in the gravel, tents glowing faintly in the dark.

Jungkook watched you when you weren’t looking.

Your friend had skipped the last concert. Met up with other friends, said she’d be fine. And yeah, of course, you didn’t need to be glued together. But still. Jungkook found himself drifting closer to you as you walked. Not close enough to be weird. Just... near. Just in reach.

You and Yoongi had fallen into easy conversation—some debate about a setlist, or whether the second band of the day had botched their live mix. Yoongi was sharp, sarcastic, dry. You were more animated, gesturing with your hands, laughing when he made a face.

And Jungkook just listened. Not to the words—but to you. How your voice moved. How it warmed, even in the dark.

Back at camp, you wasted no time. Grabbed your hygiene kit and turned toward the water stations, hoodie pulled tight, your flashlight flicking on as the gravel crunched underfoot.

But before you got too far—

“Wait.” Jungkook stepped forward, hand raised. You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“I’ll walk you,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes didn’t match. Too serious. Too still. You tilted your head, surprised. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve done this walk a hundred times.” His jaw flexed. “I know. Still. Its late.” There was something under his voice.

You hesitated. Then you nodded. “Okay.”

Yoongi, standing by the camper door, lifted a brow. A slow, knowing look. Then he slipped inside without a word. The walk was quiet at first. Lights from the tents made strange shadows, and the night air had a bite to it. Jungkook kept pace beside you, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, head low.

A beat of silence passed. Then—

“What do you do?” you asked. “You know. When you’re not out of place at a metal festival.” He laughed—caught off guard, deep and low. “That obvious, huh?” You smiled. “Little bit.”

“I... travel a lot. Work with music,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Behind the scenes. Some writing. Producing. I guess I live kind of weird. Not a lot of nine-to-five in my life.”

“Sounds freeing.”

“It is. But... sometimes I wish I could just show up somewhere like this and be.” He didn’t say what he meant. But you could feel it. Like he wanted to tell you something just out of reach. “And you?” he asked, eyes on you now. “What do you do when you’re not fighting your pavilion and dragging rookies into mosh pits?”

You laughed. “University. Economics, believe it or not. Numbers and theories. Metal’s more fun, though.”

“Smart and metal?” he said, playful. “Dangerous combo.” Your eyes met. For a second, the path behind you and the stars above didn’t exist. Just the two of you. The breath between words. You reached the water stations.

“I’ll wait here,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Thanks, I will be quick.”

You emerged from the wash station, face clean, teeth brushed, skin chilled by the night air. Jungkook was still there, leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed loosely. He straightened when he saw you, falling into step without a word as you both headed back to camp.

The path glowed faintly under your flashlight. Tents loomed like sleeping beasts in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, someone was still blasting a leftover guitar solo, tinny and defiant against the quiet.

A soft chime broke the air. Both your phones buzzed at once.

You pulled yours out, thumb brushing the screen. “Storm warning tomorrow,” you read aloud. “Rain, maybe thunder. Be ready to shelter in your car. Or ask fellow metalheads if you don’t have one.” Jungkook glanced at his own screen. “Storm?”

You nodded, lifting your chin to gesture around you. “Open fields. Metal flagpoles. Not exactly ideal during lightning.” Realization flickered across his face. He looked around—really looked now. At the vast sprawl of tents. The sea of poles stabbing into the sky. Then to your little car by the edge of your camp. Then to his and Yoongi’s camper, and the other vehicles around them.

You smiled, half fond, half teasing. “It’s actually kinda fun. Scary too, sure. But when the rain’s pounding on the roof, and you’re stuck with people... there’s this weird calm. Like you’re sealed into a world apart.” He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you. Really looked.

His eyes were a little wide. Like he hadn’t expected that kind of thought from you. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to smile at the storm. Softly—“You’ve done this before?” You nodded. “Two years ago. Rain hit like a drumline. We were stuck in the car for hours, watching lightning crawl across the sky. It was... kind of beautiful.”

The wind stirred your jacket. Cold brushed your skin. You reached your tent. His camper was a few meters off. “Well,” you said, stepping back, voice warm but quiet. “Good night. Sleep well.”

You hesitated, just a breath. Then stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Quick. Gentle. But real. He stiffened for half a second—surprised. His breath caught. You pulled away just as fast, smiling up at him. “Thanks again.”

And then you slipped into your tent, zip rustling softly in the dark. Jungkook stood there. Stunned. Your warmth still on his chest. That brief press of closeness branded into him like heat. He blinked. Looked down at his hands like they might’ve missed something. He wished he’d held onto you. Just a second longer. He turned, quietly walked to the camper. Opened the door.

Yoongi was already passed out, one arm flung over his face, the faint hum of the small fan the only sound inside. Jungkook slipped in, lowered himself onto his bed in the corner. His heart still beat a little too fast.

The tent outside was quiet.

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You'd been lucky all day. The sky had threatened—low, grey, heavy with promise—but the rain held off. Instead, the wind cooled your skin, and the clouds kept the sun from burning through your clothes. It was the kind of weather that let you dance without sweating buckets. You could breathe. You could move. You could feel the music without being drowned in heat.

After hours of noise and chaos, you finally had a break. A two-hour gap before the next band you wanted to see. You’d planned it carefully: head back to camp, get real food—something that didn’t come wrapped in foil or served with lukewarm fries—and grab your hoodie for the night.

Yoongi had peeled off already, something about catching a niche band with distorted vocals and an industrial set. Your friend was off again too, somewhere on the other side of the grounds, but she kept sending texts and blurry pictures, so at least you knew she hadn’t been kidnapped by the Vikings or accidentally joined a medieval metal cult.

Jungkook, surprisingly, hadn’t planned to leave the holy ground at all. But when you mentioned heading back, he looked at his phone, then back at you, and said—

“I’ll come with.” Simple. Like it didn’t mean anything. But it made your chest tighten just a little. The walk back was quieter. Less screaming fans. Just the soft crunch of boots over trampled grass. Jungkook matched your steps without trying. When you glanced at him, he was watching the sky.

Back at camp, the place felt almost serene.

Your car sat waiting like a loyal dog, dusted with pollen and dirt. The pavilion overhead—your pride and nemesis—stood tall. It had tried to kill you during setup, almost decapitating your friend when the wind caught it wrong. But now it stood strong, defiant against the weather.

You pulled out your tiny stove, popped the lid, poured water into the pot. The hiss of gas and the gentle roar of flame filled the silence. Jungkook dropped into a camp chair with a low sigh, stretching out his legs. He looked more relaxed than he had all day. You watched the water bubble. Steam curled into the air.

Then—plip. One drop. Then two. Plip. Plip. Plip. Rain.

You both froze for half a second. It wasn’t heavy yet. Just a drizzle. Soft fingers tapping against the canvas above. But the air shifted. The scent of wet grass and cooling earth rolled in.

“Damn,” you muttered, reaching for the ramen packs. Jungkook tilted his head up, watching the water collect and roll off the sides of the pavilion. “Good timing,” he said, voice low, almost impressed. You grinned. “This stupid pavilion was almost worth the blood sacrifice it took to get it up.”

He laughed—sharp, real, teeth showing.

The wind picked up slightly, making the plastic sides flutter. The camp felt distant from the chaos now. Just the two of you, the stove, the sound of rain tapping rhythm on canvas. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had stepped back to give you a moment.

The water boiled. You dumped the noodles in, added seasoning, stirred with a half-melted plastic fork. Jungkook leaned in, his arm brushing yours briefly. Not enough to call it intentional. But enough that you felt it. He didn’t move away.

The rain came steady now—tapping against the canvas roof in a rhythmic pitter-patter, soft but constant. You sat beneath the shelter of your stubborn pavilion, steam from your ramen curling into the cool air like smoke signals. Jungkook sat cross-legged beside you, bowl balanced in one hand, chopsticks in the other. The world felt distant, muffled by rain and canvas. A pocket of peace.

You both ate in comfortable silence. The food was simple—salty broth, slick noodles—but it tasted like heaven after a long day of sweat, dirt, and loud music. Warmth pooled in your belly. You leaned back in your chair with a contented sigh.

Then, the wind came.

A single strong gust slammed into the pavilion like a shoulder. The table rocked hard—nearly tipping your empty bowls. You jumped, catching the edge just in time.

“Shit,” you muttered, standing fast. The wind picked up again—restless, urgent, almost alive. Jungkook was already on his feet, eyes scanning the flapping corners of the canopy. He didn’t ask questions. Just moved.

You moved, too. Fast.

You tossed the table and chairs into your tent without folding them properly—just cramming them in dry. Your stove came next, packed away with shaking fingers. The wind howled louder, tugging at everything not nailed down. You ducked low, moved quickly, began unhooking the legs of the pavilion to lower the whole thing before it flew straight into another camp.

Jungkook came up beside you without a word, grabbing the other side. His movements were strong, precise. Together, you collapsed the legs one by one, the metal groaning in protest.

And then—crack.

Thunder. It rolled deep, like the growl of some ancient beast crawling out of the sky.

A second later, both your phones buzzed at once. A notification from the Wacken app lit up your screen: ⚠️ Incoming storm. Seek shelter. Concerts paused. Stay in your vehicle or find a safe indoor location.

You looked up at the open field around you, as you closed your tent to keep the rain out. Flagpoles. Empty tents. Metal frames. “Perfect lightning rods,” you mumbled under your breath, heart kicking up a notch.

Jungkook's eyes flicked between your tent, your car, and the sky. Then without a word, he stepped closer, hand wrapping gently but firmly around your arm. Not forceful. But there was no question—he meant for you to follow.

“Jungkook, I can just—”

He tugged once, already pulling you with him toward the camper. Rain soaked the ground, turning dirt to mud as you both sprinted the few meters across the campsite. You tried not to slip, hoodie pulled low over your head, eyes squinting against the sheets of rain now falling faster, heavier.

Then—you were at the camper door.

Jungkook opened it fast and shoved you gently inside, one hand guiding your lower back. The warmth hit immediately. Dry air. Solid ground. A faint scent of citrus and something clean—maybe fabric softener. You stumbled in, breathless, heart still racing. Jungkook followed, shutting the door hard behind him. The sound of rain drummed against the roof now, angry and wild. Lightning flashed white against the tinted window. Thunder cracked close behind it.

“Thanks,” you breathed, wiping water off your face. He nodded. His hair was slightly messy from the wind but otherwise dry. He hadn't let the rain touch him much. Or you.

“I could’ve waited it out in my car,” you added, quieter. “I don’t want to bother you.” He looked at you like you’d just told him you believed the Earth was flat. “Bother?” he repeated, voice low, almost incredulous. “Why the hell would you bother me?” You blinked. Heat crawled up your neck.

Before either of you could say more, your phone buzzed again. A message from your friend.

"Safe! Sheltering with the concert group. Their car was way closer. Stay warm!! ❤️"

You smiled softly and texted back quickly. Another buzz—this time from Jungkook’s phone. He glanced at it, then said simply, “Yoongi’s good too. Found a place to wait it out.” You nodded. That was a relief. You didn’t ask where. Jungkook didn’t elaborate. He and Yoongi had booked also a hotel room, just in case. But he didn’t bring it up. To avoid showing off. He didn’t want to give you another reason to try and place his face.

And god—you had seen him before. Somewhere. A music video? A poster? An old festival lineup?You pushed the thought away. You peeled off your hoodie and shoes, setting them neatly aside. Jungkook offered you a blanket from the small overhead compartment. You accepted it with a soft thanks, settling into the cushioned bench across from him.

Warm. Safe. Dry.

Outside, the storm raged like the world was cracking in two. But in here—it was calm. Soft light. Subtle hum of power. A quiet between you. Jungkook leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out, head resting against the side wall of the camper. He watched you for a second too long. Not creepy. Not possessive.

Just… watching.

Like he was trying to make sense of something in you.

Or in himself.

You sat tucked into the corner of Jungkook’s camper, knees drawn to your chest, wrapped in the soft fleece blanket he’d handed you. The hum of the small generator filled the silence between thunderclaps, a gentle reminder of comfort in chaos. A warm light above flickered slightly as the storm howled outside—wind screaming, rain slamming like fists on the camper roof. Lightning split the sky in wild flashes, each followed by a low, rolling boom of thunder that vibrated through your bones.

You checked your phone again. The Wacken app loaded slowly. A storm alert still sat at the top of the screen. You refreshed the weather app. It didn’t look good. The dark red blob of the storm stretched wide, unmoving.

You sighed. “I’m hope I still get to see some bands tonight,” you muttered, rubbing your face. “If not that would suck.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook replied from the opposite bench, his voice low, warm. “But you’d have been soaked in your car. Alone.” You looked at him—hair pushed back, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a faint smile playing on his lips. He wasn’t wrong. “Thanks again,” you murmured. “I’m really glad you pulled me along.” He just nodded, eyes meeting yours with something unreadable behind them. Something softer.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through a small collection of downloaded movies on the camper's screen. Basic power, basic comfort—but compared to your car? This was luxury. “Oh my god,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “You and Yoongi are so bougie. A whole-ass camper? With power? A TV? You brought a blanket that’s softer than my bed at home.”

Jungkook snorted, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “You want to talk about bougie?” he shot back. “I saw your cooler. You brought fancy oat milk.”

“That’s survival-grade equipment,” you said, deadpan. “Not luxury.” He grinned at that. His dimple flashed. A moment passed. “Where did you guys get this camper?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “It’s suspiciously perfect. Like—too perfect.”

He shrugged. “Rented it.”

“From where? NASA?” He chuckled but didn’t offer more. You squinted at him. “You deflect like someone used to hiding expensive purchases from their parents.” Jungkook just shook his head, still smiling as he browsed through the small list of downloaded movies, head tilted, eyes scanning the titles with exaggerated seriousness.

Finally, he gave a small, satisfied nod. “This one,” he said, selecting something without much fanfare. You didn’t even check what it was. Just shifted over to the bench seat that had the best view of the camper’s little screen. It was cozy and narrow, the cushions slightly worn but warm from where you’d sat earlier.

Jungkook joined you a second later, moving with the quiet grace he always carried. He sat down beside you—not close, not far. Just there. Present. Your knees were almost touching. Without thinking much, you reached for the blanket he’d handed you earlier, and as he settled in, you tossed the corner of it over his lap. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He didn’t react. Didn’t joke or fidget. Just pulled it a little higher on his legs, adjusting without a word. The movie began. Some action-adventure you half-remembered. Thunder cracked overhead, a sharp burst that rattled the walls. Rain drummed on the roof, insistent and steady. Jungkook sat still beside you, arms crossed lightly, one foot tucked under the bench.

At first.

Over time—slowly, subtly—he shifted. You barely noticed it happening. One lean during a funny scene. A slow slide closer as the blanket tugged. His thigh brushed yours lightly. Then stayed. Your eyes flicked to him once, but his were on the screen. Calm. Focused. But his arm now rested just behind you, barely touching the backrest.

Warmth radiated from him in waves.

Another thunderclap. You flinched a little this time. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulder bumped yours again, more deliberate now. You let it happen.

The storm outside hadn’t let up. If anything, it had gotten worse. The wind howled like something alive—something furious—snapping at the camper’s walls and making the metal groan. Every few minutes, thunder cracked so loud it shook the cabinets. A fork rattled in the sink.

But inside?

It was warm. Safe. A soft pocket of light and breath, thick blanket shared between you, your legs brushing under the fabric. The small screen flickered with half-forgotten explosions from the movie, sound turned down to a soft hum—just enough to make the silence feel less fragile.

You weren’t watching.

Not really.

Your eyes wandered. To the condensation gathering along the camper windows. To the slow, measured rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest beside you. He sat beside you—silent, steady. He didn’t hover or push. He was just… there. His presence warm like a fire without flames. His fingers were resting on his thigh, calm, save for the gentle motion of his thumb grazing a loose thread from the blanket.

Another flash of lightning ripped across the sky—so bright it lit up the inside of the camper like a camera flash. A beat later, thunder followed. Loud. Cracking. Close.

Your phone buzzed.

Wacken App Notification:⚠️ All remaining concerts cancelled for the day. Storm conditions expected to continue through the night.

You stared at the screen, jaw tight. Your stomach sank. Three bands you'd been dying to see—gone. Canceled. You’d been waiting all year to see one of them. Disappointment curled in your chest like smoke—but under it was something else. Heavier. Dread.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Your thoughts went to your car. The cramped back seat. Cold air leaking in through the doors. Windows fogging up. Rain hammering on the roof as you tried to sleep half-curled in damp clothes. Thunder jerking you awake every time. Alone.

You hadn’t even said anything yet—hadn’t made a move to get up—when Jungkook’s voice cut through the quiet. “You can just sleep here.”  He said it softly. Without looking at you. Like it was nothing. Like it made perfect sense , like he hadn’t just offered you something huge.

Your head turned toward him, blinking.

He wasn’t watching the screen anymore—his gaze rested somewhere near the corner of the small camper, far off. Casual. But there was something in the way he spoke. Calm, but sure. The way someone offers something they’ve already decided they want to give.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

At that moment, Jungkook’s phone lit up too—just briefly. A message from Yoongi. He read it, locked the screen. Didn’t mention the hotel room Yoongi had decided to crash in. Didn’t say they’d booked it months ago—just in case the camping experience wasn’t for them. Didn’t tell you they’d dropped more on that hotel than some people paid for their entire week at Wacken.

Instead, he said simply, “Yoongi found a place to crash too. He’s good.” Nothing more. No flex. No explanation. Just reassurance. Another flash of lightning. Another snarl of thunder, this one close enough to make your bones feel it.

And then—buzz.

Your phone again. This time, your friend. “People I watched the show with are letting me stay in their van for the night. Looks like no more concerts anyway 💀 stay safe!!”

You exhaled, tension bleeding from your shoulders. Relief hit hard and fast. She was safe. Thank god. “Thanks,” you murmured, turning slightly to face him. “For letting me stay.” Jungkook gave a faint nod. “It’s no trouble.” He nodded, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything more back.

Without really thinking, you leaned in. Rested your head gently against his shoulder.

The fabric of his hoodie was soft beneath your cheek—worn, warm, and carrying the faint scent of rain and something that was just… him. For a second, he froze. You felt it immediately—the subtle way his body stiffened, the slight hitch in his breath. Your heart stuttered.

Shit. Had you misread this? Gone too far?

You shifted, ready to pull back—But before you could move an inch, Jungkook’s arm came around you. Steady. Sure. Drawing you in. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just close. And you let yourself go. Your body curved into his like it belonged there.

Outside, the storm tore at the sky—lightning splitting it open, thunder cracking like the earth itself was breaking. Jungkook’s hand rested lightly at your waist, fingers warm through the blanket. Your breaths matched. Slow. Careful. The movie flickered, forgotten. The thunder could scream all it wanted.

You weren’t moving.

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By the time the movie faded into end credits, you were asleep. Your head had slipped from his shoulder down to his chest, cheek pressed right over his heartbeat. A small puff of your breath warmed the fabric of his hoodie with every exhale. One hand had curled loosely against his side, fingers twitching slightly in sleep. You looked peaceful. Soft. Completely unguarded.

Jungkook glanced down at you and chuckled under his breath. God, you were cute. Cool, too—quick-witted, sharp-eyed, grounded in a way he rarely saw. You didn’t fawn over him, didn’t ask weird questions, didn’t treat him like some walking idol. You just… existed. Real. Warm. Completely yourself.

He liked that. More than he probably should.

Your friend had been fun earlier too—friendly, chaotic in a good way—but with you… it was different. Something about the way you talked, moved, looked at him without that flicker of recognition or pressure. Something about the way you trusted him now, curled up beside him like you’d known him for years. Something just clicked.

The storm outside still hadn’t let up. If anything, it sounded worse. Rain pounding the camper roof like it wanted in. Wind pushing hard enough to rattle the frame. Jungkook frowned slightly. For your sake, he hoped your tent would survive the night. The thought of you waking up to soaked clothes and a collapsed canopy made something tug in his chest.

You shouldn’t stay out here on this tiny bench. You deserved the real bed.

Carefully, Jungkook shifted, readjusting his arm beneath you. One hand moved gently across your back, the other curling around your legs to lift you. You stirred just as he shifted to lift you. His arm moved to brace your back, but your fingers lightly caught the fabric of his hoodie.

“Mmm…?” Your voice came out low and scratchy, sleep-rough. You blinked up at him, eyes heavy, confused but not alarmed.

“Hey,” he said softly, almost whispering. “Movie’s over. Let’s get you ready for bed, yeah?” You hummed again and stretched like a cat, arms above your head for a moment before flopping back against him. “’M fine here,” you mumbled.

Jungkook chuckled. “You’ll cramp up on that bench. I’ll lend you some clothes. Bed’s more comfortable.” You yawned, rubbing at your eyes. “Clothes would be great. Thanks…” He got up, reluctantly peeling himself away from your warmth, and dug into a small cabinet near the back. A few seconds later, he came back with a faded black shirt and soft gray sweatpants.

You took them without hesitation.

“Perfect,” you said, already tugging your hoodie over your head. Jungkook blinked.

You weren’t stripping completely—of course not—but your casualness caught him off guard. Confident. Comfortable. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Tank top. Then the hoodie off. Pants next. You turned slightly to the side for modesty, but you didn’t hide. Like sharing space like this with him was… natural.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. It was a festival. Privacy was a myth out here. But still—watching you so at ease in your skin made Jungkook’s throat go dry. He turned around fast, ears burning. “Warn a guy, maybe?” His ears went red. You laughed. “You offered the clothes. Don’t get shy now.” He made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan, face still hidden as you pulled the shirt on.

When you were done, you flopped down on the bed, testing the mattress with a lazy bounce. “This yours?”

“Yeah.”

You yawned again, half-asleep already. “We will both fit, right?” Jungkook’s brain short-circuited.

“We—what? I mean—uh—you don’t mind?” he stammered, standing awkwardly with a blanket still in his hands. You cracked one eye open, frowning faintly. “Didn’t mean to kick you out or anything. It’s your bed. You offering was sweet, but I thought… I mean, it’s not weird to share a bed, right?”

He was blinking at you like you’d just suggested skydiving together. “I just… I thought you’d want space. Privacy.” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Where? In the luxury four-by-four closet? And force you to sleep where—no.” He sputtered. “I—okay, fair.”

You laughed, then caught the look on his face—eyes wide, ears pink, expression flustered. You realized what you’d said—how it sounded. Your face lit up in a rush of heat. “Oh.” You paused, suddenly sheepish. “Did I… misread that?” Jungkook opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He burst out laughing. The tension cracked wide open. “No, no—I got it,” he grinned. “You just have a very casual approach to bed-sharing.” You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Kill me.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, still laughing, still red in the face. “It’s fine. Really. It’s… kinda nice.” You peeked at him through your fingers. “You sure?” He nodded. “Yeah. We’ll fit.” He clicked off the lights, leaving only the soft glow from a battery-powered lantern on the counter. The storm still roared outside, thunder rolling endlessly, but in here it was calm. Steady.

You both crawled under the blanket—awkward at first, trying not to bump knees, too aware of every brush of fabric and skin. But it didn’t take long before you settled again. The way you had on the bench. Easy. Warm. Real.

Jungkook lay on his side, arm tucked under his head. You shifted closer. He didn’t stop you. Eventually, your forehead brushed his shoulder. And he smiled. Quiet. Content. Outside, lightning split the sky again. The camper rattled in the wind.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears. You shifted, curled into him with a little sigh.

He exhaled slowly.

You had melted against Jungkook’s chest like you belonged there. Wrapped in the soft hush of his shirt, surrounded by the scent of cedar, faint soap, and something warm and masculine underneath. Each breath you took was slow. Steady. You felt… safe. Anchored.

Jungkook’s arm curled around you—hesitant at first, almost unsure. Then firmer. Secure. Like instinct.

His fingers began to move. Slow. Gentle. He traced aimless shapes on your back through the shirt he’d given you—swirls, lines, little touches that had no meaning but carried weight all the same. Slow, lazy patterns that lulled you deeper into peace.

You hummed softly. A sound of comfort. Of surrender. Your hand flexed where it rested on his chest, clutching a small fistful of his shirt. He felt it.

Each pass of his fingers made your shirt inch upward. Just a little. Enough for the cool air of the camper to kiss the strip of skin exposed near your lower back. Enough that when Jungkook’s knuckle brushed bare skin—accidentally—he froze.

His fingers stilled mid-gesture. His breath caught. The soft rise of your spine under his palm made something catch in his throat. He hadn’t meant to—but he didn’t pull away either.

Had that been too far?

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t stop him. Instead, you pressed closer. Not shy. Not startled. You let your forehead sink deeper into his chest, nuzzling the soft fabric like it soothed something in you.

Jungkook let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

And then he moved. Bold this time. A quiet choice. A quiet risk.

With a flick of his wrist, his hand slipped under the hem of your shirt. Heat met skin. His palm was broad, warm in a way that made you shiver. His fingers danced directly against your skin. He dragged slow strokes across your bare back—up the ridges of your spine, then down again, curving around your sides. Warm. Deliberate. Intimate.

Your breath hitched.

The sound was soft—but it cut through him. And then you gripped his shirt tighter. Jungkook swallowed hard, lips parted, heartbeat thunderous in his chest. He tilted his head, his voice drop low, lips brushing your hair as he murmured low, “Does this feel nice?” A whisper only meant for you.

The words sank into your skin like warmth in cold water. He felt your answer more than he heard it—your temple burrowed deeper into his chest, lips barely moving. Then you whispered, breath brushing his skin: “Very.”

That single word cracked something open in him.

Jungkook’s hand moved again—this time with intent. Desire. Need. Wonder. No more laziness in his touch. He pressed deeper, mapped more of you. The curve of your waist. The slope of your spine. He caressed upward, gliding from your hip to your shoulder blades and back down again. Slow, firm strokes that left fire in their wake. He was exploring now. Learning the map of your back like he meant to memorize every inch.

Your skin responded to every touch—warming beneath him, drawing his hand like a magnet. You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in. Every pass of his hand ignited something deeper in you. A want that curled like fire low in your belly. Then his hand slowed. He reached your neck.

His fingers paused there, spread wide, thumb just below the base of your skull. He tilted his hand slightly—just enough to nudge your chin up, a subtle, unspoken ask. And you let him. Your head tipped back, lashes low, lips slightly parted.

Jungkook looked down at you—eyes dark, searching, hungry and hesitant all at once. You could see everything in his expression. The way his lips parted slightly. How his brows twitched like he couldn’t believe this was real. You felt breathless. Weightless. Anchored only by the steady pressure of his hand on you.

The distance between you shrank, like gravity made the final call. You weren’t sure who moved first. It didn’t matter. The thunder outside faded into static. The wind disappeared. There was only him. Because the moment his lips met yours, the rest of the world vanished.

The taste of him—warm and soft and a little shy. Not just the heat of his mouth but the way he kissed—careful but deep, like he’d been waiting. Like he didn’t want to rush but had to taste you. like he was still afraid to ask too much. You answered with a tilt of your chin, a soft press back.

That was all it took. Jungkook deepened the kiss.

His hand on your back tightened, pulling you flush against him until there was nothing left but breath and heat and want. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb grazing just beneath your cheekbone. Grounding you. Holding you there, like you were something precious. Like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And god, it felt good. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just good. Deep and slow and curling in your belly like fire finding fuel. You sighed into his mouth. Or maybe you moaned—it blurred together. The sound slipped past your lips like it had been waiting for him, and Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

His mouth opened wider, and his tongue met yours—slow and hot and curious. He tasted you. Explored you. The brush of him against you was soft at first, but it built—growing bolder, more intense. A rhythm. A pull. You tried to match him. Tried to keep up with the push and slide and drag of him. But each time you found your footing, he kissed you harder. Deeper. And your thoughts vanished entirely.

You gripped his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. The fabric bunched in your fist, stretched tight across his chest, but it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Your free hand slid up his torso, feeling every inch of muscle beneath cotton. His body was unreal—firm, warm, alive. His chest was solid under your palm, his heartbeat thunderous. Your fingers climbed higher, brushing over his pecs, his collarbone, until they threaded into the soft hair at the back of his neck.

You curled your hand there. Held him close. Held him to you. Kissed him like you were afraid he might disappear. He moaned into you. The sound vibrated against your mouth—needy, low, his. It punched through your chest, dark and low, raw and needy.

And then—with your next breath—you were on your back.

Jungkook hovered above you, eyes burning, mouth kiss-swollen, chest rising in sharp, shallow breaths. His hand stayed at your throat—not squeezing, just there, firm and grounding, his thumb brushing the skin beneath your jaw as he angled you perfectly for him and looked down at you like you were something he could devour.

His other hand gripped your hip, fingers spreading wide, holding you in place like he owned you. Possessive. Protective. One of his legs had slid between yours. Solid. Heavy. Pressed firm against your thigh. Close—but not nearly close enough.

Not where you needed him. Not where your body burned for him.

Still, it made your breath hitch. The ache in your body bloomed—slow and consuming. Your legs shifted restlessly around his thigh, needing more friction, more of him. And Jungkook—he just watched. Breathing hard. Lips parted. His tongue darted out to wet them, catching briefly on the silver hoop in his lip—the glint of it dizzying up close. The contrast of soft skin and cold metal made your stomach flip.

He leaned down—lips brushing yours, breath hot and trembling against your skin—and whispered, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me if I go too far.” You arched into him, chest heaving, thighs tightening around his leg. “Not even close.”

And then—his mouth was on yours again. Hotter. Deeper.

This kiss wasn’t tentative. It was need, distilled. Wild. Like he’d been waiting to taste you properly and now couldn’t stop. His hand on your hip moved—up, under the soft cotton of the shirt he’d lent you. The fabric lifted inch by inch with every pass of his fingers, revealing skin to the storm-warmed air. His touch was slow but deliberate, like he wanted to memorize you.

He kissed you relentlessly, tongue sliding over yours, pulling soft gasps from your lips as his hand explored the curve of your waist, then higher—up your ribs. Then he found your breast. You moaned into his mouth as he cupped it, but the thin fabric of your bra still kept him from really feeling you. You shifted beneath him, growing impatient, the ache spreading wider now.

Your hands fumbled between your bodies, fingers working fast at the clasp behind your back. You barely broke the kiss, desperate to give him more. As the bra snapped free, Jungkook’s breath caught.

You didn’t wait. Your hand immediately moved to his shirt, riding it up his torso, palms grazing his warm skin, the lines of muscle tightening under your touch. You felt everything—the dip of his waist, the sharp cut of his abs, the softness at his sides. Your breath hitched.

He growled softly against your lips.

With your bra loose, his fingers slipped beneath the cups, finally touching you without barrier. Skin to skin now—nothing in the way. Nothing stopping him from touching, from learning. His hands were big, warm, careful—but confident. He squeezed gently, rolling his thumbs over your nipples with expert pressure. You whimpered. The pleasure coiled low and fast in your belly.

Then he pinched—firm, teasing.

“Jungkook—” It came out broken. More exhale than word. His name on your tongue like prayer. He grinned against your mouth. You could feel it—the shape of his lips stretching into a smug curve. His lip ring caught your skin as he kissed you again. Cool metal. Hot mouth. A jolt to your spine.

And then—he shifted.

His thigh wedged between yours, the pressure maddening. He pressed himself against you, rutting slightly for relief. Even through layers, you could feel the hardness of him, thick and hot and aching. The friction sent sparks through your nerves. You gasped, rocking into him, needing more. The promise of more a whisper against your core.

You gasped. Your hips moved on instinct. Chasing that pressure. He groaned into your mouth. Low. Ruined. “You sound…” He broke the kiss, barely an inch away. “God, you sound so good.” You were too far gone to answer. All you could do was nod, kiss him harder, pull him closer.

Your hand trembled as you grabbed his shirt as you pulled it higher, bunching it toward his chest. Tugged it up over his ribs. You needed him bare. Needed skin. Heat. Him. He chuckled, breath hitching. That soft rasp buzzed against your lips.

Then he sat back. Just enough. Hooked his arms behind his head. Pulled the shirt off in one fluid motion. And god—he was beautiful. Lean muscle, golden skin, tattoos dancing across his chest and arms. Your eyes drank him in. Every inch. Every detail. He caught you staring and smiled.

You blinked up at him, dazed and hungry.

“You too,” he said, tugging at the shirt you wore—his shirt. “Fair’s fair.”

He peeled it off you slowly, revealing your bare chest. The fabric smelled like him. Felt like him. You hesitated for just a second, “Guess it’s only right.” then let him tug it off in one smooth pull. His hands brushed your sides, soft and reverent, thumbs grazing your ribs. His eyes darkened as he took you in, but there was a softness to it too—like he wasn’t just looking at your body, but you.

You were bare beneath. Exposed. Breathing hard. He stilled. Eyes dark. Lips parted. His hands came to your sides. Soft. Like he didn’t want to startle you. His thumbs brushed your ribs. Then slid up. His gaze never left your face. “God,” he breathed. “You’re... you’re beautiful.”

You bit your lip, still breathless, flushed all the way to your ears under the weight of his praise. But the smile tugging at your mouth wouldn’t go away. “I liked wearing that shirt,” you murmured, voice low, teasing. “Technically, it’s mine now.” Jungkook huffed a laugh, warm and crooked. “Yeah? I’ll allow it.” He leaned in, nose brushing yours. “But I might steal it back… if you wear it in my bed again.”

You didn’t get the chance to reply. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. Lower. His lips ghosted over your neck—soft, then a sudden nip of teeth. You gasped. Then his chest met yours again.

Bare skin on bare skin.

He settled over you, a slow, careful weight. All lean muscle and quiet strength. His hand returned to your hip, thumb brushing over bone, grounding you. His thigh pressed higher between yours—closer. Close enough to make your breath stutter. Still, his kiss stayed gentle. Tender. Like he wanted you to feel everything. And you moaned straight into his mouth.

That sound— It cracked something open in him.

A deep, low groan rumbled from his chest, straight into yours. Then his hips rolled, slow and deliberate, right into you. The pressure made your back arch. A firm press, not quite where you needed, but close enough to steal your breath. You whimpered his name, desperate, breathless.

“Jungkook—” His kisses trailed lower. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. To the swell of your breast. His mouth was reverent. Curious. Devoted. You shivered as he kissed a path over your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast. His hand stayed firm on your hip, pressing you down into the mattress as your body tried to chase more—more friction, more of him.

His mouth closed around one nipple. You gasped.

He took his time. His lips, warm and plush. His tongue, slow. Careful. His teeth grazed lightly, just enough to make you arch. Then he flicked his tongue, pulling your nipple between his lips and sucking just hard enough to make you mewl. He groaned in response. “God, you’re so responsive,” he murmured hot against your skin. “So pretty like this.”

He gave your other breast the same attention—maybe even more. His hand pinned you down by the hip, steady, unmoving. And god, you needed to move—needed friction—but he held you still. Just to feel you strain beneath him. Just to hear that helpless whimper catch in your throat.

Your hips tried to lift, to grind into him, but his palm flattened, steadying you. His strength made you ache in the best way. Jungkook chuckled low in his throat, lips trailing lower still. “You’re already trying to move?” he teased softly, mouth still on your skin. “So impatient.”

You could only moan in reply.

His kisses moved lower. Over your ribs, your stomach. Slow. Intentional. Worshipful. Down to the curve where the sweatpants—his sweatpants—hung low on your hips. His breath tickled your skin, hot and humid. He pressed a kiss to your hip. Smirked. “These also technically yours?” You huffed, breathless, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes,” you said. “But… you can have them back… for now.”

“Oh,” he hummed, amused, dragging his lips along the waistband. “So generous.”

Your breath hitched. One hand gripped the sheets. Your other hand threaded through his hair. Needing him. Pulling him. You didn’t know what you were begging for anymore—you just wanted more. His pretty fingers, decorated with soft tattoos and calloused pads, toyed with the waistband, slow, like he had all the time in the world. His eyes flicked up, watching your face the whole time.

You helped him. Pushed the sweats down, exposing your thighs to the cool air. A sharp contrast to the heat blooming between you. His eyes followed the motion like a man starved. Through the thin fabric of your panties, it was obvious. How much you wanted him. How ready you were. When he saw the sheer wetness darkening the front of your panties, he nearly groaned. His jaw flexed.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a tease—but you beat him to it. “On second thought…” Your voice was raspy, playful. “You want to borrow my panties too? I don’t think I need them right now.”

Jungkook blinked. His jaw dropped for half a second. Then he grinned. That stupid, adorable grin you were starting to love. He looked absolutely wrecked with affection. And lust. And disbelief.

God, he was beautiful. A dork. A gorgeous, flustered dork with a body sculpted by the gods.

He let out a low laugh, leaning in. “Sure. If they’re causing you any trouble… I’d be happy to help.” You laughed, breathless. “Please.” His touch turned reverent again. He slid them down—slow, careful, his fingers brushing your thighs. He kissed the inside of one, and then the other. You trembled. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to reach him first.

He looked up at you through his lashes. Tender. Hungry. Spellbound.

Then he slid back up. Jungkook guided your legs gently apart, one hand to each thigh, not forcing—just inviting. Positioning himself between your thighs just enough so he could settle between them. The closeness was dizzying. His breath, his hands, his eyes—every inch of him was focused on you. Worshipful. Intent.

He hovered there. One hand framing your face. The other resting beside your hip. “You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, rough with restraint. “You still want this?” You cupped his face, eyes searching his. “I want you, Jungkook.”

That was all he needed. Jungkook hovered above you, breath mingling with yours, his weight braced on one arm as the other stayed anchored at your hip. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His hand moved. Slowly. Intentionally. Down. Over the curve of your waist. The dip of your lower belly. Then lower still—until his fingers brushed between your legs.

You startled, instinctively twitching at the first contact. But he stilled, eyes never leaving yours. You relaxed. Opened to him. Trusted him. He let out a breath—relieved, maybe. Or reverent. You couldn’t close your thighs with the way his hips were nestled between them. And you didn’t want to. You just gripped his bicep, grounding yourself as the pressure of his touch grew.

Then finally—He found you. Warm. Soft. Soaked.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered, chest rising as his fingers slipped through the slick heat between your thighs. His touch was light at first, almost reverent. Slow. Careful. Watching every flicker of reaction cross your face.

A low, guttural sound escaped him—half growl, half praise. He pressed his forehead to yours for a heartbeat, like he needed a second just to process it. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re already this wet for me?”

You bit your lip, face burning, but you couldn’t look away from him. Not with the way his eyes were locked on yours—dark, wide, almost stunned. He chuckled, breathless. “God, that’s so hot.” Then his fingers moved—just slightly—and the sound that followed made your spine arc. His touch was unhurried, testing, sliding through everything you gave him with devastating care.

When he finally slipped one finger inside, you gasped. Your walls fluttered around him, eager and welcoming. Jungkook moaned. Not softly. Not shyly. Deep and full, like he felt it in his chest. “Damn,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. “You’re perfect. You feel—fuck, you feel incredible.” Your hands scrambled for him, curling into his biceps, needing something to hold on to as he pulled out… then pushed in again, just a little deeper this time.

The sound of your wetness filled the space between you—intimate, obscene, beautiful. It made your breath hitch, made your thighs tense instinctively. He didn’t let you close them. His hips stayed planted between yours, spreading you wide, keeping you open.

“Jungkook—” you whimpered, already shaking, already lost. He watched you—closely. Eyes flickering from your parted lips to the flush on your cheeks, to the slight tremble in your body as he added another finger. The stretch made you moan. Louder this time. Unfiltered. Your back arched just slightly, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him.

And Jungkook looked wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your temple. “You like that? Hm?”, but it wasn’t really a question. He could see it written all over your face. Still, he wanted to hear it. You tried to answer, but your thoughts were falling apart—dripping between your fingers like water. Your breath stuttered as you struggled to form words. You nodded frantically, panting. “Yes. So good. Please, Jungkook—more.” That got his attention.

He raised an eyebrow. His lips twitched. “More?” he teased, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over your clit now—light but maddening, perfectly timed with the rhythm of his fingers moving inside you. “More fingers? Or faster?”

The touch made you jolt—hips twitching, thighs straining—but he kept you open, his body locked between your legs, grounding you. Your voice caught in your throat. Words felt distant. Everything narrowed to that—his fingers curling inside you, his thumb dragging sparks through your nerves like fire catching dry grass.

You hesitated, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand inside you, moving so deliberately, so gently it felt like torture. And then—he curled them again. Just a little. Just enough. A broken moan clawed its way out of you.

“Faster,” you begged, the word trembling off your tongue. “Please… Jungkook—just—faster.” He groaned against your neck, the sound low and warm, like thunder rolling through your bones. And then he smiled—Dark. Devoted. Hungry. Like he’d been waiting for you to ask.

His pace shifted. Faster. Deeper. Precise. Each stroke was intentional, measured, like he was playing a melody only your body could hear. His thumb brushed lower, circling with maddening care, and your whole body jerked, breath catching in your throat. The wet sound of movement filled the quiet between you, between hitched breaths and your name—falling from his lips like he needed it to breathe.

Jungkook watched you like he couldn’t get enough—eyes fixed on your face, taking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every arch of your back. Like every twitch of your hips, every helpless gasp, was proof he was doing something right. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with hunger, but filled with something softer too—something worshipful.

You clung to him, fingers digging into his back, then curling into his hair as pleasure swelled like a wave rising fast, stealing every thought, every breath, until all you knew was him. You needed him close. Grounded.

Then—he found it. That spot deep inside that made your hips jolt, made your whole body lock against his, straining toward him. He didn’t stop. Just stayed right there, relentless and perfect, until you broke.  “God,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your throat. “You’re so beautiful like this.” He was prepping you. Opening you. Worshipping you with his hands and mouth and eyes. And all you could do was feel. Burn. Breathe him in. This was a promise. That he’d ruin you completely.

The pleasure overwhelmed you, crashing like a wave. Your eyes rolled back. You shattered around him with a cry, burying your face in his shoulder, riding out the crest as it rolled through you. Your nails dragging down his back. Your body trembled, legs quivering on either side of his hips.

He held you through it—slow strokes, grounding breath, whispered words you couldn’t even process yet. You trembled. Chest rising and falling fast. But his fingers… His fingers slowed, yes—but didn’t leave. Didn’t stop.  You expected him to stop. To let you breathe. He didn’t.

“Jungkook?” your voice was shaky, confused. Your body was oversensitive and slick with heat. But he just hummed like he hadn’t just wreckedyou moments ago. His fingers still moved—gentle, coaxing, too much and not enough all at once. He hummed against your neck, unfazed. Gentle. “Still with me?”

Your breath hitched. “Jungkook, wait—I just—” Your legs tightened around him instinctively, holding him close, unsure if you were trying to stop him or pull him in deeper. “It’s… too much. I don’t know if I can…” His gaze softened. His voice was warm. “Is it painful, or just intense?” he asked softly, the pads of his fingers still stroking. You hesitated, breath trembling. “It’s not pain. Just… a lot.”

Jungkook’s smile was soft but mischievous. Tender, but greedy. “Then I am sure you can,” His fingers moved again, slower this time, but deep—certain. “But tell me if you need me to stop.” You nodded, dazed. Your grip on him never loosened—legs still tight around his hips, your hand locked in his hair.

He didn’t wait. He pressed his mouth to yours—soft and grounding—while his fingers worked between your thighs, determined and loving, like he already knew this second wave would break you harder than the first. And when it did, he was there to catch you.

His fingers moved with greater intent now—steady, relentless, coaxing your body like it was an instrument he was born to play. And then he shifted, slowly lowering himself, slipping through your trembling hands, mouth trailing heat down your stomach. You felt his breath first. Hot. Teasing. Right between your thighs.

You gasped, back arching, as his lips met you. His tongue parted you softly—then with bold purpose. He licked between your folds like he needed to taste you. The contrast of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem made your entire body jolt. You were already so close—already too far gone—and now you were unraveling all over again.

Your head fell back, your spine curving with the overwhelming rush. You were sure your thighs clenched too tightly around his head, but Jungkook didn’t mind. Didn’t pause. He growled into you—devoured you—like this was what he came here for.

He licked you again. Then again, slower. Deeper. And still, his fingers moved inside you, curling with practiced precision. You whimpered his name, words falling from your lips like broken glass. “Too much… Jungkook… I—I don’t know… what to—” You were shaking. Legs trembling. Hands clawing for something—anything—to hold on to. But Jungkook was listening. Even through your incoherent pleas, he was tuned to every breath, every flutter of resistance, every sound of bliss.

He was watching you. Listening for pain. But hearing none. Only pleasure. Only need.

Another long, languid lick. Then a precise curl of his fingers that hit just right—deep and perfect. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, not just anchoring—pulling. You dragged him closer. You wanted more. Needed him there—against you, in you—his mouth and hand working together like he was trying to break you open just to put you back together again. Hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth with a raw, aching need. Your thighs caged his head. Your body pulsed against his lips, slick and hot and trembling.

Jungkook groaned—deep and rough—at the feel of your hands in his hair, your thighs squeezing around him, your body giving in. He lost it. Not his rhythm, no. That stayed—fast, deep, mercilessly skilled. But inside, he was crumbling. You rutted into his face, shameless and soaked. He felt every twitch, every grind, every heartbeat through your cunt. The way you clung to his hair, pulled him deeper, used him to chase the high still clawing up your spine—it undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his tongue and into you. He needed the taste of you. Needed to give this to you. But he was struggling. Down between your legs, hidden in the heat of you, Jungkook rocked his hips into the mattress. Slow at first—seeking friction, seeking anything—as the ache in his cock grew sharp and near unbearable. The pressure had been building from the moment his fingers slipped inside you, but now? Now he was leaking into his boxers, rutting down with a quiet grunt every time you whimpered his name like a plea.

He was losing control.

You were so wet. So wet for him—his chin coated in it, his fingers sliding effortlessly inside you as your body clamped around him. Your scent. Your taste. Your voice. Your need. It was enough to make him shake. He could feel his own orgasm taunting him, threatening to tear through without a single touch to his cock. And the more you gave in—the more you took from him—the closer he got.

“Fuck,” he groaned into you, fingers curling hard, tongue dragging up your center with shameless hunger. His hips bucked into the bed again—rougher now, desperate—as your thighs squeezed tighter. You cried out, voice cracking around his name, grinding harder into his face. And Jungkook snapped. He needed you to come. Now.

His hips ground down, stiff and erratic, chest heaving between your thighs. His fingers plunged deeper, stroked harder—searching for that spot that would wreck you completely. Your body tensed. Your grip in his hair tightened. Your voice—high, shattered, divine—rang through the room as your second orgasm tore through you, raw and sharp and all-consuming.

Jungkook moaned, the sound ragged with the power, the feeling of your body trembling under him.. His eyes fluttered as you came on his tongue, and he let you. Let you drown him. Your release flooded his tongue, your walls clenching around his fingers so tight it stole his breath. As you hold him there. Letting your body take what it needed. His eyes rolled back, fists clenching in the sheets beneath you. He was so close—just from this. Just from you.

But he held back. Barely. Because this was for you. All of it.

He didn’t stop until your body sagged, limp with release, breath shaky and raw in your chest. And when he finally pulled his mouth away, his lips were swollen, his face slick, his chest rising like he’d run a marathon. He looked ruined—and proud. He looked up at you like you were something holy. Something he would kneel for again and again. And the hunger in his eyes said clearly:

He wasn’t done yet.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You were wrecked. Breathless. A trembling heap of sensation and heat, nerves still firing with aftershocks. You didn’t even know what planet you were on—only that you were here, with him. Jungkook sat between your trembling thighs, sweatpants low on his hips, chest rising and falling with ragged breath. His chin still glistened with you, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark with something primal. Something reverent. His fingers gently traced the inside of your thighs in slow, soothing motions, grounding you even as you floated.

But it was his face—the way he looked at you—that made your breath catch again. His expression was open. Raw. Awed. And god, his eyes. Dark. Hooded. Desperate. Like he’d die if he didn’t get to feel you now. You swallowed hard, tried to clear your throat, but your voice came out low and wrecked.  “Jungkook…” His name was a whisper. A plea.

You reached for him—fingers skating up his stomach, tracing the firm lines of muscle that jumped beneath your touch. He twitched under your fingertips, his breath stuttering.

You looked down.

His sweatpants were a mess. The outline of his arousal strained tight, painfully hard against the weight of his need—and darkened with a wet spot that had spread wide and deep. He had been rutting into the mattress beneath you while he worshipped you, hips grinding into the sheets, chasing even a whisper of relief.

God, you wanted to taste him. To return every aching second of what he gave you. “Jungkook, I want you in my mouth,” you whispered, voice shaking with want. “I want to taste you.” His eyes slammed shut. He groaned—raw, wrecked. His hand flew to his cock, gripping himself tight at the base through his sweats with a force that made his arm shake. The tension in his jaw said everything. He was close. He was barely holding on. He hissed your name like a curse, like a prayer.

“I—fuck—I can’t, I need to be inside you,” he groaned. “If you touch me like that… I won’t last. I want it—God, I want your mouth—but not yet.” You nodded. Weakly. Wantonly. Every inch of you screaming yes. You were still trembling, still soaked in the echo of your second high, and your body was barely keeping up with the pleasure it had already endured.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t want him. Especially not after how good he was to you. You saw the way he looked at you, hovering just above—equal parts restraint and desperation. His fingers gripped his own waistband, trembling with the effort not to rush.

You nodded again. That’s all he needed.

In one fluid motion, Jungkook pushed his sweatpants down a single desperate motion, his cock springing free. The sight of him made your breath stall. He was flushed, thick, beautiful—and clearly aching for you.

He hovered above you, strong arms caging you in, his chest brushing yours as he searched your eyes. He paused. Took you in. The flush of your cheeks. The sweat at your brow. The dazed shine in your eyes as you looked up at him like he was salvation. His lips parted like he was going to speak—but all that came out was a ragged breath. “I won’t stop,” he whispered, voice wrecked with hunger. “If I’m inside you—if you let me—I won’t stop.”

“I don’t want you to,” you breathed. His lips ghosted over yours. “You sure?” You pulled him closer with your legs, hips rising instinctively to meet the thick heat of him as he lined himself up. “Please.” That was all it took. The last of his restrain snapped. Or bloomed.

And then he kissed you—slow, deep, devastating.

With a groan torn from deep in his chest, Jungkook pushed forward. Stretching you. Filling you. Inch by devastating inch. He bottomed out in one slow, brutal push. You gasped. A groan tore from his throat—raw, helpless. “Fuck. You feel—” his voice broke, hips stuttering, “—too good.”

He wasn’t going to last. Not like this. Not when you clenched around him like you were made for it. The feeling was overwhelming—too much and not enough, hot pressure blooming deep as your nails dug into his back. He buried his face in your neck, panting, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Letting you feel every part of him. Letting you adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel so good. So tight. So warm. I—I can’t…”

And then—he moved. Fast. Hard. Unrelenting. The rhythm was sharp from the start. No easing in. Just need. Pure, primal need. He was panting above you, his muscles tense with the effort to hold himself back—but his pace betrayed him. Wild. Ruthless. He needed you too much to be gentle now.

He shifted—pushed himself up on one arm to watch. Watch how your breasts bounced with every snap of his hips. Watch how your mouth fell open, gasping. How your eyes fluttered back like you couldn’t handle it.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Take it. Just like that. Look at you.”

You tried—you really did—to obey. To keep up. But every thrust had you shaking. Crying out. Your body clenching down on him like it wanted to drag him even deeper. And Jungkook loved it.

His gaze dropped to where you took him, where his cock disappeared inside you over and over again, slick and swollen and so fucking tight. He groaned—deep, guttural. “God, I see myself in you and I—fuck—I need you to come again. Need to feel it.”

“I—I don’t know if I can,” you choked out, overwhelmed, pleasure spinning through you like static. He snarled—a sound nearly angry, animalistic. “Yes, you can.” Then his hand was between you. Thumb snapping to your clit, rubbing with firm, practiced flicks. Fast. Targeted. No mercy. You gasped, body jolting beneath him.

And when you fluttered around him—tight, pulsing—his rhythm faltered for just a second. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna—oh, fuck—”

And you did. Your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Back arching. Eyes rolling. One leg kicked out, sharp and uncoordinated—reflex, raw instinct. He caught it mid-thrust, fingers digging into your thigh, and shoved it to the side.

Pinned you open. Pinned you down. Kept pounding through your high like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “Shit—I’m,” he gasped, hips slamming into you once—twice—Then he was gone.

Coming hard with a broken sound in his throat. Hips bucking. Muscles shaking. His face contorted in something close to pain, close to bliss, as he emptied himself deep inside you. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer. And then he collapsed—chest heaving, body trembling, still buried in you.

Silence. Only your breathing. His sweat dripping onto your skin. Your hearts racing in sync. You were ruined. And he—he was still holding you like he’d never let go.

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Jungkook’s breathing was still ragged. Hot puffs against your neck. Yours had just started to steady. Your chest rose and fell beneath him, slick with sweat, heart still racing beneath the haze.

He didn’t move right away. Didn’t speak. He just pressed his mouth to your skin—soft kisses to your neck, your jaw. Each one slow. Reverent. His weight hovered over you, arms shaking slightly from the come-down, but he still held himself up. Careful not to crush you.

His body was warm. So warm. He still hadn’t pulled out, and your bodies trembled with every little twitch, every aftershock. But your leg— The one he’d pinned and forgotten—was aching now. Cramped and trembling at the awkward angle. You turned your head, lips brushing his temple. “Kook,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “My leg.”

He froze. Then immediately released it, hands gentle and apologetic as he smoothed down your thigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.” His voice cracked—still breathless, still wrecked. “Did I hurt you?” You shook your head, stroking his hair. “No. Just sore.”

That made him move. Finally—slowly—he eased himself out of you with a low, broken groan. The wet drag of it made both of you wince, your bodies too raw, too sensitive. You clenched around the absence, already aching for more, even as you trembled overstimulated. He sat back on his heels. His eyes—wide, reverent, a little dazed—dragged over every inch of you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. What you’d let him do to you.

“Let me,” he whispered, already reaching.

His arms wrapped around you as he helped you sit up, cradling you against him like something precious. Then he moved, reaching for a towel, dampening it with warm water, his touch steady despite the aftershocks still shaking through his limbs. The Campers simple luxuries.

You spread your legs for him, tired but trusting. And Jungkook… he was so gentle it nearly broke you open again. He cleaned you first—slow, soft strokes between your thighs, dabbing at the mess he’d left behind. His cum leaked from you, thick and warm and unmistakable, and he caught it tenderly, careful not to press too hard. His knuckles brushed over your folds, your clit—swollen, tender—and you flinched.

“Sorry,” he murmured, kissing your knee. But you weren’t sorry. Not for any of it. You watched him work, too quiet to speak. His brow furrowed in focus. His tongue tucked into his cheek. His thighs trembling from effort. And that’s when you saw it.

His cock—still flushed, still half-hard—gave a twitch as he wiped your cum-slick skin. The sight of you still ruined, still dripping with him, was enough to stir him again. Not fully. But he throbbed in the open air, heavy and wet and aching, like he could never quite get enough of you.

Your breath caught. God. He was beautiful like this. Wild and undone. His strength wrapped in tenderness He didn’t rush, even though his own thighs trembled and his cock still sat heavy between his legs, glistening with your slick. When he finally finished, wiped himself down. Still kneeling between your legs. Still looking at you like you’d just undone him completely. The towel discarded, his fingers smoothed over your thigh absentmindedly, as if reassuring himself you were still there. Still his.

You leaned back on your elbows, legs still loose around his hips, and tilted your head. The storm outside had dulled to a soft patter against the camper roof, a lullaby of rain and wind-blown peace. “Lie down, Jungkook,” you whispered, reaching out to trace his forearm with lazy fingers.

His brows lifted, lips parted. Still breathless, still caught in the fog of everything you’d just done. “Yeah?” You nodded, voice silk-slick and low. “I want you on your back. Let me touch you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed hard.

He obeyed, shifting beside you until he was on his back, hair mussed and chest rising slow and deep. He stretched out across the sheets—long, beautiful, undone. His chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, hair wild, damp at the temples. Eyes tracking every move you made like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You slid closer, straddling one of his thighs carefully.

Testing your legs. Your inner muscles still fluttered with the echoes of him, still sore and stretched. But this time, you moved at your own pace.

Jungkook looked up at you, eyes wide with wonder. You ran your palms down his chest, feeling every twitch of his abs, the flex under your touch. He was so sensitive—still half-hard, but eager. Waiting. You raked your nails lightly down his torso, watching him twitch, watching his cock jerk in anticipation.

Then your voice—soft, dangerous—cut through the quiet. “You said I could taste you later.” Jungkook sucked in a breath. Sharp. Audible. You leaned forward, brushing your mouth over his sternum. A slow kiss. Then another. “Its later.” His head tipped back. A shaky moan slipped out of him, like he couldn’t hold it in. “You—fuck…” You kissed down the center of his chest, tongue flicking lightly at the sweat cooling there. Your hands smoothed over his abs, and they tensed under your touch. Twitching. Obedient. Yours.

“I want to feel you fall apart,” you whispered, mouth ghosting lower. “Want to feel you in my throat. Want to hear you beg.” His hips lifted off the bed with a sharp, involuntary jerk. His knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets, already so close to breaking.

Then you leaned down, kissing over his chest. Your lips dragging across his skin like silk, breath warm and slow. His nipple pebbled under your tongue, and Jungkook hissed. “God—Y/N.” Jungkook was fully hard again. Achingly so.

You hadn’t even touched him properly. Just words. Just the promise in your voice. And he was ready to explode. His chest heaved. His eyes burned into yours. “Sweetheart,” he warned, low and shaking. “I won’t last.” You didn’t blink. “That’s the point.”

Your hands trailed lower, slipping over his stomach. His hips arched slightly off the mattress. He was already leaking again, the tip of his cock flushed red, twitching. “I’m gonna take care of you now,” you whispered. Your voice, syrup-thick. Intent.

And the way he looked at you—utterly undone, desperate and trusting—made your stomach twist with heat. You kissed your way down his body. And this time, he was the one trembling.  Your tongue dragged slowly across the tip of him—hot, wet, deliberate. Jungkook choked on a moan. His hips bucked violently, caught between instinct and restraint.

You took him in—inch by inch, slow and cruel. Until your lips stretched wide around him, your throat tightening. And he groaned. Loud. Filthy. “Fuck—yes. God, your mouth. So good. You’re so good at this.” You hummed around him, and he shuddered.

You pulled back just slightly, your lips still wrapped around the flushed tip of him, tongue flicking slow. Then you let go of him entirely. One hand rested on his thigh, the other came up to your own head—fingers threading loosely through your hair.

You looked up at him, voice husky, breathless. “If you want…” you whispered, licking the corner of your mouth, “you can fuck my throat.” Jungkook stilled. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Every muscle in his body froze, straining against the flood of want that hit him like a truck.

“What?” he breathed, stunned. You nodded, slow. Daring. “Put your hands in my hair. Guide me. Take what you need.” A shudder racked through him, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted to come or collapse. He groaned, long and broken. His hands found your head instantly—gentle at first, like he couldn’t believe you meant it. Like he was scared to hurt you. Pushing some strands behind your ear.

But you leaned into it. Moaned low. “Don’t hold back, Jungkook.” And just like that—he snapped. Fingers tightened at your scalp. Hips flexed. The thick weight of him slid over your tongue, deeper now, pulled in with force and need. “Fuck—fuck, Y/N,” he growled, voice shaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.” And god, that was exactly what you intended.

Jungkook's hips stuttered, jerking up into your wet, willing mouth, and for a moment—he swore he saw stars. His hands tangled deep in your hair now, knuckles white from how tightly he gripped. Each thrust grew more reckless, more unhinged, the muscles in his thighs flexing beneath your touch. His breath hitched on every exhale, uneven and raw.

Gone was the Jungkook who teased and smirked. Gone was the boy with swagger and restraint. This was need, stripped bare. And you—God, you were loving every second of it. One of your hands crept lower, cupping his balls with gentle fingers, massaging just right. Jungkook’s whole body seized. He cursed loud, voice breaking. “Y-You’re gonna make me—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But just as his body tensed to let go, you pulled off him with a slick, obscene pop. Your hand gripped him tight at the base—firm and unforgiving. Jungkook collapsed back into the mattress, groaning from deep in his chest. It wasn’t frustration. It was torment. Glorious, wrecked torment.

“Are you serious?” he rasped, eyes wide and dark as his head dropped back. One hand flew into his own hair, yanking hard. His abs flexed beneath your mouth. As he tried to control his breathing. “What the fuck—you’re evil.” But he wasn’t mad. He couldn’t be. Not with you looking at him like that.

Your lips were shiny with him. Your eyes, half-lidded, burning with wicked heat. You smiled—slow and smug—before leaning in to kiss his stomach, open-mouthed and hot. His muscles jumped under your tongue. You dragged your kisses up, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting sweat, skin, want.

He twitched violently in your grip—his cock so hard it felt like steel wrapped in velvet. Throbbing. Leaking. Aching. From his denied orgasm. Then you shifted. His cock trapped perfectly between your soaked folds, not inside, just there —just nestled there, sliding through your wetness, hot and thick and twitching. So close it was torture.

Jungkook choked.

His hands flew to your hips, holding you in place like his life depended on it.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you whispered, your lips brushing the sweat-slicked skin just under his ribs. He swallowed hard, voice shaky. “You said you were sore. Are you okay?” You nodded. Then—slowly, deliberately—you rocked your hips. And Jungkook saw stars.

You weren’t riding him. Not yet.

But your slick heat dragged over him with every slow grind. Wet and messy and slow. Your folds kissed his length, his tip catching against your clit, sending shocks up your spine. Jungkook’s whole body locked. His mouth dropped open.

“F-Fuck… don’t—don’t do that unless you want me to lose my mind,” he begged, voice ragged. But you did it again. And again. You were soaked, every movement a mess of heat and friction. Each pass sent sparks through your body, each stroke teasing the edge of too much.

He gasped as your slick lips glided over him, as if you were molded to his shape. Then his tip caught just right—and you flinched. Gasped. “Shit,” he moaned, dragging a hand up your back to your neck. “You’re so fucking wet… I can feel everything. Like this. Just like this. Please…” His voice was high, tight, raw. Barely holding on. And so were you.

You felt empty. Desperate. Your walls fluttered—clenching around nothing. But Jungkook could feel it, too, with how close you were pressed together. “F-Fuck,” he groaned, frantic now. His hands roamed like he didn’t know where to hold, what to cling to—your hips, your waist, your thighs, your face.

“Please, Y/N. Please. Let me—let me in. Let me feel you. Please.”

You were shaking, breath uneven, your legs barely steady under you. “Jungkook… I…” You nodded, even as your body trembled. And the second you did, he moved. He guided your hips up just enough, his other hand wrapping around himself, lining up. The head of him kissed your entrance, and both of you moaned at the contact.

Then—you sank. All the way. In one slow, devastating push.

Both of you gasped. Jungkook’s head slammed back. You clenched around him immediately—so tight, so warm, so full it stole the air from both of your lungs. You bottomed out—hips flush, chest heaving. He was inside you, buried to the hilt, and it felt like he was everywhere.

“Holy shit,” he panted, gripping your waist with shaking hands. “Y/N… are you okay? Can you move? Please—fuck—I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You tried to answer, to move—but your body trembled too hard. Every muscle tensed, your hands splayed across his chest for balance. “I… I can’t,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Jungkook—I’m—”

That was all it took.

With a growl, he flipped you—fast, but careful—keeping himself inside you the entire time. One moment you were straddling him, the next you were beneath him, head pressing into the pillows, his breath hot on your mouth.

He braced himself with one hand. The other found your throat, not squeezing—just holding you there. Grounding you. Claiming you.

Then—he thrust. Once. Hard. Deep.

The second thrust ripped a cry from your chest. Your body shattered—walls pulsing around him, coming undone before you could stop it. Your back arched. Your legs logged around his waist. Your whole body convulsed.

You hadn’t meant to come. Not yet. But it was too much. Too deep. Too sensitive.

Jungkook froze above you, eyes blown wide. “Did you just—” Jungkook stared down at you like he’d just witnessed something holy. You were still trembling beneath him. Chest rising fast. Lips parted in shock. Your body still spasming around him, fluttering in tight pulses that made him curse through his teeth. He was mesmerized.

“You just… fuck,” he whispered, breath caught in his throat. “You came that fast? That hard? Just from that?” He looked stunned. Wrecked. Like you’d taken the air out of his lungs. And then something shifted in him.

His hips drew back—slow. Dangerous. Your walls fluttered around him as he did. Then he slammed forward, hard enough to jolt the breath from your lungs. He set a rhythm that made your head spin—deep, rough thrusts that must have the camper rocking and your thighs quivering.

He was lost in it. In you. But your orgasm took the edge off him. Let him focus. Let him last.

His hand tightened at your throat—not choking, just holding, grounding, claiming. The other gripped your waist, dragging you up to meet every thrust like he needed you closer. Your body, still sensitive from the last orgasm, lit up again—each stroke like a live wire. You moaned helplessly, fingernails clawing down his arms.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “So fucking tight. You came so fast—fuck—I can't believe how good you feel.”

But then— You let out a small sound. A breathy huff. Almost like a whimper. And it didn’t sound like just pleasure.

Jungkook froze instantly. His hand slipped from your throat to your cheek. His eyes were wide, frantic, scanning your face. “Hey. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “I’m okay. Just…” You swallowed hard, voice soft. “You’re so big. There’s just… so much of you inside me.”

He paused. Then—he grinned.

A low, breathless laugh escaped him. “Ohh. So that’s it, huh?” You hid your face in his shoulder, embarrassed. His lips brushed your ear. “Is it the soreness?” You nodded. Shy. Small. And just like that—his pace changed. Gone was the brutal tempo. The hungry rhythm. Instead, he rocked into you slow. Deep. Controlled. And still, he kissed you like you were sacred. Touched you like you were breakable. Ruined you like you were his.

He pulled out nearly all the way, then slid back in with agonizing grace, dragging every inch along your soaked walls. It made you gasp. Clench. Moan low and long into his skin. “There we go,” he whispered. “That better, sweetheart?”

You nodded again, wrapping your arms around his back. His muscles rippled under your touch. He moved like water over fire—fluid and hot, making you melt with every stroke. Now you had space to feel him. The way his back flexed under your fingers. The curve of his shoulder. The tremble in his thighs from holding back. How his jaw tightened every time you pulsed around him.

You couldn’t stop touching him. You were in awe. Your hands explored every inch you could reach. Up his arms. Across his chest. Through his damp, dark hair. You traced the sweat-slick lines of him like a worshiper at the altar.

And still—he kept fucking you slow. Deep. Drawing it out. Teasing you with every stroke, letting you feel the full weight of him. The stretch. The fill.

Jungkook groaned into your neck, voice cracking. “You feel too good. Too warm. You keep fluttering around me like that and I—fuck—I’m not gonna last.” Your walls pulsed again. Pure instinct. His breath hitched. He cursed.

Then—you felt it. The sharp thrust. The stutter in his hips. The gasp he couldn’t hold back.

“Shit—I’m—” His body slammed into yours one last time, and he spilled into you with a broken cry. His whole frame tensed—thighs locked, muscles drawn tight, face twisted in something close to agony. Heat flooded you. His cock twitched, buried deep, his moans falling into your shoulder.

And as he came, the pulse of it—his body giving in to yours—ripped another sound from you. A strangled, breathless sob. Not another orgasm. Just—too much. Overwhelmed. Wrung out. Full in every sense of the word.  Jungkook collapsed on top of you, panting, his heart racing against yours.

“Shit,” he whispered, lips against your jaw. “You ruin me.”

Jungkook was still panting against your neck when your quiet chuckle vibrated beneath him. A low, breathless sound that made his lips curve before he even pulled back.

“You’re saying I ruined you?” you whispered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. “Jungkook, have you seen yourself?”

He snorted, chest rising with a ragged laugh. “Touché.” The grin he gave you was crooked. Loose. Completely wrecked. And maybe a little smug. But then his eyes softened again. Concern flickering behind all that post-orgasm haze. “You okay?”

You nodded, still dazed. “Yeah. Just… used. In the best way possible.”

His smile faltered—only to come back gentler, deeper. Like you’d just handed him something fragile and he wanted to hold it right. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Tender, unhurried.

“You did so good,” he whispered, brushing his nose along your temple. “Took all of me… every bit.” You hummed, letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. You were floating—body buzzing, boneless under the weight of his affection.

Eventually, the heat between your legs made shifting unavoidable. Jungkook finally stilled, then gently eased himself out of you with a soft hiss, as if the separation physically hurt. You winced a little too, the aftershocks of everything making your legs tremble.

“Shit,” he murmured, immediately checking your expression. “Too much?”

“I’ll survive,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “But maybe… help me clean up before I turn into roadkill?”

He snorted again and got up, tugging on a fresh boxer before helping you sit up. Everything was warm and tender now. No teasing. Just soft sighs and quiet laughter as he dabbed you gently with a wet towel, murmuring apologies when you flinched.

“You know,” you said sleepily as he tossed the used towel to the side and climbed back into bed, “you have this whole ‘ruined me six ways to Sunday’ thing going on…” Jungkook paused mid-crawl, eyes squinting at you. “Me? You broke first. I barely did anything.”

You raised a brow.

He grinned, catching himself. “Okay, fine. I maybe did… a lot.”

You snuggled under the thin blanket with a wince. The camper didn’t exactly offer luxury accommodations, but at least it was warm and better than your tent. Jungkook pulled you in instantly—pressing his chest to your back, nosing into your hair like a bear curling into hibernation.

And, true to form, one of his hands—without hesitation—found your breast and settled there like it was second nature. You barked a soft laugh, craning your head just enough to glance at him. “Really?”

“What?” he mumbled into your hair. “That’s where your hand goes? After everything?” He groaned sleepily. “It’s my comfort spot.”

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered.

Everything ached. Deep. Sore in places you hadn’t even known could feel pleasure. And Jungkook, the smug, overachieving menace curled around you like he belonged there, had the nerve to cup your breast like it was his God-given right.

Voice husky and rasped from every moan he’d ripped out of you, you muttered, “Swear to me you’re gonna give me at least eight hours. Minimum. I need time to walk again. “You are dramatic,” he murmured. But there was something in his tone—softness, reverence—that curled into your bones like heat.

Then his lips found the delicate skin behind your ear. A kiss so tender it made your lashes flutter. “Deal,” he whispered, the words grazing your skin like a promise. “Eight hours. Scout’s honor.”

“Liar,” you breathed, but your lips curved into a smile anyway.

The camper around you had settled into silence, save for the soft pitter-patter of rain against the roof—gentle now, like the sky itself had exhaled. No more thunder. No wind. Just the quiet, tender rhythm of storm’s end.

And slowly, your muscles began to unwind. You melted into the mattress, into the warm circle of his arms, and let the fatigue pull at your edges. You listened to the sound, your body sinking deeper into his hold. His breath slowed against your neck. The hand on your breast stayed exactly where it was—possessive, familiar.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt still. Safe. Warm. Because no matter how wrecked you felt—your body sore and used, your soul stretched wide open—right here, in Jungkook’s arms, you wouldn’t change a thing.

But something kept you tethered to the moment. Not his hands, not the soreness blooming between your legs. His tattoo. Your gaze flicked down, half-lidded and bleary, to the back of the hand still cupping your chest like he couldn’t help himself. The ink was faint in the low light, just shadows and shapes—but you knew that symbol. Even if you weren’t a fan.

You weren’t deep into the K-pop scene or anything, but you’d heard the songs—on radios, in passing cars, the occasional playlist. Some of them were annoyingly catchy. Some stuck with you more than you cared to admit.

And that logo…

That was BTS. Big. Global. Ubiquitous. Impossible to miss once you knew it.

Your brows knit, with curiosity. You didn’t know exactly who Jungkook was. Not yet. But you were starting to have a damn good guess. With his tattooed hand now so close to you. And just before the pull of sleep dragged you under, you made a mental note: Ask him in the morning. Ask why someone with hands that ruined you so thoroughly… also had the most recognizable band inked on his skin.

The thought danced in your mind—half curiosity, half awe. But it faded as warmth overtook you, heavy and sweet. And finally, you let go. Let sleep take you. Your eyes fluttered shut. Tucked beneath the sound of soft rain. You were raw. Your body used and shaken, sore in the best way. Your throat dry from gasping his name. Your skin still damp with sweat, kissed with bruises and love. But none of it mattered.

Held in arms that felt far too good to be real.

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You woke to a sound so absurd, so wrong, it nearly made your soul leave your body.

Not screeching guitars. Not deep bass growls. Not the aftermath-of-a-storm kind—though that had its own weight—but something far worse in its own way: But bubblegum pop. Something sugary, chirpy, offensive—blasting from a nearby speaker.

You groaned, dragging the blanket higher over your head. Jungkook groaned too, rolling toward you, face buried in your shoulder. His arm flung around your waist like it belonged there. “Who the hell is playing that?” he mumbled against your skin, voice gravel-rough with sleep. “Make it stop.” You snorted, face buried in the pillow of his arm. “We’re cursed.”

Still tangled together in your makeshift camper bed, you melted into the warmth of him. His skin was soft and sticky from sleep, his breath slow. The camper was warm with shared body heat, tangled limbs, and the lingering scent of sex and rain. The storm had stopped sometime in the night—you’d felt the quiet settle over you as you drifted off. Now, only the soft rustle of wind moved the canvas outside, punctuated by the occasional splatter of water dripping off the awning.

Jungkook curled closer, nuzzling into your hair. His arm pulled you tighter against his chest like he couldn’t help it, and for a second you just… exhaled. And you smiled. You’d thought it might be awkward. Worried, briefly, as your eyes fluttered open. Wondered if there’d be tension or embarrassment between you.

But it wasn’t. Not even a little.

All you felt in the silence was peace—just comfort. A slow, sleepy kind of gentle closeness that wrapped around you like the worn blanket half-tangled at your feet. A lazy morning unspooled before you—slow kisses, warm touches, quiet laughter that felt like it belonged to something real.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pulled yourselves up and out. The world was soaked. Soft. Damp earth and fallen leaves. The sky was still gray, but it was a calm gray. Gentle. Forgiving. All in all, your little camp had survived better than expected. The damage from the storm wasn’t bad. Not really.

Your tent still stood, stakes holding firm. The pavilion—blessedly— had made it through, too. The extra effort you and Jungkook scrambling put in together—half-laughing, half-panicking in the rain—had paid off. It flapped now in the breeze, soaked but standing proud.

Together, with lingering hands and wordless glances, you and Jungkook got to work setting things back up with easy teamwork. You brushed past him once, and he caught your wrist briefly—his thumb smoothing along your pulse, his eyes dark with memory. Neither of you said a word.

Then—familiar voices in the distance.

“Yooo!”

Your friend’s voice rang out through the trees, followed by Yoongi’s dry tone, “You’re alive. Good to know.” They appeared on the muddy path, looking a little tired, a little smug, and entirely pleased with themselves. Your friend let out a victorious whoop the moment she saw the camp intact. “Hell yes! I don’t have to rewash everything!”

You all ate together—hot instant oatmeal and coffee made on a camp stove, bread slightly soggy but edible. The four of you sat in a circle, the chill in the air slowly warming with the sun, and plans for the day began to form: what shows to see, what vendors to hit, where the cleanest porta-potties might still be. Conversation bounced easily.

But your eyes kept drifting. Again and again, to Jungkook. You couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t help the pull. You caught yourself staring more than once. There was something there. In his face. In the curve of his lip, the cut of his jaw. In the way his tattoos shifted when he pushed his sleeves up, the ink across his hand catching the sun now that you had a proper look.

Your eyes lingered. The delicate calligraphy. The tiny symbols. The logo. You knew it.

You weren’t a fan—not in the hardcore sense. But you’d heard a song or two. And now… now it scratched at your memory like a locked door someone had cracked open. Once. Twice. You caught Jungkook staring, grinning back at you, as your gaze lingered. And each time, that grin—boyish and bright—spread across his face like he’d caught you stealing something.

You smiled back every time. Dumbly. Powerlessly. Couldn’t stop that either.

He was so... dorky. So easy to like. A man who had blown your mind in bed, yes—but also someone who laughed with you. Touched you gently. Looked at you like you mattered. And right now—sitting in the morning light, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, legs stretched out lazily in front of him, eyes crinkling as he teased Yoongi about something—you couldn’t stop watching.

You didn’t want to. Your heart fluttered once, then again, sharper. Harder this time.

Who was he?

You fumbled for your phone beneath the table, careful to keep it hidden from your friend and Yoongi. Then, with a few quick taps, you sent him a message. “Hey… can we talk later? Just the two of us?” You didn’t add more. Didn’t need to.

Across the camp, Jungkook’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, brow arching in surprise. You watched the shift in real time. First confusion. Then curiosity. Then something else entirely—his expression dimming just slightly, lips parting like a quiet breath had caught in his chest.

He looked up. Found your eyes. You smiled, small but reassuring. Jungkook smiled back, but it didn’t reach all the way.

Because now his heart was thudding. He’d hoped—maybe—that you were just flirting. Maybe planning round two. His thigh bounced slightly where he sat, hopefully. Another kiss. Another hour wrapped up in him. But then... his smile faded as he really looked at your reassuring smile.

Now he wasn’t sure. A small knot twisted in his chest. Did you… know? Did you recognize him? The tattoos. The voice. That logo etched into his skin. Panic whispered at the edge of his mind. He wasn’t just a guy at a festival anymore. Wasn’t just the man who held you through a storm.

His fingers flexed. Would this change everything? He didn’t know yet. Still, he typed back.

"Yeah. Of course. Whenever you want."

Then he looked up. Met your eyes across the table. And smiled. A little nervous. A little shy. But still that same grin. The one you were already falling for.

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The sun had begun to sink low, casting everything in that warm, golden hue that made even the mud-glazed festival grounds look almost romantic.

You’d spent the whole day with your friend and the boys, laughing through sets, dancing until your legs ached, screaming lyrics you barely knew. There hadn’t been much time to be alone with Jungkook. But it didn’t matter. He was there—brushing against you when the crowd surged, catching your eye when something funny happened, tugging you gently closer when a slow song played like it might carry you away without warning.

Still, by evening, you craved a moment with him. Craved him. You stretched with a groan and casually announced, “I’m kind of snackish. Gonna grab something.” It was barely a full sentence, but Jungkook had stood up immediately. “I’ll come.”

You exchanged no glances. Said nothing more. Just walked—quiet at first—side by side through the thinning crowds, past flickering string lights along a gravel path littered with paper cups and crushed plastic and the dull hum of bass from a nearby stage.

A breeze tugged at the edge of your jacket. The buzz of the day settled into your bones like warmth after a fire. Then Jungkook broke the silence, voice soft but laced with something nervous. “You… said you wanted to talk.” You glanced up, heart stuttering.

He cleared his throat, keeping his eyes forward. “Everything good? With us?”

Us. He said it like a question, not a statement. Like he didn’t want to assume, but hoped. Like maybe—for the length of this festival, at least—he wanted there to be an us. That little swell in your chest pulsed warmly.

You nodded fast, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good. I just…” You flushed, eyes darting to your feet as you walked. “It’s not about last night. I liked— I mean, really liked it. I didn’t want you to think…” At that, a blush touched your cheeks. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way his body moved with yours—it flashed in vivid color behind your eyelids. You cleared your throat, flustered. Jungkook glanced at you. A small smile tugged at his lips.

You tried not to get distracted.

You sucked in a breath and forced the words out. “You said you work in the music industry. Producing, right?” His posture stiffened slightly, caught off guard his eyes flicked away. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. Low. Careful. But he didn’t deny it.

You nodded slowly. Then quietly, almost shy, you tilted your chin toward his hand—the one with the tattoo. Your voice dropped to a murmur. “That’s BTS logo, right?”

The moment froze. He stopped walking. Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just looked at you.

You stopped walking, only a step ahead, and turned to face him fully. Your heart fluttered against your ribs like a moth in a glass jar. The moment stretched long between you, your breath caught in your throat. His eyes searched yours, unreadable. You chewed your lip, nerves twisting tight. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, heart picking up.

“Listen,” you began, suddenly sheepish. “If I… if I googled the band… I mean, this is stupid. Forget it.” You sighed, annoyed at yourself. Eyes darting everywhere but at him. Was it even important? Who he was? He had been nothing but kind. Soft. Gentle even when he’d held you down, filled you up, made you see stars. If he was a diehard fan—or even if he was someone—you weren’t sure it changed anything.

Still. The thought tumbled through you like a slow avalanche.

Jungkook watched it all play across your face. The doubt. The nervousness. The way your bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were trying not to say something you needed to.

And then—softly, almost more to himself—he said, “No. It isn’t stupid. Please. Just ask.”

Your eyes snapped back to his. His face was so open now. Not panicked. Not cold. Just—honest. Like he owed you that much. You still weren’t sure what answer you wanted.

Your voice trembled. “Are you…” You hesitated, fingers curling at your side. “If I googled BTS… would I see you?” He swallowed once. A small motion. Barely visible. Then he nodded. Slow. Gentle. Honest. Your breath caught.

It was like staring at someone you thought you knew—and realizing there was an entire other world behind their eyes. You blinked. You weren’t sure what you felt. Shock. Surprise. Stupidity. The image of him—sweaty and loud and laughing with you—didn’t quite line up with the dazzling, hyper-polished world you’d imagined for an idol. But now you could see it. The voice. The eyes. The tattoos.

“Why,” you breathed, “are you even at a metal festival?”

A ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “New inspiration,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Plus… it’s not really our scene. So, people don’t really expect to find us here.” You stared at him.

And then stepped a little to the side—away from the crowds, finding a quieter corner near the back of a merch tent where the lights faded and the crowd thinned. The grass was a little trampled, and the smell of sweet fried things lingered in the air.

You stopped, half-laughing, still trying to catch up with your own thoughts. “Okay,” you said, eyes wide. “So… that was a bit of a reveal.” Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, chuckling lightly. “Kinda dropped that one, huh?”

You snorted, your head shaking. “I mean, I did ask.”

“Still,” he said, voice soft, “sorry I didn’t say anything earlier.” You waved it off without hesitation, grinning. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s not like there’s a rule about announcing your global fame before sharing a beer and dancing like an idiot to death metal.” Jungkook laughed at that—really laughed, head tilting back for a second. The sound warmed your chest.

You looked up at him, squinting slightly. “You’re really in BTS. Like, that BTS. The biggest band on the planet after ACDC?” He made a face like he wanted to downplay it but couldn’t exactly deny it. “Only on certain days,” he said with a shrug.

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he admitted, smiling again. “Most days.” You took a moment, let it sink in. “Wow. So that makes… Yoongi?” Jungkook nodded. “Yep.”

“And here I was thinking he just had really cool producer energy.”

“He’d be flattered,” Jungkook said, amused.

You paused for a beat, glancing out over the festival grounds—the blur of lights, the chatter, the echo of bass. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Just full—with questions, with feeling, with what could come next.

“So…” you began, glancing down at your shoes before forcing yourself to meet his gaze, “what does that mean now?”

Jungkook blinked. “What do you mean?”

You bit your lip, flushing. Then you smiled, small and embarrassed. “I liked you,” you admitted. “Still do. I just… You know… I kind of hoped we’d stay in touch after the festival. Maybe?”

He turned to you, brows raised. “You did?”

You nodded, a little shy but still smiling. “If you wanted to. I—Yeah. I mean, you’ve been fun to hang with. But…” you shrugged. Your eyes found his, nervous. “But now I know who you are. Well now I do. And I figured maybe that kind of thing—this kind of thing—doesn’t work —”

You cut yourself off, biting your lip again. You felt foolish. Like maybe you were asking too much from someone who lived in a different world. Who wasn’t just a guy at a festival, but someone known.  Jungkook looked at you for a long, quiet moment.

There was a softness in his expression then. His voice dropped just a little. “I like you too.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him even without touching. And then, softly, he smiled. “I’d like to stay in touch too,” he said simply. “Really.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes searched his. You both stood there for a second in that cozy pocket of space—no pressure, no big declarations, just two people a little surprised by how much this fleeting festival moment had started to mean.

“I don’t care if it’s three days or three months,” Jungkook said, voice steady but hopeful. “If you want something after this… if you want to see where this could go—then I’m down to try.” Your heart gave a full, aching thud in your chest.

He looked at you like he wasn’t just waiting for an answer, but giving you room to choose, no pressure in his gaze—just quiet sincerity. And it floored you. Your lips parted in a soft breath, a smile teasing your face. “You sure? I mean… I might have to go through four layers of management just to text you.”

Jungkook let out a breathy laugh, shoulders easing. “Nah,” The rest of the world faded, the sounds of music and shouting dulled like they were behind glass. It was just him now. Just the way his hand reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. The way his eyes flicked to your mouth. The way his voice dropped to a whisper meant for only you. “I’ll make it easier for you. I promise.”

The air shifted—gentler, thicker, sweet with something unspoken.

His fingers brushed your wrist, then slid up, slow and deliberate, until they found your hand. His thumb grazed your knuckles.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you bumped his shoulder. “Okay, but—serious question… do I have to go to your concerts?” His brows lifted. “What?”

“I mean,” you grinned, biting back laughter, “I’m more headbanging and screaming guitars than glitter and choreography. No offense, but I’m not sure my metal soul can survive the sparkly fan light experience.” Jungkook let out a real laugh this time, full and bright. “You secretly want to see me on stage.” You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “Excuse me?”

“You do,” he grinned, voice low and teasing. “You’re curious. I can see it. You wanna know, curious little metalhead, wondering what I look like in a silk shirt under stadium lights.” You scoffed, but it was useless—you were already smiling. “Please, not exactly my scene.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed knowingly. “Keep telling yourself that. I bet I can make you lose your mind.” You huffed a laugh and leaned into him just a little. “You showed me yesterday how to lose my mind without any clothes at all.” That made his grin spread wide—mischievous and proud.

You tilted your head, still smiling but letting a sliver of genuine curiosity into your voice. “Should I be worried? Do you make every girl lose their mind like that?” Jungkook’s cocky expression softened just slightly. “No,” he said without hesitation. “I only intend to do that with you.” Your stomach fluttered. God. The way he said it—like it wasn’t even a question. Because there was something in his tone, light but sure, teasing but real.

You nudged his arm, trying to defuse the warm ache in your chest. He nudged you playfully back. “Besides, you didn’t seem too upset about it.” You scoffed, nudging him again. “I’ll need written confirmation that your goal is not to ruin me completely.”

“No promises,” he whispered with a smirk, then leaned in to kiss you.

Your mouths met in a kiss soft enough to make your stomach flip, but full of the kind of promise that rooted deep. His lips moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm, and your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t showy.

It was real.

And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the fading festival noise. You smiled against him. “Fine,” you whispered. “But just because I really want to try.”

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it.

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 3

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

GIF von jung-koook

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 1 I Part 2

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For a solid heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then—after another sharp glance around the area, his ears straining for any nearby movement—he rose to his feet.

And followed you inside.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The tent was small—at least, smaller than he expected.

The inside was simple, with thick blankets piled over a sleeping mat, a few extra layers stacked against the far end in what looked like an attempt at a pillow. It smelled like you, too, but not strongly—not like a normal omega’s tent should. Jungkook’s scent had been muted on you ever since the festival began, and now, without it, the space felt wrong.

You were already curled up on your side, your back to him, as if you were ignoring the fact that he had just stepped inside.

Jungkook hesitated for a second.

Then he crouched near the entrance, unsure if he should lay down or stay seated.

He opted for the latter.

His eyes flickered toward your still form.

After a long pause, you muttered, “If you’re just gonna sit there, you might as well lay down.”

Jungkook bit his lip.

And then, slowly, he shifted, lowering himself onto the extra blankets, laying on his back beside you.

The space was tight.

If either of you moved even a little, you would touch.

And when you exhaled, shifting slightly—your back brushing against his arm—Jungkook nearly lost his damn mind.

Jungkook needed something to ground him—anything.

And the only thing here was you.

The tight space of your tent left no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. The moment your back brushed his arm, the fragile thread of his restraint snapped.

He rolled onto his side, one arm snaking firmly around your waist, his chest flush against your back. The heat of him bled through the thin layers of clothing, his grip possessive, securing you against him.

He felt your tense inhale.

"Did you already decide?" Jungkook’s voice was low, a murmur against the shell of your ear.

You hummed, your fingers lightly twitching over the blankets. “Kinda.”

Jungkook’s hold tightened.

"Kinda?" he echoed, voice gruffer now. "What does ‘kinda’ mean?"

You exhaled slowly, your tone shifting into something almost teasing, yet undeniably shy.

"Well, you already decided if you're going to scent me twice a day from now on..." You paused, then added with a smirk, "for safety reasons?"

Jungkook growled.

A soft, dangerous sound, curling around the whisper of your name on his tongue. His fingers flexed, gripping your waist tighter.

“You are my mate,” he rumbled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

His nose nudged into your hairline, inhaling deeply, and then—

He scented you.

A slow, deliberate drag of his nose from your temple to the base of your neck.

You shuddered.

His chest rumbled, another growl spilling from deep within him.

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin at the curve of your shoulder, his breath hot as his lips parted.

And when you whimpered, Jungkook nearly lost it.

"Don’t promise anything you can’t keep," you whispered, but it sounded weak. Like a plea. A warning. A wish.

"If… If this is just want—fine. But then tell me."

Jungkook’s chest ached.

He wanted to rip the doubt out of you, to prove to you that there was nothing about this—about you—that was temporary.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers skimming the edge of your ribs.

“Mark me.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your heart stuttered.

Slowly, your head turned, the dim light inside the tent casting shadows over Jungkook’s face as you twisted just enough to look at him.

Your eyes were wide.

“What?”

Jungkook growled again, this time more urgent, more raw—needy.

Your movement had shifted you slightly away, leaving a sliver of space between you, and the distance made something feral inside him snarl.

His dark gaze locked onto yours, unflinching. Unshakable.

"Mark me as your mate."

Your breath hitched.

Jungkook's jaw clenched, his pulse pounding.

"You can still leave if you want," he said, voice low, rough, as if the words physically pained him. "But I will follow you."

His fingers brushed up your spine, his touch feverishly warm.

"I will only claim you if you want me to," he swore, and fuck—he meant it. He would never take this from you, never force you into something you weren’t ready for.

But then—

His eyes burned into yours.

Raw. Unwavering.

"I want your mark on me. Now."

Your stomach flipped.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

You were shocked. Speechless.

And fuck—

You were so goddamn turned on.

Your eyes went impossibly wide, your breath catching as you stared at him.

"Y-You don’t mean that."

Jungkook’s gaze was intense, but gentle, steady in a way that left no room for doubt.

Without hesitation, he moved.

His strong arms shifted you, guiding you until you were under him.

He hovered over you, his body looming, broad and commanding, but he wasn’t caging you in—he was holding you close.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

His weight balanced on his forearm, the one marked with ink and meaning, etched with the responsibilities of his pack. But his other arm?

His other arm was wrapped around you.

A deliberate, possessive grip.

Like he was making sure there wouldn’t be the slightest bit of space between you.

And you could feel him.

The heat of him, the weight of him, the way his scent wrapped around you like a second skin.

The way he wanted you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body suddenly too warm, too aware of how little separated you from him.

Jungkook’s nose brushed down your neck, slow and intentional, his breath ghosting over your skin as he inhaled deeply.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

“And I can smell that you want it, too.”

Your stomach flipped.

Heat shot through you, every nerve in your body sparking to life, making your limbs tingle.

Your shaky fingers curled into the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, your grip weak—like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to pull him closer or push him away before you completely lost yourself. You were practically vibrating with nerves, the weight of his body, the scent of him, the sheer need in his presence overwhelming you.

Jungkook wasn’t rushing you.

But he wasn’t stopping, either.

His nose lovingly dragged up and down your neck, lingering at your pulse point, like he was savoring every inch of you.

And then—

His lips followed.

Soft, warm, achingly gentle.

He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses against your throat, against the hollow where your neck met your shoulder. Pressing against your pulse, lingering.

His teeth nipped at your skin, not enough to hurt—just enough to tease.

To dare you to move.

To see if you would run or stay.

Your next whimper, the next trembling inhale, the next sharp jolt of your scent pushing into the air around him—

It was too much.

Jungkook rolled his hips into you, slow and controlled, and you felt every inch of him, every sharp, burning line of his need pressed against you through the thin barriers of your clothes.

Your entire body shuddered.

Jungkook’s breath was ragged, his lips barely a whisper from your jaw as he spoke.

His voice was like honey and smoke, thick with need, with restraint, with something wild barely held back. He rolled his hips into you again. A slow, deliberate grind, letting you feel exactly what you did to him.

"Can I kiss you?" His lips ghosted over yours, his nose brushing the tip of yours. His words came out hoarse, desperate. "Please. Let me fucking kiss you, at least."

His fingers tightened slightly where they rested against your ribs.

Your lips parted, air shaking as it left your lungs, and then—

“Please.”

Jungkook groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he finally—finally— kissed you, got to taste you.

And fuck—

It was everything.

The first press of his lips was firm, but hungry. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, pouring everything into it, his lips moving hot and slow against yours, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth.

His mouth was hot, urgent, starving for you, but still so goddamn careful.

He kissed you like you were something precious, something he had wanted for so fucking long—something he was desperate to make his. The moment his tongue brushed against yours, he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

And you melted.

Your fingers dug into his shirt, clutching him, needing him, and Jungkook felt like he was about to lose his mind with how sweet, how warm, how perfect you tasted, against him—

Until—

You made a pained sound against his lips, a small, pained hum muffled by the heat of the kiss.

Jungkook froze.

He jerked back, his breath was heavy, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises, his brows furrowing in concern.

Your lips were swollen, damp from his kisses, and fuck, you looked so beautiful like this, but—

His eyes locked onto your lips—

A thin red line glistened at the corner of your mouth. The small, still-healing cut from your fight with Yoongi earlier.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, guilt slamming into him. A low, guttural sound escaped him, something close to a frustrated snarl.

"Shit," he exhaled, his fingers lightly gripping your jaw.

Without a second thought, he leaned back in, but this time, his lips didn’t claim yours.

Instead—

His tongue dragged over the cut, gentle, careful, the warmth of him soothing the sting.

A sound rumbled from his chest—low and deep, a vibration of pleasure that was almost a purr.

Your breath hitched.

From something else entirely.

A deep rumble rose from Jungkook’s chest—not a growl, not a snarl—but something softer, so utterly full of warmth and possession, that it made your stomach flutter.

It was close to a purr.

If you hadn’t already been lying down, your knees would have buckled.

Jungkook stayed close, his forehead lightly pressing to yours.

His breath mingled with yours, his fingers twitching against your skin, like he was still trying to memorize you through touch alone.

And then, softly—so fucking softly—

“Say yes.”

His voice was hoarse, thick with something deeper than just desire.

“Say yes, and mark me right now.”

His nose brushed yours, his body still pressed so perfectly to yours.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

“And be mine.”

Your breath came heavy, your chest rising and falling too fast, too unsteady.

And then—

You nodded.

Your voice was shaky, but still, the word fell from your lips, wrapped in something breathless, something undeniable.

“Yes.”

Yes, yes, yes.

Because how could you not?

Jungkook had made your life difficult, had pushed and challenged you at every turn. But now—

Now, he was trying.

He wasn’t just taking, wasn’t just demanding.

He was offering himself to you.

If he meant it—if he let you mark him—then it wouldn’t just be you belonging to him.

He would belong to you, too.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly—so fucking slowly— pushed up the hem of his shirt.

Jungkook’s breath hitched, his entire body going taut at the first glide of your hands under his shirt, the first whisper of your touch against his bare skin.

And then—

A growl rumbled from his chest, and before you could even think, his shirt was ripped off.

Torn away like it was nothing.

Because if you wanted to touch him, if you wanted to claim him, then fuck—

He was going to let you.

Your fingers traced over the warm, hard planes of his torso, his body shuddering beneath your touch.

You were gentle at first, almost shy, your fingertips light as air over his abs, up to his ribs.

But then—

Jungkook let out a low, gravelly sound, his own larger hand capturing one of yours and pressing it flat against his chest, right over his racing heart.

“Mate,” he rumbled, the word vibrating deep in his chest—a vow, a promise, an undeniable truth.

And then he was on you again.

The intensity he couldn’t use on your lips—not with your still-healing cut—he poured into your neck instead.

He kissed you there, savored you, his lips trailing a path that burned in the best way, nipping, licking, tasting you.

You shivered, your hands growing bolder, moving freely over his skin now.

Your fingers skated up his sides, explored the taut muscles of his shoulders, then dipped lower.

And when you flicked your fingers over his nipple—just to see what he’d do—

A deep, guttural growl tore from Jungkook’s throat, his body jerking in response, a sharp inhale dragged through his teeth.

You fucking loved it.

Loved this power over him, loved the way his body shook under your touch, the way his need grew almost unbearable as you teased him. His hips rocked against yours, desperate for friction, for anything.

But then—

Jungkook wanted you in the same state of undress.

His hands moved under your clothes, hot and reverent, his touch just as exploring, just as aching.

First, his fingers glided over your stomach, smoothing over the soft curves, tracing up your ribs—

And fuck—

You fluttered under him, your body shivering at the warmth of his hands.

And when you lifted yourself just slightly, just enough for him to pull your shirt off—

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He sat up, gripping the hem, and in one smooth motion, he had your shirt off and discarded.

And then—

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide, drinking you in, taking in every inch of your bare skin, every part of you that was exposed to him now.

You should have felt powerful.

You should have felt wanted.

But instead—

Jungkook’s gaze hardened.

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring as his eyes locked onto the bruises littering your skin.

There were blue and purple splotches, fresh reminders of your fight earlier.

There weren’t any bandages, you didn’t care to replace them after your little swim, but there didn’t need to be. The ugly mark near your ribs was more than enough proof of what you had been through.

Jungkook growled—

Deep and dangerous.

Furious.

The second he saw your reaction, he regretted it.

Because you weren’t proud, weren’t smirking like you had won a fight.

No.

You looked ashamed.

Your gaze dropped, your body curling in slightly like you wanted to disappear.

A shiver ran over you, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Jungkook saw it all. Felt it all.

And fuck—

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

You already knew you didn’t smell as sweet as other omegas, your scent too weak to be truly enticing.

And now—

Now, your battered body wasn’t even nice to look at for your mate.

The realization hit you so hard it felt like a physical wound.

Jungkook saw the way your body stiffened, how your shoulders sank, the way you seemed to shrink into yourself, and his chest ached.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you feel like this.

Not for a single second.

A snarl ripped from him—sharp, frustrated, not at you, but at the world for making you think this way.

And then—

His hands grabbed your face, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“Stop.”

His voice was low, commanding, but desperate.

You hesitated, lips parting, eyes still downcast.

Jungkook wouldn’t allow it.

His forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, soft, reverent, but unyielding.

“Look at me.”

It took a moment.

A long, painful second.

But then—

You did.

And fuck—

Jungkook’s eyes burned.

Because he didn’t see flaws.

He didn’t see imperfection.

He saw you—his mate—beautiful and raw and strong.

And he needed you to see it, too.

Jungkook’s lips found your temple, pressing soft kisses to your skin, down to your cheek, over the curve of your jaw.

And then—

Softly.

Almost pleading.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

Jungkook’s fingers traced the outline of your bruise, featherlight, like he was memorizing it, like he wanted to absorb it, take it into himself instead.

And your breath hitched.

He was so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, something warm and twisting pooling deep in your belly.

But you still didn’t understand.

“Jungkook…”

Your voice was small, almost shy—like if you spoke too loudly, he might change his mind.

Might see what you saw.

Might realize you weren’t worthy of this.

You almost couldn’t say it.

But the words tumbled out anyway, soft, fractured—

“I… I’m black and blue. I’m not… I—”

Your entire body curled inward, as if you could make yourself smaller, as if you could hide from him, from the way he looked at you.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt sick at the sight.

How could you not see?

You weren’t some fragile thing.

You had beaten a strong beta at the festival, had fought with everything in you for your pack.

You weren’t weak.

You weren’t ruined.

You weren’t less.

You were more.

More whole, more unyielding, more alive than anyone he had ever known.

And fuck, he needed you to understand that.

With one swift, careful motion, Jungkook moved—flipping you effortlessly until you were on top of him.

His hands found you immediately—

One curled into your hair, grounding you.

The other gripped your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips, your hands bracing against his chest, wide eyes staring down at him.

You were straddling him now.

The contrast was dizzying— the way he had handled you with such ease, like he could break you in half—

And yet, beneath you, he was so fucking hard, his need pressing thick between your thighs, hot even through the layers of clothing.

Heat flared across your face, crawling down your neck.

You shifted, trying to put distance between you, your hands pressing into his chest, your knees digging into the mattress to lift yourself.

But Jungkook’s grip tightened.

The hand on your hip yanked you back down, forcing you against him again, another strangled sound breaking from his throat.

The hand in your hair held you firm, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him.

And fuck—

Jungkook, an alpha, the next to lead your pack, was beneath you, hard and desperate, staring at you like you were the moon itself.

Like you were his fucking world.

His voice was low, gravelly, but so fucking sure.

“My mate isn’t some brittle flower.”

His fingers dug in, his body coiling like a predator holding itself back.

“My mate gives alphas a run for their money.”

Jungkook breathed you in, a sharp inhale, a growl deep in his chest, the scent of your arousal spiking in the air.

“Your scent is just for me.”

His hips bucked once, slow, purposeful, grinding into you, forcing you to feel him.

“And every bruise you got, you gave back twice as hard.”

His hand tightened in your hair, his next words a growl—

“Don’t you dare think I don’t want you because of that.”

Your entire body burned, your stomach coiling tight, molten heat spreading like fire in your veins.

“But…”

Jungkook cut you off—his grip firm, unwavering.

“Just because I want to treat you like my fragile little mate, doesn’t mean you’re fragile.”

His fingers slid lower, teasing at the waistband of your pants, gripping at the barrier between you, pulling you harder against him.

His next words were a promise, a growled warning wrapped in heat.

“And if you let me, I’ll show you just how often I can put you back together tonight.”

And fuck—

Your scent spiked again, another wave of arousal washing over you, unbidden, undeniable.

Jungkook felt it immediately.

Felt the way you shivered, the way your body melted just slightly, the way your pupils widened, blown black with want.

His grip tightened.

His fingers curled under your waistband, ready to tear it away—

And his next word was simple, a single command, his voice dark and demanding.

“Off.”

You were both moving.

Fumbling.

Desperate.

Pants were kicked away, clothing discarded, and then—

Jungkook grabbed you again.

But instead of pulling you back onto him, onto his length—

He lifted you higher.

Your thighs trembled as he shifted you up, your core hovering over his face now.

Your breath caught, the realization slamming into you, heat flooding your cheeks as you stammered—

“Jungkook—?”

But his grip was firm, his eyes burning, filled with absolute hunger.

His hands guided you down, his head tilting back, reaching for you, and then—

His tongue flicked against you.

And fuck—

Your legs shook, a strangled gasp ripping from your lips, fingers fisting into the sheets.

Jungkook groaned, the sound low and ravenous, his hands clutching your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

He licked you again.

Long, slow, deliberate.

You were falling. No—flying? Maybe both. Your body no longer felt like your own, overtaken by sensation, by the fire spreading through every inch of you under Jungkook’s relentless touch. His hands, strong and possessive, held you firmly in place, keeping you from escaping the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue sent waves of shivers coursing through you, and the quiet, helpless whimpers slipping from your lips only seemed to feed his hunger.

Jungkook was insatiable, the deep rumble of his pleasure vibrating against your core, sending tremors through your entire being. He groaned against you, drinking in your scent, your taste, every reaction you gave him like it was the only thing he’d ever crave. The way you trembled, the way you gasped and arched above him—he wanted more. He needed more. He wanted to bury himself in every part of you, to pull every sound, every movement, every ounce of pleasure from you until you were entirely his.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place when instinct had you trying to squirm away. The intensity was too much, yet not enough, and Jungkook wasn’t about to let you escape—not when you were giving him everything he wanted. His mouth worked against you with precision, teasing, stroking, flicking, each motion designed to unravel you, to leave you shaking above him. You tried to find purchase, to hold onto something, but your limbs were weak, and the only thing grounding you was Jungkook himself.

And then he did something different—a new pressure, a shift that made your body jerk in response. He adjusted his hold, pulling you closer, locking you against him as he moved, his nose brushing against your clit, his tongue coaxing more pleasure from you than you thought you could handle. A strangled sound escaped you, somewhere between a gasp and a plea, and Jungkook’s deep growl of satisfaction sent another tremor through you. His grip tightened just a little more, as if reminding you that you were his, that you belonged to him, and the sheer possessiveness in his touch made your head spin.

Your breath hitched, body tightening, and Jungkook felt it—the way you were teetering on the edge, the way your muscles locked as the wave built inside you. He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and then, with one final movement, he sent you plummeting into oblivion. A sharp cry, a desperate breath of his name—"Kook"—was all you managed before the pleasure overtook you completely, your body shaking with the force of it. Jungkook didn’t stop, didn’t let go, holding you through it, watching with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as you came undone above him, utterly lost in the moment he had created for you.

His chest rumbled with satisfaction, his grip shifting as he slowly brought you back down, grounding you with gentle touches even as his own restraint frayed. Because he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Your breathing slowly evened out, your body sinking into the soft bedding beneath you, boneless and trembling in the aftermath. You barely had the strength to lift your head, but you became aware of Jungkook sitting back on his knees between your legs, his gaze locked onto you with something dark, something primal burning in his eyes. And for a second, you were utterly confused. Why was he still wearing his pants? Why had he held back when he was clearly fighting against every instinct to claim you?

Before you could question him, he pulled you closer again, his hands sliding under your knees, lifting your legs to rest over his thighs. His fingers traced delicate patterns along your skin, smoothing over the trembling muscles he had wrecked only moments ago. The way he touched you now was different—still possessive, still intense—but laced with something softer, something reverent. His touch soothed even as it sent more shivers down your spine. His chin was still wet from your arousal, his lips slightly parted as he caught his breath, his hair tousled and wild from how you had gripped him. And god, he looked beautiful. Absolutely untamed.

The sight made something in your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the heat between your legs. You reached for him without thinking, hands opening and closing in the air, needy, desperate for him.

"Mate," you breathed, the word slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Before you knew what you said.

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to you and froze. His breath hitched, and then a sound—deep, guttural, and dangerously close to a purr—vibrated from his chest. His pupils blew wide, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your thighs as if you had just broken him and put him back together all in the same moment. You hadn’t even realized what you had done. You had given him the one thing he craved the most—you had acknowledged him. Claimed him, even if you didn’t fully understand the depth of it.

A shudder ran through him as he leaned over you, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, letting your scent fill his lungs as though it was the only thing keeping him sane. His lips pressed against your throat, slow and deliberate, before trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, and then finally—your lips.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice raw with restraint. “Not right now. I’m already using everything I have to hold back.”

But even as he spoke, he couldn’t stop touching you. His hands never ceased their slow, torturous exploration, his fingers skimming the inside of your thighs, creeping higher, testing how much more you could take. The contrast was maddening—the way he spoke of restraint while simultaneously unraveling you all over again.

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, a teasing nip, a quiet growl vibrating against your skin. “One more,” he murmured, his voice thick with want.

Your breath hitched. "I... I—" The words barely made it out before your body betrayed you, another shudder rolling through you, your legs trembling even as he tried to soothe them.

Jungkook only hummed, his grip steady, his patience razor-thin. Because if he had his way, he’d have more than just one.

God, it was embarrassing how fast he could reduce you to this—how easily his fingers found the spot that had you keening for him, how effortlessly he had you spread open and taking him. One, then two, then three fingers, stretching you with slow, deliberate precision, filling you so perfectly that you could barely think, barely breathe. Your body trembled, a shiver rolling down your spine with every slow push and curl of his fingers inside you. You were beyond holding on at this point, your senses overwhelmed, your nerves alight, and the only thing keeping your legs from snapping shut in sheer overstimulation was the weight of Jungkook’s waist between them.

Your hands were desperate, restless, running over every inch of him, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his chest—anywhere he would let you, anywhere but where you really wanted to touch him. Because Jungkook wouldn’t allow that. Not yet. And it was driving you insane because he sounded just as wrecked as you felt, his breath uneven, his muscles tensed like he was barely restraining himself. And god, the way he looked at you, the way he kissed you—deep and consuming, like he wanted to devour every sound you made—it had you spiraling all over again.

The next slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, tightening around him, making your head fall back against the pillows. It was too much and not enough. You needed more. Needed him. And as your pleasure built higher and higher, as you scrambled desperately for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself, a broken whimper fell from your lips.

“Mate.”

Jungkook cursed under his breath, his body jolting as if the word had physically struck him. His control was slipping fast, but he didn’t care—not when he could feel the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, gripping him so tightly, so sweetly, as you shattered beneath him once more. Not when you were shaking in his arms, when you were looking up at him like that—fucked out and dazed and so incredibly beautiful.

His head spun, his blood roared in his veins, and the need to claim you, to take you completely, burned through him like wildfire. But he couldn’t let you touch him. Not yet. Because if you so much as brushed against his cock right now, he’d come in seconds. He was painfully hard, so fucking close just from watching you fall apart again and again, and as he finally shed the last barrier between you, he had to take a moment—one shaky, grounding moment—not to lose himself at the sight of you.

You were still catching your breath, your body soft and pliant, your legs trembling in the aftermath of your release. But then—god, you were a fucking minx—you looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, gaze dropping to where he was thick and aching for you, were he held himself not to come undone just by watching you, and without a word, without even a moment’s hesitation, you slowly spread your legs just a little wider. A silent invitation.

And that was it.

Jungkook was over you in an instant, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so deep it stole what little breath you had left. His hands framed your face, holding you with a reverence that contradicted the raw hunger in his movements, his groan vibrating against your lips as he completely lost himself in you.

He gave you whiplash—his touch still grounding, still careful, his fingers tracing over your bruises with a tenderness that sent shivers racing down your spine. But there was something barely restrained in him, something trembling at the edge of control.

"Mate," he growled, voice raw, the word vibrating from his chest like a snarl, like a plea, as if he might snap in half if he didn’t sink into you this very instant.

You met his eyes, still hazy from pleasure, still dazed from the intensity of it all, but you knew what he needed—what you needed. Without a word, you lifted one leg over his hip, opening yourself to him, guiding him closer. And slower than you ever thought possible, he began to push in.

The stretch was overwhelming, the feeling so intense it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You could feel him everywhere, in every part of you, in every nerve ending, in the very marrow of your bones. Both of you groaned in unison, bodies trembling at the sheer overwhelming sensation of being joined like this, and fuck—you had never felt more full, more complete, more utterly his than in this moment.

But then Jungkook stilled.

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, pleading for him to move, to give you more. But Jungkook’s body trembled, his grip on your hips tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself. Unintentionally, his fingers pressed just a little too hard against one of your bruises, and the sharp gasp you let out had him groaning. He pulled back instantly, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck. Wait—don’t… don’t move.” His voice was strained, wrecked. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his breath searing down the slope of your neck, over your collarbone, making your nipples harden further. His body shuddered. “You feel too fucking good.”

You didn’t care. You needed him to move.

“Jungkook,” you pleaded, trembling beneath him, body taut with need. “Please—move.”

He was shaking. He was trying so hard to hold himself back, but after a long, painful moment, he finally nodded, voice wrecked.

“Yeah… fuck.”

He pulled out agonizingly slowly, the drag of him against your walls, against every sensitive nerve inside you, making your toes curl and a desperate mewl escape your lips, making you whimper, your thighs trembling around him. Jungkook groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and his grip on your hips tightened, holding you still, not trusting you, not trusting himself—not right now, not with how tight and warm you felt around him.

And then he thrust back in.

Your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your throat, and Jungkook’s control snapped completely. His movements were still slow, but deep, hard, relentless in their precision. The force of each thrust sent pleasure crashing through you, your body arching into him, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Your nails raked down his back, over his arms, but Jungkook didn’t let up. He was lost in you, drowning in the way you clenched around him, the way you took him so perfectly, as if you were made for him.

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure so sharp it left you breathless, and Jungkook wasn’t fairing any better. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat beading along his temple, his breath ragged against your ear. He didn’t dare look down, didn’t dare watch where his cock was disappearing inside you, because just the thought of it was almost enough to undo him.

He needed more.

His hands roamed greedily over you. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, dragging you against him, against the heat of his skin. His scent was thick in the air, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a drug.

“Fuck, I want you,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a desperate groan.

You gasped against his throat, shivering at the sheer need in his voice. Your lips brushed against his skin, soft and warm and reverent.

“You have me.”

A tremor ran down Jungkook’s spine, his hand tightening in your hair as he fought for control. But then—

“Where will you mark me?”

The question sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, your walls clenching desperately around him involuntarily. Jungkook let out a broken moan, his rhythm faltering. He was holding on by a thread, his entire body trembling with restraint, waiting—pleading for your answer.

"I—" Your voice faltered, your mind hazy with pleasure, with need, with the overwhelming gravity of what he was asking.

But there was no hesitation in him.

"Mark me, my mate,"

His voice was rough, commanding, leaving no room for doubt. And you didn’t hesitate any longer. You tilted your head, lips brushing over the spot that had drawn your attention from the moment he had leapt after you, the spot where his pulse thundered beneath his skin. You parted your lips, tongue flicking over the skin once, twice—

And then you bit down.

Jungkook shattered.

A deep, guttural growl tore from his throat as he slammed into you one final time, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside you, his pleasure hitting so hard it sent you spiraling after him. Your own release crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out, your body shaking as you clenched around him, milking him for everything he had.

His body covered yours, his hips rolling through the aftershocks, prolonging both your highs, until the pleasure finally faded into a warm, blissful haze.

You could feel him throbbing inside you, feel the way his breath shuddered against your skin, feel the way his hands still held you like he was afraid to let go.

You had claimed him.

And he was yours.

Jungkook collapsed against you, panting, shuddering, his lips pressing feverish, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone—anywhere he could reach. His breath was still uneven, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his release, but he never stopped touching you, never stopped grounding himself in the reality of you beneath him.

You had marked him.

There was no going back now.

He was yours.

But as you slowly came down from the high, your mind clearing in the hazy warmth of his embrace, a realization settled over you—one that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He hadn’t marked you.

Just as he had promised, he had held himself back, had given you the choice to wake up in the morning and decide for yourself. He had been careful, considerate, exactly as he had sworn he would be. And yet… you found yourself wishing he hadn’t. Wishing he had been selfish, had lost control, had claimed you the way you had claimed him.

Your body betrayed you, walls fluttering involuntarily around him at the mere thought.

Jungkook groaned, his body jolting in response. His head dropped to your shoulder, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest as he realized what you had just done.

You gasped, your face burning. “That— I didn’t mean—”

But Jungkook lifted himself up, still nestled deep inside you, still keeping you close, and the look on his face nearly made you forget how to breathe. His dark eyes drank you in, half-lidded and lazy with satisfaction, yet still burning with something deeper—something raw and unfiltered. He looked wrecked in the best way possible, his skin flushed, his damp hair falling into his eyes, his lips still swollen from kissing you. And yet, it was the way he gazed at you, the way he took in every inch of you, the way his scent wrapped so thickly around you, mixing with yours—it made your stomach flip.

And, of course, the bastard knew it.

A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice still rough from pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, your body still too spent to do anything more than weakly swat at his arm. But Jungkook was faster, capturing your wrist and pinning it beside your head, his nose brushing teasingly along the curve of your throat before he playfully nipped at your skin. You squeaked, squirming, but he only chuckled again, his hands steady on your hips, making sure he didn’t slip from you just yet.

After a moment, his voice softened.

“You good?”

You took a slow breath, nodding. And then, as you met his gaze, the question that had been lingering in your mind slipped out before you could stop it.

“You didn’t mark me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, wasn’t even disappointment, just a quiet observation.

But Jungkook’s reaction was immediate.

His gaze dropped to your neck, to the exact spot where he already knew—without a doubt—his mark would one day belong. His fingers twitched against your skin, as if barely restraining himself from reaching out, from pressing his lips to that spot, from sinking his teeth in and sealing the bond.

“You want me to?”

The roughness of his voice sent a fresh shiver down your spine, but before you could even answer, you felt him twitch inside you.

A startled yelp left your lips, and now it was his turn to chuckle, clearly pleased with himself as he nosed at your throat, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin.

“Jungkook,” you whined, still sensitive, still overwhelmed.

He hummed in amusement, pressing another kiss to your neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” you admitted, breathlessly. “But… but not today.” You swallowed, suddenly shy. “Thank you. For… for letting me choose.”

Jungkook stilled for a moment, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, and something warm, something dangerously tender flickered in those dark irises.

“Don’t mistake me, little mate,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “If you decide to leave the pack in the morning—which would be a fucking terrible decision after all the work it took for them to recognize you—I’d simply follow you.” He smirked, eyes dark and unwavering. “I’m yours now.”

Your heart swelled, a feeling too big, too all-consuming wrapping around your ribs, threatening to steal the breath from your lungs. You barely had the strength to say it, to let the word slip from your lips in a whisper so soft it barely existed between you.

“Mate.”

And then you kissed him, slowly, deeply, reverently, brushing your nose against his before your lips met.

Delighting in the warmth of him.

Delighting in the fact that he was yours.

Jungkook adjusted you carefully, rearranging your limbs so you could rest comfortably for the night. But even with all his care, a hiss of protest left you both when he slowly, begrudgingly, slipped out of you—dragging out the inevitable as long as he could.

Still, he helped you clean up, albeit reluctantly. Even as he wiped you down, his hands lingered, his touch reverent, his lips brushing over your skin as if he could somehow preserve the moment. And when he finally let you settle back into the furs, his scent still clung to you—enough to satisfy him, though not nearly enough for his liking.

Jungkook tucked himself against you, his nose buried in your hair, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist. Your lips hovered near his neck, your hands resting over his heart and around his shoulder, holding him just as much as he held you. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket draped lazily over you—not that you needed it. Jungkook’s warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the safety of his presence—it was all you needed to lull you into sleep.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was early when you stirred, blinking against the soft light creeping through the tent. Jungkook was still wrapped around you, his body heavy with sleep, his grip unyielding. With a sleepy groan, you tried to sit up, pushing away the haze of drowsiness.

Jungkook mumbled something incoherent, his arms tightening around you as he buried his face deeper into your neck.

You chuckled, trying again—only to be rolled onto your back, his weight pressing you down. His nose nudged against your throat, his breath warm against your skin, still lost in the remnants of slumber.

A laugh bubbled from your lips as you tried to wake him with kisses to his neck. He grumbled in response, pressing closer instead of pulling away, a deep sound of protest rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t start anything,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, comfort, and something dangerously close to temptation.

You huffed, nudging him playfully. “I need to get up. I have to pack.”

The reminder brought reality crashing back in. The festival was coming to an end. Soon, the packs would return to their lands, carrying stories back to their elders. And for the first time, you weren’t bound to leave with them.

You had a choice.

A choice that both thrilled and terrified Jungkook.

Because he had meant every word—if you chose to leave, he would follow. His heart had already decided. But still, a sliver of anxiety gnawed at him. Would yesterday—everything he had done, everything he had given—be enough to make you stay?

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Jungkook finally rolled off you, though not without a few more mumbled complaints.

He helped you pack, though his mood darkened when you disappeared to freshen up. And when you returned, smelling like soap and morning air instead of him, a displeased growl rumbled low in his throat.

His scent wasn’t entirely gone—he could still catch traces of it on you. But had you deliberately left it there? Or had he marked you so thoroughly last night that no amount of scrubbing could erase him?

He didn’t know.

But what he did know was that he had no interest in finishing the rest of his morning tasks—not when he could be pulling you back into bed, pressing his scent into your skin all over again.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Before Jungkook could act on his impulse to pull you back into bed and mark you all over again, two wolves arrived. And unlike you, he wasn’t particularly happy to see them.

Namjoon and Yoongi.

They greeted you warmly, their smiles easy, their presence familiar. And Jungkook—who, just moments ago, had felt content in the lingering haze of your shared night—now found himself gritting his teeth.

It wasn’t fair, but it still made his chest tighten to see you smile at them like that, to witness the genuine affection on your face. He understood, of course. Yoongi and Namjoon had been kind to you, had offered you a place where you wouldn’t have to fight to be recognized.

But understanding didn’t make it easier to watch Yoongi hover so damn close to you.

Jungkook dropped the tent pole he’d been holding, nearly bringing the entire structure crashing down on Jimin in his haste to move toward you. Yoongi barely spared him a glance, smiling as he met your gaze.

“So, Thunder, have you decided?”

You blinked. “Thunder?”

Yoongi looked just as confused as you. “Yeah. You smell like it. Didn’t you realize?”

Your brows furrowed, and you shook your head. Jungkook’s hand hovered just over your lower back, the heat of his presence grounding you, even as you remained puzzled by Yoongi’s words.

Then, Yoongi’s sharp gaze flickered to Jungkook. His expression shifted slightly, as if piecing something together. His eyes dipped to the collar of Jungkook’s shirt—where, if one knew what to look for, they’d see the faintest hint of your mark. Barely visible, easy to miss.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath.

“So?” he pressed.

“I…” You faltered, fumbling with your words.

Jungkook clenched his jaw.

He wanted to step in, to tell Yoongi off, to grab you, scent you, take you home before anyone else had the chance to make you second-guess your choice. But this wasn’t his decision to make.

Then, just as he braced himself for your answer, you took a step toward Yoongi.

And hugged him.

Jungkook’s heart lurched.

It wasn’t a possessive hug, not the kind that sent fire roaring through his veins. It was soft. Grateful. A gesture of appreciation rather than hesitation.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you murmured, stepping back. “Really.”

Then, you turned—your gaze sweeping over the rest of the pack.

Jimin looked like he was vibrating with nerves. Hana seemed as though she might faint. Seokjin was gripping Hoseok’s hand so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, as if awaiting the decision of a lifetime.

You chuckled.

“Thank you for seeing me,” you said, voice steady now. “But I want to truly see them before I can go anywhere. So, I have to decline.”

Yoongi nodded, hands tucked into his pockets, his smile warm but knowing. “Thought so.”

His gaze flickered to Jungkook, unreadable for just a second.

“But the invitation still stands,” Yoongi added, meeting your eyes again. “If you ever see something you don’t like—if you ever need a way out—come looking for me.”

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from Jungkook’s chest before he could stop it.

You only chuckled, nudging him in warning.

With that, Yoongi and Namjoon left.

Jungkook barely gave you time to breathe before he had you back in his arms, pulling you flush against him. His grip was firm, his lips pressing against your temple, his body curling around yours in a way that left no room for argument.

You laughed, struggling half-heartedly against his hold. “Jungkook—”

“You smell like that mutt,” he grumbled, voice dark, but not truly angry. His lips ghosted over your skin, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Jungkook,” you scolded, half amused, half exasperated.

“Not my fault he got too close,” he muttered, his hands sliding over your hips, as if physically reclaiming you. “Gotta fix it.”

“You can’t just—”

His nose brushed against your neck, inhaling deeply. “I can. And I will.”

But before you could say anything he continued “I meant what I said,” his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, quieter now, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “If you’d left, I would’ve followed.”

“I know.” Your hands moved from his hair to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “But I didn’t want to leave. I want this. I want—”

“Me,” Jungkook finished for you, and there was a hint of something teasing in his voice, but mostly, there was relief.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Yes, you, idiot.”

A deep, pleased sound rumbled from his chest. “Then let me fix this.”

You huffed. “At least let me finish packing first?”

Jungkook let out a displeased sound but, begrudgingly, let you go—“Put your stuff with mine,” though not without grumbling under his breath as you moved to help your pack. You exhaled a soft laugh, warmth spreading through your chest.

And it didn’t take long for the teasing to begin.

“Oh, he’s not letting you out of his sight, huh?” Jimin snickered, watching as Jungkook hovered near you like a restless shadow.

“You better not run off,” Seokjin called out, smirking. “I don’t think he’d survive it.”

“You’re lucky, you know,” Hoseok added, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “He never acts like this. Usually, he just scowls at everyone.”

Jungkook growled, yanking you out of Hoseok’s hold with a glare.

Hana, still looking slightly overwhelmed, gave you a hesitant smile. “I guess that means you’re really staying?”

You glanced at Jungkook, at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world. His fingers curled around yours instinctively, possessive but warm.

A slow smile spread across your lips.

“Yeah,” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m staying.”

Jungkook exhaled, relief flooding through him, though he tried not to show just how much your words meant. But when you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his entire body melted against yours. And as the pack continued to tease and celebrate, as laughter and warmth surrounded you, you realized—this wasn’t just Jungkook’s pack anymore.

This was your home.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Part 1 I Masterlist

[qualitygiverbread]

WHAT DID YOU JUST DO TO ME 😭😭 This series??!! Literally the best thing I’ve ever read. It’s like you crawled into my soul, found every insecurity, every feeling I couldn’t explain—and wrote it down. Beautifully. Honestly. Painfully. I’ve been searching for a story like this. One that feels so real, so…raw. You captured love, loneliness, and everything in between with such magic it HURTS (in the best way). I don’t even know how to move on now. Thank you for writing this masterpiece. You’ve ruined me—in the most comforting, healing way. BEST FICT IN 2025!!!!!😔😔😔😔😔😔😔💟💟💟💟💟💟💟I LOVE YOU💟💟💟

[sweetvoidstuff]

Omg T.T i’m—i’m sorry?? thank you?? I don’t even have words!! I seriously didn’t expect such a heartfelt comment, especially since the story didn’t get much attention... so this really means everything to me <3 I’m gonna go print this in DIN A2 and frame it for my wall because T.T what do you mean “ruined in the most comforting way”?? That’s the highest honor T.T Thank you for reading, feeling, and sharing this with me 💜 I love YOU!!

[sweetvoidstuff]

Undead, Undressed, Unexpected I Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Slowburn (sort of) I zombie larp au I smut with feelings I friends to lovers vibes I soft but messy I table trauma I kinda domestic kinda feral I camping chaos I emotional intimacy

Summary: A LARP weekend takes an unexpected turn when BTS wants to film there Vlog there. Or: “I don’t know what’s weirder,” Yoongi muttered, sipping the beer you’d tossed at him. “That this is happening or that you’re all so prepared for it.”

Word Count: 50K (both Parts)

Masterlist

Part 2

A/N: Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me… so I’ll be posting Part 1 and Part 2 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.

I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!

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You had always thought your inbox was a place of controlled chaos—occasional partnership requests, a flood of player questions, shipping delays on makeup foam, and the usual budget arguments with your logistics friend, Pia. But the chaos started earlier than usual that day—with a phone call from Lea, the friend who usually handled the LARP's shared email account.

“Hey,” she said casually, “some Korean entertainment company emailed us? Something about a possible collab for the next event?” You nearly dropped your lunch.

“Wait—what Korean company?”

“I don’t know, Big-something. Big…Hit? BigPunch? I forwarded it to you.”

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “BigHit? Are you serious?”

Lea made a confused noise. “Yeah, is that a big deal? I just thought it was, like, a local talent agency or something. They didn’t say much. You okay? You sound like you’re gonna combust.” You didn’t answer right away because your brain was rebooting.

“They’re—Lea, they manage BTS. Like, the BTS. Global. World tour. Grammy-stage BTS.”

There was a pause on her end. “...Oh. Uh. Is that the one with the guy who did a thing with Charlie Puth? Or is that the ramen guy?” You laughed, a choked, borderline hysterical sound. “Yes. No. Sort of. I’ll check the email. Just—thank you.”

“Anytime,” she replied, bemused. “I guess let me know if the ramen guy’s showing up.” You hung up with shaking hands and sprinted for your laptop, yanking it open so fast the battery nearly popped out.

And there it was.

FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Collaboration Inquiry – Upcoming LARP Project

You stared at it for a solid minute, blinking hard, rereading the signature and domain. You even copied the email into a group chat with your seven friends titled “Project Zombie Apocalypse 202X” with the caption:

"Tell me I’m hallucinating."

You didn’t.

Over the next few weeks, the back-and-forth with BigHit solidified something real and turned into a full-blown project folder on your desktop—contracts, security forms, scheduling proposals, and endless discussions about what was feasible and what wasn’t.

They were interested in sending one of their groups for a LARP experience to include in their “challenge vlog” series. They loved your concept: four days in a remote woodland complex turned survival horror sim, where around 250 participants would play out a fictional zombie outbreak in real-time. Minimum power except for medical posts and staff centers. No phone service. Just radios, bloodied props, a kitchen, and pure adrenaline.

At first, your team didn’t take it seriously.

“Some Korean band wants to vlog here?” Pia had said during your first group Zoom call. “Okay, sure. Do they know our kitchen runs on two electric hot plates and prayers?”

“They know,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “I told them in the first reply. I made it very clear that we’re... rustic.”

“They probably think we’re some scenic wilderness experience,” Erik muttered. “Wait ‘til they see our ‘bedding options.’”

“It’s not just some band,” you shot back. “It’s BigHit. That’s... that’s massive. This is actual, career-changing visibility. Even if they send a small or new band.” That caught everyone’s attention, but the tone shifted from surprise to skepticism quickly.

“Okay, but do we want that kind of visibility?” Lea asked. “We built this to be immersive, chaotic fun. Not something where we have to worry about stepping on a celebrity’s shoe.”

“It would mean a lot more work,” Pia added cautiously. “Like...a lot. Extra infrastructure, coordination, liability coverage. Probably hiring more crew down the line. And taxes—Jesus, we’ll have to register it differently. No more fun hobby exemption. We’ll need to go full business mode.” You felt a cold knot in your gut. She wasn’t wrong.

“But it also means we could finally get paid properly,” you said, more softly now. “Like... not just break even. We could maybe even fund the next LARP without crowdfunding. Or get better props. Maybe even hire full-time help. This could be our way out of ‘barely-making-it.’” That silenced them. For a moment.

“Only if we survive it first,” Erik muttered. “And if it doesn’t kill the vibe.”

In the end it was decided, you would give it a try.

You found yourself writing emails late into the night, negotiating with BigHit’s reps while triple-checking your spreadsheets for costs. At one point, you were balancing on a stepladder fixing a hanging light while on the phone with your accountant friend, trying to figure out how to legally declare sudden international income.

BigHit wanted privacy, but also good footage. They wanted realism, but no actual injuries. You had to promise fast response plans, prep multilingual safety briefings, and accommodate a small filming crew without giving the players any clue who was coming.

It was exhausting, overwhelming, and a logistical headache—but when BigHit confirmed the collaboration and wired the down payment, you stared at the numbers in your bank account for a full minute in shock.

This wasn’t just a cool opportunity. This could be the thing that made your dream sustainable.

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It was the day before the event—the day you’d circled in red on every planning calendar and spreadsheet. You and one of the BigHit staff had agreed: the band would arrive a full day early for privacy, filming, and a crash course in zombie apocalypse survival.

You were their primary contact for the duration. The only one on your team fluent in Korean and English, which meant every question, every request, every last-minute panic would come straight to you.

The old asylum grounds you rented every year sat deep in the woods, surrounded by rusted fences, gravel paths, and fog-thick silence. It looked exactly as eerie and perfect as ever—half horror movie set, half forgotten relic. Soon, over two hundred players would fight to survive a fictional outbreak here. The zombies (your tireless NSC crew) would sleep in a locked-off wing of the asylum, like always. The uppermost floor—off-limits to players—was reserved for the organizing staff. You’d already transformed it with air mattresses, fairy lights, warm blankets, and the half-desperate charm of veteran event runners.

Whoever BigHit sent would be staying there too. In the same room as you.

For privacy. And for emergencies. And not to interfere with the other Orga or the plot.

The Orga floor had its own bathrooms—tiny, ancient, and a little creepy—but it was better than the alternative: the heavily trafficked bathrooms down near the NSC quarters, split by gender but used by dozens. The kitchen was also down near the NSC zone, which meant any idol who wanted a snack might have to wade through latex-coated zombie crew at 2 a.m. That’s why you had your personal stash of snacks on hand.

You’d explained all of this to BigHit in a painfully detailed PDF. They had agreed. You still weren’t sure if they fully understood what they were walking into.

You had just finished breakfast—instant coffee and a lukewarm breakfast wrap—and were lounging outside in a creaky camping chair, soaking in your last hour of relative calm before the storm. Erik was beside you, sorting through printed liability waivers and contracts for the players arriving tomorrow to sign.

“I still don’t get why they want to film here,” he muttered, flipping a page. “Like, no offense to our haunted horror dreamscape, but... this isn’t luxury content.” You shrugged, sipping from your dented thermos. “Maybe they want something gritty. Or real. Or ironic. I dunno. Maybe they just like zombies.”

He smirked. “Sure. Maybe one of them has a secret undead kink.” You opened your mouth to sass him back—then stopped cold. Three sleek black SUVs rolled down the gravel path toward the asylum gates. Silent, shiny, and entirely out of place.

Erik raised a brow. “...Oh shit.”

You stood so fast your chair fell backward into the dirt. You swore your heart stopped. The first door opened. Jeon Jungkook stepped out of the first SUV like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Casual in black cargo pants, a harness vest, and a hoodie, he looked like he’d walked straight off a dystopian movie poster. His eyes flicked over the asylum grounds with quiet curiosity.

Behind him came Taehyung, laughing at something Jin said as he followed. Taehyung wore a long coat and combat boots like it was fashion week.

Yoongi had earbuds in, head down, expression unreadable. Jimin waved cheerfully, his hair fluffing in the breeze. Namjoon caught your eye and nodded—calm, respectful, already reading the vibe. And Hoseok, last out, stretched and turned his face toward the fog like he was trying to feel the mood in the air.

They were all here. All of BTS.

In your forest. At your LARP. At your chaos-riddled, mud-streaked, budget-scraping zombie survival event.

Erik leaned closer, whispering, “So uh… I guess it’s not the ramen guy after all.” You couldn’t answer. Your brain had short-circuited.

And the real chaos hadn’t even started yet.

You took a deep breath, forced your legs to move, and tried your best to walk over professionally, even though the inside of your chest felt like a popcorn machine of nerves. All seven members of BTS stood together, flanked by three guys from the filming crew—compact gear bags slung over shoulders, cameras padded in protective foam, one of them already eyeing angles like he was mapping a cinematic plan in real-time.

You greeted them in Korean, voice steady even as your palms sweated.

"Welcome to Outbreak Protocol. I’m Y/N, I’ll be your main contact before and during the event." Namjoon smiled, surprised but happy you spoke Korean, his voice warm. "We’ve heard a lot about the project. Sounds pretty intense." Jungkook’s eyes drifted past you to the rusted fences and fog-cloaked trees. "This place looks like a horror movie set."

You grinned like he’d handed you an Oscar. "Perfect. Because tomorrow, you’re all survivors."

You shifted into logistics mode before your brain could spiral. You pointed toward the makeshift parking area. "You can park over there. We’ve got the legal documents all ready—Erik will help you with those." The filming crew gave polite nods and peeled off toward the cars. Erik waved and waited near the porch, clipboard in hand.

You turned back to the members. "Would you like the grand tour first, or do you want to settle in upstairs and look around later?" The group exchanged glances, some rolling their shoulders to shake off travel fatigue. Jin was already shifting his backpack into a more comfortable position. Jungkook flexed one hand to crack his knuckles.

“We’ll drop our stuff off first,” Namjoon said. “But we’re definitely doing the tour after.” You nodded. “Follow me then.”

As you led the way toward the heavy front doors and up the creaking staircase, you caught a few quiet murmurs of interest from behind—Yoongi commenting on the paint-peeling walls, Jimin quietly admiring the fog that still clung to the edges of the broken windows.

A strange thump echoed from the lower hallway, something shifting in the NSC quarters. Probably a dropped bin or one of the staff testing props. Hoseok jumped. You couldn’t help your grin as you looked back. “First scare of the weekend goes to you, I guess.”

He laughed, embarrassed but entertained. “Is it always like this?”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” you teased. Just as you reached the upper floor, Lea passed by holding a coil of LED fairy lights and two rolls of duct tape under her arm. She paused, nodded politely to the group, then looked at you and held out a radio.

“For you,” she said. “Orga team check-ins start now.” You took the radio and clipped it to your belt, clicking the button twice before speaking: “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Guests incoming.” There was a long pause, then Erik’s voice crackled through, dramatic and low: “Copy that, Sparkles. Hostiles confirmed. Prepare for contact.”

Taehyung laughed aloud, almost tripping on the last step. “Wait—did you say Sparkles?” You looked over your shoulder with a wink. “I did.”

“Is that your code name?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

You grinned wider. “Just because.”

Taehyung snorted. “That’s not a reason.”

“That’s exactly the point.” He grinned at you like you were a riddle he wanted to solve. You opened the door to the upper dorm hallway, leading them past the first room on the left. “This one here,” you said, pausing with your hand on the frame, “is the organizers-only room. Our private space, mostly for sensitive documents, extra gear, and collapsing in secret when the caffeine wears off.”

You continued walking and stopped at the next room, opening it fully this time. “This one,” you gestured them in, “is where you’ll stay. It’s a shared space. Sorry, no luxury suites here.” Inside, air mattresses had already been inflated and neatly spaced out. Each was made with sleeping bags, throw blankets, and a small labeled bag of towels and toiletries. Fairy lights flickered lazily along the upper edge of the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of mint tea, dust and fresh laundry.

“We had to compromise,” you explained. “This room has somewhat heating, and it’s closer to the emergency exit in case of… well, any kind of problem. Plus, it’s more private than the downstairs dorms. The bathroom’s through there—shared, though. Welcome to the apocalypse.” Jin raised an eyebrow, inspecting the setup. “Charming.”

“I did warn your manager about the rustic conditions,” you said with a small shrug. “It’s better than some green rooms we’ve had,” Yoongi mumbled, setting down his backpack. Namjoon gave you a grateful nod. “This’ll do. Thanks for being upfront about everything.”

You returned the nod with a smile, then turned to gesture down the hallway. “This floor is the staff area. Off-limits to players, which means you’ll have some privacy here when needed. Once the game starts, though—”

You turned back toward them, your smile shifting into something more mischievous.

“—you’re all survivors. No exceptions. Survivors can’t come up here—not even to sleep. You’ll have to make do with what you find out there and work with other players to get a place to rest. And trust me,” your voice dropped to a playful threat, “I run the NSC , the zombie side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.”

Taehyung looked half-terrified, half-thrilled. Jungkook grinned like someone had just challenged him to a fight. Yoongi raised a hand immediately. “Can I just be a zombie from the start and skip the sleep deprivation part?”

You laughed. “Yes, absolutely. You can request to switch roles if you want. It’s a game—not actual torture. If anyone gets too exhausted, just tell me. You can and should rest. This is meant to be immersive fun, not military training.” He nodded in approval, clearly filing away that option.

As they set their bags down, Jimin drifted toward one of the mattresses—clean, thick blankets folded neatly, some big fluffy pillows, a water bottle placed in the middle like a hotel mint. It looked more like an actual bed. He tilted his head and asked: “Who gets the fancy bed?”

You followed his gaze and smirked. “That one’s mine.” A beat. Then a chorus of mock groans followed. “Of course it is,” Jin muttered. “I respect the flex,” Jungkook said, dropping his bag onto the floor next to a less-decorated mattress.

But then something in the air shifted—a glance shared between a few of them. Some of the members looked uncertain, shifting slightly in place. Hoseok scratched the back of his neck. Taehyung was unusually quiet. Finally, it was Yoongi who broke the silence. “Wait, so… we’re all sleeping in here with you?”

You blinked, nodding. “Yeah. Didn’t they tell you? This was the agreement with your staff—one room for all of you and me, so I’m close in case of an emergency and you don’t have to look for me. This is the safest and most direct setup.”

Namjoon cleared his throat, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Right. They did tell us that. We just didn’t know about you and logistics, exactly…”

You tilted your head, eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. “What about me and logistics?” There was a beat of silence. Namjoon sighed and rubbed at his temple. “This might sound awkward, but… you know, sleeping in the same room. You are a woman and might be in, uh, sleeping clothes. Or… yeah.”

You blinked. Jungkook suddenly found the floor intensely interesting. His ears flushed red. You stared for a second longer, and then laughed—just once, not mocking, but surprised. “Oh. I mean—sure. I get it. Thanks for saying something.”

Then your tone shifted into something firmer but still friendly. You looked at each of them in turn. “This could turn into a cultural, or language misfire so bear with me I will be direct... Let me ask you this: do any of you intend to do anything to me—without my consent?” The effect was instant. A few of them looked scandalized. Jimin’s eyes widened like a deer in headlights. Hoseok choked on a breath. Jungkook’s ears turned even redder.

Namjoon stepped forward, hands raised slightly. “No. Absolutely not. Never.” You nodded once, satisfied. “Then, I don’t see a problem. I’m not here to be uncomfortable—I’m here to make sure this whole thing doesn’t fall apart. And at night it can get really cold. So no way for short shorts. I’ll probably pass out in leggings and a hoodie, and you’ll be too tired to care.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Yoongi let out a single low chuckle. “That… actually makes me feel better.”

“Same,” Jin muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called out so politely and so brutally in the same sentence.”

You grinned. “Good. Now that that’s settled—pick your mattress. Tomorrow, you're all getting hunted by the undead.” Jungkook finally looked up, still red around the ears, but with the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile.

Taehyung slung his bag onto the far corner mattress. “I want the spot closest to the door in case I have to run from you.” You gasped in mock offense, hand to your chest. “Run from me? Please, I’m the safest person here—unless you insult my campfire coffee. Then it’s over for you.” Taehyung grinned wide, eyes crinkling. “Noted. No coffee jokes.”

“Exactly,” you said with a wink. “Respect the bean or face the consequences.” The others chuckled, and you caught a flicker of movement from the corner of your eye. Jungkook, who had just set his bag   on a mattress near the edge of the room, paused. His gaze flicked from Taehyung to you—lingering for half a beat longer than necessary. Without a word, he picked his bag back up, walked past a few other mattresses, and set it down on the one right next to yours.

You noticed—of course you did—but didn’t say anything. You just glanced down at where he was now crouched, adjusting the pillow like it needed perfect alignment. “Strategic placement?” you asked lightly, not looking directly at him.

Jungkook glanced up through his lashes, a crooked smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just figured I’d want to be near the person who controls the zombie apocalypse.”

“Oh, smart,” you replied, lips twitching into a sly grin. “Stick close to the Game Master. That’s either genius or cheating.” He looked like he might respond, but Jimin threw himself backward onto his chosen mattress with a groan, breaking the moment.

Taehyung leaned toward you and whispered loud enough for only the closest to hear, “I still think you’re secretly a final boss.” You gave him a dangerous smile. “You’re not ready for my final form.” Jungkook coughed—just once—and looked back down at his bag like it had suddenly become fascinating.

You raised your walkie again, clicking it twice. “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Base camp secured. Survivors setting up now.” Erik’s voice crackled through after a second. “HQ copies. Keep ‘em alive, Sparkles.”

“Can’t promise that,” you muttered, already mentally ticking off the next steps on your checklist.

“Why Sparkles again?” Taehyung asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. You winked. “Because it makes people underestimate me.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted.”

You smiled at them all as you backed toward the door. “Once you’re settled, come find me downstairs. We’ll start the tour, walk through the storyline, and then go over the filming schedule. If you have time, I’d like to give you a short survival orientation too.”

Jungkook perked up. “Like… a zombie boot camp?” You smirked, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “Exactly. Think of it as your apocalypse training montage.”

His mouth parted like he was about to say something else, but just then, the walkie crackled at your hip. “Sparkles, this is HQ. Got a delivery truck trying to get through the west gate—paperwork’s a mess.” You sighed and clicked your radio. “On it.”

Turning back to the room, you gave the guys a quick wave. “Duty calls. I’ll see you all in a bit.” With that, you slipped out the door, your boots soft against the scuffed linoleum.

Jungkook watched you go, his brow furrowed slightly. You were cool. Open. Friendly in a way that wasn’t fake or overly impressed. You didn’t act like they were some otherworldly beings descended from the sky. You were just… normal. Confident. You had a job to do, a passion you clearly lived and breathed—and somehow, you still kept it together even when seven global superstars walked out of three SUVs.

And now you were gone before he got to ask what role you usually played. Or how long you’d been running events. Or what made you pick zombies of all things. He frowned at the floor. How had Taehyung managed to flirt so much with you already?

His grumbling thoughts were cut off when Hobi dramatically fell backward onto a mattress and groaned, face squishing into the pillow.

“Ugh. I’m already regretting this. You know they’re gonna put me through hell tomorrow.” Yoongi, setting his phone to charge beside his mattress, didn’t even look up. “You can die early and join the dark side. I plan to. I already feel like a corpse.”

“Can I be a fast zombie?” Taehyung asked. “I want to be dramatic.”

“You are always dramatic,” Jin replied, tossing him a rolled-up blanket. Namjoon glanced around at the mattresses and raised an eyebrow at Jungkook. “You moved your stuff?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, just mumbled something about lighting and space. Not about the way you’d smiled at Taehyung, or how you’d winked during that “respect the bean” comment. Jimin sprawled across two mattresses and groaned, “I’m not ready to fight for food in the woods.”

“Don’t worry,” Namjoon replied dryly. “If we lose you, I’ll eat your snacks first.” The room filled with laughter as the group continued settling in. They unpacked bags, laid out blankets, and immediately began comparing the modest comforts of their temporary setup to your very clearly upgraded, fairy-light-lit corner of the room.

“Yo,” Jimin said, poking Jungkook’s side. “She really has the best bed.”

“I saw,” Jungkook murmured, glancing again at the door you’d disappeared through.

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When they came back down to find you, they didn’t expect the sight they walked into. You were hunched forward, arms wrapped around one side of a massive wooden euro pallet—one of three—that you and Erik were hauling toward the large toolshed near the edge of the gravel lot. From the looks of it, you weren’t on your first trip and dangerously close to snapping your spine in half.

“Wait—are they lifting pallets?” Jin blinked.

“Damn,” Taehyung murmured. “She’s gonna pop something.” Before you could straighten or even notice them fully, Jungkook was already moving. He practically jogged ahead of the group, brushing past Jimin, who huffed, “There he goes.”

You saw motion and started, “It’s fine, I—”

But it was too late. Jungkook was already there, nudging you gently out of the way with the side of his shoulder, his brows furrowed in focus. He slipped in opposite Erik, bent down, and lifted the side you’d been hauling with practiced ease.

“Where to?” he asked. You blinked, slightly thrown off. “Uh—behind the shed. Along the wall. They’re barricade props.” Jungkook nodded without another word and followed Erik, muscles shifting under his sleeves, tattoos dancing as he hoisted the pallet like it weighed nothing.

“Helpful,” Jimin chuckled behind you, watching your expression. “He’s just bad at saying it out loud.”

“I noticed,” you said with a small smile, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks.” A few minutes later, Erik came back, Jungkook trailing behind him and brushing dirt off his hands. You made sure to stop him with a light tap to the arm.

“Hey,” you said, looking him in the eye. “Seriously—thanks. That was a lot.” He gave a small, sheepish grin. “It’s no problem.” And with that, you launched into what you’d promised earlier—the grand tour.

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You led them through the central facilities first, starting with the compact, camp-style kitchen.

“This is where the NSC—Non-Survivor Characters, but also the makeup team and staff—get food. Basic stuff. We’ll prep three times a day but no five-course meals, sorry.” You gave them a mock apologetic shrug. Jin raised a hand. “Will there be snacks?”

“No promises,” you teased.

The next stop was the makeup rooms, where several folding chairs, makeup kits, and prosthetic materials lined the walls. “Here’s where we zombify people. If you die in-game, you’ll come here, get turned, and be sent back out with directions. Sometimes as slow walkers, sometimes fast. Sometimes… something weirder.”

Jimin leaned in. “Something weirder?”

You just smiled. “You’ll see.”

Then came the outdoor terrain. You walked them past several adjacent cabins and storage sheds. “These are part of the playable zones. All of them are open unless marked otherwise. We have hidden clue points, some locked areas, and a couple jumpscares set up, but you’ll get used to it.”

You led them toward the forest edge, indicating with hand signals where the terrain began and ended. “The game area ends about five hundred meters that way. Beyond that? Too steep, too muddy, or just plain dangerous. Avoid it.” Yoongi eyed the tree line. “How will we know?”

“I’ll point it out tomorrow again before game start, but we’ve also put up orange tape and warning markers. You’ll know.” Back near the edge of the game field, you turned to face them all again and reached into your backpack. You pulled out a bright, eye-searing pink warning vest and held it up dramatically.

“This is your holy relic,” you said, grinning. “If you see me wearing this during the game, it means I’m in staff mode. You can approach me for help, questions, breaks, water, whatever. I’ll avoid interfering unless it’s an emergency. But my every word is law.”

“And if you’re not wearing it?” Namjoon asked. “Then I’m playing as a survivor or NSC. You’ll find me out there, somewhere, scrounging for food and dodging zombies like the rest of you. However—if you get uncomfortable or need out of a situation for any reason, say the phrase, ‘That has a nice sparkle to it.’ Or something similar.”

Taehyung snorted. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” you said. “It’s a safe phrase. The game can get intense. If I hear it or any other Orga for that matter, we’ll pull you from the scene immediately—no questions, no breaking character.”

“That’s actually smart,” Namjoon admitted.

Jungkook stepped in closer, curiosity in his voice. “So if you’re out there as a survivor… are you playing to win?” You raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You think there's winning at the literal end of the world?”

He blinked, taken off guard for a second, but you didn’t give him time to recover. You smiled—but didn’t tell him how you really liked to play the game. Instead, you slipped into a mock arrogance that fit too easily. “I’ll be scavenging, bartering… probably stealing. So stay alert.”

“I will,” Jungkook said, mouth curling in a slow grin. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.” You smirked, gaze flicking up and down him. “That goes both ways.” Taehyung slung an arm over Jungkook’s shoulder, all mischief. “She’s got bite, huh?”

You didn’t miss a beat, voice sweet but edged with a grin. “Some zombies every year actually do. But me?” You flashed your signature mocking smile. “I only bite if you ask nicely.”

Jungkook’s head turned toward you too fast—eyes narrowing with a spark of surprised amusement, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or lean in closer. Taehyung burst out cackling. Even Yoongi gave a low whistle under his breath.

Jungkook shook Taehyung’s arm off with a grumble and stepped just a touch closer to you, adjusting his hoodie like he needed something to do with his hands.

“So,” he asked, tone a bit lower, “what’s your tip for surviving the first night?” You tilted your head, studying him. For a moment, you actually thought about it. Then you answered, quietly but clearly, “Stay moving. And don’t just trust any survivor. If they kill you, they’ll loot your shit.” His brows furrowed slightly.

You added, “So yeah… best tip? Stay quiet. And stay off the main road.” Jungkook looked at you like he was filing away every word. “Noted,” he said softly.

After you had finished explaining how to fake fight and how “death” in the game would work—that the moment they "died," you'd pull them aside to explain how to play as a zombie and give them their undead assignment—they were all quiet for a second. Attentive. Processing.

Especially Jungkook. His gaze didn’t leave you. “And… you designed all this? The rules, the props, all of it?” You gave a small, casual shrug. “With my friends, yeah. A lot of long nights. A lot of coffee.” There was something about the way he looked at you that caught you off guard. Not the usual idol poker-face. He looked… impressed. And maybe a little something else—like he was trying to figure out you, not just the game.

“It’s… impressive,” Jungkook said, voice quieter than the others. “Kinda crazy. In a good way.” You opened your mouth, unsure whether to say thank you or make a joke—but all that came was a laugh, slightly flustered. You turned away before you could smile too obviously.

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Later that evening, the guys were off filming some of their vlog content—lots of running through the woods, fake dramatic reactions, and over-the-top “lost in the apocalypse” monologues. You gave them full freedom for the rest of the day to capture whatever material they wanted. You had work to do anyway: final checks on game mechanics, syncing walkie-talkie channels, triple-confirming the food schedule, and helping your team scatter props in the right zones.

You only got pulled in once—when Jin called over to you with a shout about “something moody.” Yoongi was standing next to him, holding up a camera and trying to catch the golden-hour light streaking between the trees. “Do you have something… cinematic?”

You pulled off your bag, unzipped one of the side pouches, and without missing a beat, produced a smoke grenade—sleek, matte black, like something out of a spy movie. Jin’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Wait, what?”

Yoongi blinked. “You just have that in your bag?”  You gave a sweet smile. “Always keep one for emergencies.” Hoseok, already half-suspicious about the creepy makeup room earlier, took a cautious step back. “What kind of emergencies need smoke grenades?!” You didn’t answer—just gave him a devilish grin.

Jimin cracked up. “She’s totally evil.” Taehyung beamed, clearly delighted. “That’s exactly the vibe. I love it.” Jungkook didn’t laugh immediately—he was watching you again. But then a soft chuckle escaped him, and he looked down like he hadn’t meant to smile that wide. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

You shot him a wink. “Naw, too fun.”

He laughed properly then—low and surprised—and you had to turn back to your work fast before anyone saw the grin tugging at your lips.

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You had just come from the shower, wrapped up in your oversized hoodie—your LARP team’s logo printed proudly on the back—and a pair of leggings that still clung to you with faint humidity. Your hair was damp and pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, a quiet testimony to how fast you’d gotten ready after a long day.

You found an empty camping chair near the bonfire and immediately sank into it, curling around a warm mug of tea or maybe mulled juice—whatever had been available. The scent of grilled vegetables, meat, and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air. Laughter bubbled from you as Pia leaned over to mutter something only meant for your ears, and you nearly choked on your drink in response.

Not far away, Jungkook emerged from the trees with the rest of the BTS members, the last golden slivers of twilight painting their silhouettes as they returned from filming. He spotted you immediately.

You looked different now. Not in a dramatic way—just… softer. Cozy. The sharp, efficient energy you’d carried during the tour and safety briefing had melted into something warm and content. It was the first time today he saw you truly at rest. You noticed them coming in and lifted your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” you called, voice already lazy with bonfire comfort. “Food’s self-serve. We grilled ahead for the evening. I made two kinds of pasta salad, Lea did her cucumber-dill thing, and Erik has clearly declared war on every sausage in the region.”

They laughed, and Namjoon gave a thankful little bow as he made his way toward the tables. “It smells amazing.”

“All the stuff we don’t finish gets put out again tomorrow,” you added. “So dig in. There’s no losing here.” Jungkook’s eyes wandered from the food to the little table you and your friends had arranged—organized chaos, a mix of homemade sides in mismatched containers and tin trays with foil. Without realizing it, he made a mental note: Try the pasta salad you made first.

The group spread out slowly—Yoongi asked where he could find drinks, Jin demanded more marshmallows with absolute seriousness, and Hoseok yelped dramatically when an owl hooted a bit too close for comfort. You were still translating here and there, weaving between your team and theirs with a natural ease, until eventually things just settled.

Jungkook ended up back near the fire, hoodie pulled over his head, paper plate in one hand as he lowered himself into the camping chair beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just sat there, cheeks a little flushed from the heat, watching the fire flicker and crackle with the same quiet pleasure as everyone else. The shadows danced across your face. Jungkook looked at you, a bit longer than maybe he should’ve, and realized he didn’t want to interrupt the peace you were wrapped in.

But still, he found himself asking, “Tired?” You turned your head just slightly toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So tired I forgot I’m tired. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, mirroring your smile. “It does.” He took a bite of your pasta salad, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is really good.” You looked smug. “Lea and I spent an unreasonable amount of time arguing about whether we needed more garlic. The answer is always more garlic.”

Jungkook chuckled. “You should sell this stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” you drawled playfully. “Just a side hustle while running full-scale zombie wars in the woods and having an adult job. Easy.”

“You don’t mind being out here for days?” he asked, voice low, pitched only for you. You turned your head toward him, and your smile was quiet, grounded. “I live for this. It’s exhausting, sure. But when the game starts? Everyone forgets it’s fake. And for four days… it’s just survival. Emotionally messy. Physically brutal. And unforgettable. If you let it happen.”

Jungkook studied your face for a moment—how the embers danced in your eyes, how certain you sounded. You weren’t just hosting a game. You were throwing people headfirst into a world you loved. He leaned in, just a little. “You ever thought about filming it like a movie? You’re already doing something cinematic.”

You blinked, surprised by the question, then smiled. His tone hadn’t been flippant. He really meant it. “Actually… yeah. We’ve talked about a YouTube channel. Mini-series, behind-the-scenes stuff. But we don’t have the gear. Or the time. Or a consistent enough crew.” You glanced at him with a tilt of your head. “You think people would actually watch?”

“I’d watch it,” Jungkook said without hesitation. His grin turned a little crooked. “I mean, if I survive the next four days.” That made you laugh, and the sound felt natural between you, easy. Warmer than the fire now burning low in the pit.

The longer you sat next to him, the stranger it felt that you hadn’t known him longer. There was an openness to him tonight—a curiosity, a genuine effort to understand your world, and it wasn’t performative. He hadn’t needed to ask those questions. He just wanted to.

The fire crackled again. Your friends and his were mingling in overlapping conversations now—language barriers half-forgotten in the mix of food and warmth. Your friends were joking around in rapid English while trying to coax Namjoon and Taehyung into playing some kind of night-tag game with glow sticks. Jimin was fully horizontal in a deck chair, whisper-singing spooky background music. Jin had given up and wrapped a blanket around himself like a burrito, muttering about zombie bites and indigestion.

You took another sip from your mug, and Jungkook watched as you closed your eyes for just a second, letting the night settle over your shoulders like a second hoodie. It was quiet, comfortable, unforced.

And Jungkook thought—not for the first time today—how unfair it was that Taehyung had gotten to flirt with you first.

One by one, people started trickling back to the sleeping quarters. Eventually, Erik started packing up the grill with sleepy movements, Pia tossed a blanket over her shoulders, and Hoseok finally declared he couldn’t feel his toes.

As you stood, knees crackling a bit from sitting so long, you stretched your arms above your head with a quiet groan. Jungkook’s eyes lingered, just for a second—like he couldn’t help watching your hoodie move higher—before he stood too, brushing stray bits of ash off his sleeves.

The rest of the members were already grumbling about the cold, groggy and slow-moving.

So they began retreating into the main house or their sleeping quarters. Jin flapped his arms dramatically. “Why does it feel like I’m sleeping in a refrigerator? Who builds houses out here with no insulation?”

“It’s historical,” you reminded him, biting back a grin as you grabbed your toiletry bag. “Be honored. You’re basically in a museum.” You turned in the low, amber-hued glow of the fairy lights strung loosely above the old rafters, their dim twinkle casting soft halos over the mattresses lined up like dominoes across the floor. Yours was nestled near the corner, extra blankets piled at the edge, and Jungkook’s mat had ended up right beside it—not close enough to touch, but closer than coincidence.

“Yeah, a museum of frostbite,” Jin shot back, wrapping his hoodie tighter. By the time you got to the bathroom, you found Jimin leaning against the doorframe. “Can I brush with you?” he asked, voice soft, already holding his toothbrush.

You nodded with a smile, and the two of you brushed side-by-side. Soon, Hoseok padded in to rinse his face and complain about the cold again. Jungkook came in last, hair still tousled from the hoodie, looking far too good for someone about to camp in a half-renovated asylum for the night.

Back in the sleeping area everyone was getting situated. The fairy lights making barely any light. Despite the portable heaters you had brought, it was still drafty. The floorboards creaked under your steps. The windows hissed with night wind.

“Okay, no, seriously,” Hoseok groaned from his nest of sleeping bag. “This is inhuman. Jin-hyung, I can feel my soul freezing. My kneecaps are shivering. Who brought us to the North Pole?!”

“I think I lost three toes already,” Jin added dramatically, clutching his hoodie like a shawl. “This is not what I signed up for. I’m not even a real actor and I don’t deserve this.”

“You’re not even outside,” Yoongi mumbled from under a blanket. “Doesn’t matter,” Jin whispered, haunted. “The cold found me.” Hoseok rolled closer to Jin like a dying Victorian noble. “Hyung. If I don’t make it through the night… tell my stylist I loved her.” Namjoon groaned loudly from the other side of the room. “Oh my god, Hyung, please. Just sleep!”

“Easy fix,” you said, sitting up and tightening your hoodie. “Just bunk with someone. Body heat solves most of it.” You meant it practically—your team had done this a dozen times. It was survival basics. But before the sentence even finished, Taehyung had already propped himself up with an eager glint in his eyes.

“Can I bunk with you?” he asked with a mischievous grin, already halfway toward your mat like a very cold puppy. You snorted, raising an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an invitation.” Before you could answer, Jungkook sat up from his corner with a sharp huff. “Yah—don’t just ask like that.”

Taehyung turned toward him slowly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You wanna bunk with us, Jungkook? You keep her right side warm, I’ll be her left?” You lost it, full-on laughing now as Yoongi let out a long, tortured groan and flopped a pillow over his face. Namjoon was face-down in his blanket, shaking his head in exhausted disapproval.

Jungkook looked mortified. His ears flushed pink even in the low light. “It’s not—! I wasn’t—!” He cleared his throat hard. “It’s rude, that’s all. She’s the organizer. She needs space.” Your brows lifted, amusement all over your face. “Uh-huh.” Taehyung looked like he was biting his tongue just to stop himself from saying something even worse.

Jimin, bless  him, nudged Taehyung back toward the other side of the room. “Come on, Tae. You’re gonna get us kicked out. I’ll bunk with you. Stop flirting.” With a dramatic sigh, Taehyung accepted it, flopping down beside Jimin and stealing half his blanket. “But just know—I could have been the hottest option.”

Yoongi didn’t even open his eyes. “You radiate chaos, not heat.”, when Hoseok snuck under his blanket and just sighed like a man who had given up on peace. Jin wiggled his eyebrows at Namjoon, who just deadpanned: “Try it and I’m tossing you outside.”

You shook your head fondly, digging into your supplies. “Jin, I’ve got an extra blanket if you want one.”  He hesitated, shaking his head. “No, no, I’ll manage—”

“Really its fine,” already holding it out. He accepted it with a sheepish grin. “You’re sure you don’t need it?”

“I’ve still got two more and a sleeping bag. I’ll be fine.” You moved carefully through the half-dark, stepping around boots and duffel bags, a folded blanket in your arms for Jin. The wooden floor creaked beneath your socked feet, each step an exercise in balance over warped boards and chaos. You murmured something to Jin, who accepted the blanket like he’d been rescued from an arctic death, dramatically clutching it to his chest.

You turned back toward your mattress, navigating the familiar obstacles in reverse. As you made your way back to your spot. And then you caught your foot on the edge of someone's abandoned hoodie.

“Shit—!” You stumbled forward—arms flailing—and would’ve face-planted if it weren’t for a solid pair of hands catching you mid-fall. Warmth met you.

You blinked.

Jungkook.

He was already sitting up, half-covered in his sleeping bag, hoodie still up, his phone forgotten beside him. His hands had caught your arms instinctively, steady but not grabbing. You were kneeling awkwardly now, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the mattress behind him, close enough to feel his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet with concern, eyes wide in the fairy-lit dark. Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it. “I—yeah—sorry,” you stammered, cheeks already burning. “Didn’t see where I—uh—my foot—hoodie—” He chuckled under his breath, one hand still lightly on your elbow. “It’s okay. You didn’t fall. Technically.”

Your eyes flicked up to his—too close, too pretty in this soft, sleepy light—and then down again, like maybe you could disappear straight into the floorboards if you just willed it hard enough.

From the dark, Jimin’s voice floated lazily through the room. “Everything good over there?”

“Yup!” you squeaked, trying to stand too fast and instead just half-falling sideways—straight into your sleeping bag with a flustered huff. There was a moment of silence before Jungkook chuckled again, softer this time. You could hear the shift of fabric as he laid back down beside you, his voice pitched low. “Smooth recovery.”

“Shut up,” you whispered through a grin, tugging the sleeping bag over your head in self-defense.

The fairy lights buzzed faintly above, and somewhere in the room Jin sighed contentedly into his new blanket like a satisfied burrito. But Jungkook stayed quiet beside you now, arms folded under his head, gaze occasionally drifting in your direction long after the rest had fallen asleep.

He couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

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The house woke slowly. The soft creak of floors and the smell of coffee drifted through the old wooden frame as morning sunlight filtered in through mismatched curtains. Jin was the first to loudly complain that someone had stolen his blanket—which turned out to be Hoseok, who claimed it had “drifted onto his mat” during the night.

“You were snoring like a vacuum cleaner,” Hoseok groaned, head buried under a pillow, insisting he needed another hour. “It’s the least you owe me.”

“I don’t snore,” Jin declared with wounded dignity. Namjoon hummed dryly. “You do. Aggressively.” Laughter bubbled through the group, even as no one quite managed to leave the warmth of their sleeping bags. Jungkook was the last to sit up, hoodie still half covering his eyes, glancing once to his left—to where your mat lay empty. Already cold. You’d been up for hours.

The smell of instant coffee and toast lingered faintly in the air, and while the boys slowly filtered through breakfast—some filming themselves with still-sleepy voices—you and your team were already darting between bags of props, radio check-ins, and set dressing. You'd been radioing Pia about the entrance setup while giving Erik a checklist and stuffing a walkie into your jacket all before most of the group had even laced their boots.

“Do you even sleep?” Jungkook had asked, watching you with something like awe as he munched on toast with one hand and held his camera with the other. “After the apocalypse,” you’d joked without slowing down, already halfway through sorting a box of bloodied bandages and prop ID cards.

Around midmorning, it was time to head to the game zone.

The boys filmed their "arrival" separately, capturing the forest entrance and the handmade wooden signpost marked "ZONE 3 – MISSION: BLACKOUT" while Erik, now dressed in dusty cargo pants and boots, played the enthusiastic guide.

"Welcome to hell, gentlemen," Erik grinned in-character, flinging his arms wide. Jin burst out laughing immediately, and Yoongi muttered, “This already feels like a fever dream.” Meanwhile, you and your friends were spread across the clearing and bunker grounds, setting up props, panning out gear to the incoming LARPers, and checking walkie frequencies.

You pulled the boys aside just before the first players arrived.

“All right,” you said, already in your organizer vest and scarf. “Masks, caps, scarves—anything to obscure your faces. Just until everyone’s settled.”

“I feel like a secret agent,” Taehyung said as you handed him a half-face tactical mask.

“Good,” you smirked. “You’re not supposed to be famous here. You’re a dirty, starving survivor like the rest.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jin huffed dramatically. “I’m going to be the hottest starving man in the zone.”

“AH! And no selfies unless you’re dead,” you added with a teasing glance.

“That’s so specific,” Namjoon muttered.

“It’s been a problem before,” you grinned. “One guy literally tried to live-stream his own death scene. Kinda ruined the mood.” Still, they complied—caps tugged low, scarves around mouths, sunglasses here and there. They settled off to the side near a small outcrop of trees, watching the entry path as players trickled in.

Jungkook pulled his mask halfway over his face, watching you bounce from person to person, still radiating energy despite the chaos. Even beneath your scarf and with your walkie clipped to your belt, you looked in your element. Confident. Happy.

That’s when the first wave of survivors started to arrive.

Boots crunched gravel. Cars rolled in, gear piled high on roof racks. The first few survivors were new and wide-eyed, some shy, some filming themselves as they approached. But others came in loud, excited—familiar faces from past games. People spilled out in various levels of post-apocalyptic chic—some clearly new, blinking in wonder, others grinning with the casual swagger of veterans. Some even had also Go-Pros on them.

“Hey, look at them,” Jimin nudged Jungkook, nodding toward a group of heavily geared players striding in like Mad Max extras. “Wow,” Taehyung whispered. “Some of these people look like they live here.”

Then they saw you.

You were greeting people by name, hugging a few, clapping shoulders. One player—a tall, bearded man with a thick leather coat and a ridiculous foam axe strapped to his back—let out a joyful bellow.

“THERE SHE IS!” he boomed, arms already out. “My favorite corpse-wrangler!”

You turned just in time for him to lift you clean off the ground and spin you in a circle, your laughter ringing out across the lot. “Markus!” you wheezed, swatting at his shoulder as he set you down. “Warn me next time! My spine isn’t apocalypse-proof!”

“Missed you, boss,” he grinned. “Ready to get emotionally traumatized again?”

“Always.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. He was too slow to school his expression. Taehyung, still beside him, caught it instantly. “Ohhh?” Taehyung leaned closer with a smug grin. “What was that face, Jeon Jungkook?”

Before Jungkook could deny anything, another man approached you—this one younger, maybe late twenties, tall and lanky with buzzed hair dyed copper red. “Hey there, fluffball,” he grinned, eyes dragging down your body.

You gave him a polite smile but stepped slightly back, putting some space between you as you shook his hand instead of accepting the hug he clearly wanted. “Hi, Lukas.” He didn’t quite get the hint, his hand brushing along your back as if to pull you into a side hug, but you dipped forward just in time to greet someone else passing by.

“Excuse me! I’ve been looking for you!” you said loudly to a surprised but delighted player behind him. Lukas was left smiling awkwardly at your back. He was, one of the newer regulars, known for pushing boundaries and blaming it on “just being friendly.”

Jungkook had taken a step forward, body tense—but as you gracefully handled it, he forced himself to stop. Taehyung saw that too.

“...Someone’s jealous,” Tae sing-songed under his breath, elbowing Jungkook lightly in the ribs.  “Looked like ‘mildly jealous caveman’ to me,” Jimin added, peeking over his mask. “Shut up,” Jungkook muttered. Taehyung grinned. “You want to go spin her around too? Or just go hug her? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—”

Jungkook snorted. “Shut up.”

Jimin held up both hands, laughing. “You’re so obvious, man. You’ve been watching her like she’s the main quest.”

“She is the organizer,” Jungkook grumbled, though his eyes followed you again as you helped someone fix their shoulder rig. “Of course I’m watching her.”

“Sure,” Taehyung said. “It’s definitely about the logistics. Not about how you almost exploded when the Mad Max McThighs got touchy.” Jungkook tugged his scarf higher up his face to hide the small, helpless smile. He’d never seen you laugh like that. Not while working, not while briefing them. It was unguarded. Effortless.

And somehow, he wanted to see it again.

Even if the guy spinning you around was the size of a refrigerator.

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By noon, the grounds were buzzing. The last car had pulled up, and nearly 200 players were now scattered around the staging area. Some stood in loose, eager groups, already forming alliances. Others sat quietly with water bottles, eyes scanning every detail like it might matter later.

You, already hoarse from shouting, clapped your hands to gather attention. "NPCs to the barn! Survivors over here—yeah, red scarves, come to Erik. Zombies, you're with me. Group A briefing starts now, Group B you're next."

As you walked backward through the chaos, still calling instructions, Jungkook spotted your pink vest and your megaphone clipped to your belt. It amazed him how you moved through the mess with such control. Like a general of the end times.

The members had already received their own briefing—thankfully in Korean, which made it easier to absorb the detailed rules and storyline. BigHit’s crew, mostly keeping a low profile, helped secure GoPros and test audio. They would run after the members and try to get as much footage as possible.

“You ready?” Jungkook asked, testing the strap of his fake holster as he caught up to Taehyung. Taehyung tilted his foam machete like it was a guitar. “Born ready. I’m emotionally prepared to die in the first ten minutes.” Jin snorted. “Please. I’m planning to survive and retire with a fake garden and fake dog.”

“Can we have fake ramen?” Jungkook asked, smirking. “Or do we have to scavenge that too?” Then, like a starter pistol, the airhorn blasted. A long, echoing blare that shattered the warm afternoon.

Everywhere, people moved.

Screams. Laughter. Stomping boots. Half the crowd surged toward the tree line, another half bolted for the barn. Some fell immediately into character, yelling things like, “Split up! Head north!” or “They’re coming from the creek!”

Jungkook was startled to see how real it felt.

He hadn’t expected the panic—the thrill. Despite the fake weapons, the rubber knives, and the painted faces, when a mass of snarling “zombies” came barreling out of the woods, the instinct was to run.

Even he flinched before catching himself.

The zombies were good. Dirty, growling, twitchy. You were leading the pack from behind—he recognized your pink vest, your voice barking direction to the others in character, but you were already gone again into the trees.

Only those with long-range weapons made a stand—firing their limited fake ammo with purpose, trying to buy time for others to flee. In the chaos they had already lost some of the members. Jin clutched a piece of bent cardboard like a broken riot shield. “Okay, okay, fallback, regroup, hide—what are we doing?”

“Hide,” Jungkook said immediately. “Barricade if we can.”

“Find ramen,” Taehyung added.

“You’re obsessed,” Jin said.

“I’m hungry, Hyung.”

Behind them, Erik—wearing a bright pink vest that read “MODERATOR”—raised two arms and made a dramatic “breaking” motion.

“That’s the signal!” Jungkook yelled. “Barricade’s compromised!” Players screamed, laughing as they fled in a dozen directions. Taehyung grabbed Jin’s arm and bolted toward a row of abandoned sheds, while Jungkook pushed the crew member following them behind a thick wooden post before diving for cover himself.

“Okay, now what?” Jin gasped, crouched behind a fallen sign. “We regroup,” Jungkook said, catching his breath. “Try to find Yoongi or Namjoon.”

“Or her,” Taehyung added, eyes twinkling even beneath his mask.

Jungkook pretended not to hear it. Still, his thoughts drifted back to you—your voice, you disappearing into the woods, your laughter from earlier. He hoped you were okay out there in the madness you’d helped create.

Though, something told him you were probably more than fine.

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The first day had been equal parts chaos and clever hiding. It was kind of a miracle that he, Jin, and Taehyung had stayed out of the early chaos—ducking behind barns, creeping through drainage ditches, hiding under an overturned canoe at one point while a group of howling zombies passed within arm’s reach. Some groups had immediately gone feral, fighting over water jugs or arguing about whose map was correct. Others just wandered, yelling for allies or screaming when someone leapt out of the bushes as a fake infected.

Jin’s idea had been simple: “Stick together, don’t get bitten, and avoid anything that sounds like foley work.”

Jungkook agreed. They didn’t run. They didn’t shout. They watched. Stuck to the edges. By the time the sun began to dip past the tree line, casting a soft violet glow over the LARP zone, they had only minor dirt smears and one near-miss.

“I never thought crawling through actual dirt would be part of this,” Jin muttered, wiping leaves from his face. Taehyung laughed, breathless. “We were born for this. We’re survivors, Hyung.” Jungkook had just grinned, heart thudding, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line and the shadows turned long and gold, they were dirty, tired, and hungry—but they found them.

“Jimin-ah!” Taehyung called in a stage whisper. Jimin—who had been rifling through an overturned toolbox with Namjoon and two strangers—turned, eyes wide, then relaxed into a smile. “Hyung! You’re alive!”

“Holy crap,” Namjoon said with a breathless laugh. “You made it.” The reunion was short but sweet. The group Jimin and Namjoon had fallen in with—mostly guys in tattered cosplay and thrift-store camo—were initially suspicious of the newcomers.

Several of them were already carrying canvas satchels and worn-looking packs, with scavenged “rations” (pre-placed supplies from the orga) tied at their hips. A few were skeptical at first.

“Who the hell are the new guys?” a tall man with a buzzcut muttered.

“We’re clean,” Jin said with a flash of his ‘actor smile.’ “Untouched. Pure. Like rice at a wedding.”

“I hate that metaphor,” Taehyung whispered.

It took some convincing. Namjoon vouched for them—half in character, half with real charisma—and eventually, the group let them stay. The trek back to the safe zone was cautious, deliberate. No one shouted. No one ran. Even the leaves beneath their feet seemed to hush under the weight of tension.

Their new “base camp” turned out to be a miracle of DIY survivalist craft. And Jungkook was impressed. There were rotating shifts for keeping watch and a pile of ration cards being counted for their next food run. Spotlight had been placed and where working, casting bright cones of light around the camp's edge. A whiteboard on the wall labeled who was “on shift,” “scouting,” or “MIA.”

It felt like a real camp.

“Who built all this in six hours?” Jin asked, amazed as he folded onto an upturned crate near a lantern. “Apparently some of the veteran players just… knew what to do,” Jimin said, unwrapping a protein bar. “It was like instinct kicked in. With the things the Orga carried around yesterday.”

“I watched a guy build a water collection system from trash bags and a mop,” Namjoon added, shaking his head. “People are scary smart under pressure.”

“He wants to drink from it?” Jungkook looked shocked. But Namjoon shook his head, “Said the Orga would bring water if he builds it.”

“It’s crazy, So much for realism.” Taehyung muttered back.

 Jungkook sat near the barricade, fake rifle laid across his lap. He chewed a bite of cold ration bread and scanned the tree line, still charged with energy. They were just starting to relax—just starting to settle for the night—when the first growl came from the tree line.

It was subtle at first. A rustle of leaves. Then a shuffling footstep. Then a hiss.

Just two at first—figures staggering toward the barricade in the fading light, their shadows stretching long over the grass. The nearest watchman gave the alarm, and others scrambled into place. Flashlights switched on with shaky hands. Someone dropped a rubber axe.

“They’re coming!” a survivor called.

But the barricade held. More zombies emerged from the trees, groaning and clawing. Foam weapons swung, shouts echoed. One particularly committed zombie hurled himself at the gate with a blood-curdling screech that made even Jin yelp behind Jungkook.

“They’re good,” Jungkook muttered, eyes wide. “Too good,” Jimin whispered beside him, holding a battered flashlight like it might actually do something. Taehyung was grinning ear to ear. “I want to die dramatically. Let me jump from the roof.”

“No,” Jin said. “You’ll twist your ankle.”

“Then carry my corpse and avenge me.” Jungkook was laughing quietly, heart thudding.

Then—

From the woods. A flicker of movement. A splash of pink just barely visible beyond the tree line. His breath caught. There. A pink vest. It was you. Even in the low light, he knew. The confident way you moved, one hand raised in signal, clipboard tucked under your arm like a weapon. You watched the chaos unfold with a hand on your hip, head tilted.

Jungkook’s pulse jumped. He nudged Taehyung, whispering, “It’s her.”

“Huh?”

He pointed. “Pink vest.” Taehyung squinted, then smirked. “Your little crush?”

“Shut up.” But he couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips. You were behind this. Orchestrating this wild, thrilling, immersive madness. He remembered what you’d said the night before: I run the NSC side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.

“What are you planning now?” he murmured to himself, eyes locked on your figure as you turned and melted into the woods again.

Whatever it was—you’d already hooked him.

And he had a feeling things were just getting started.

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The air had stilled for a moment. No more groans from the woods. No rustling leaves. The tension that had coiled tight for the last hour had begun to loosen. Jungkook leaned back against the cabin’s wooden siding, rifle balanced across his knees. “Maybe they’ve gone to harass another group,” Jin whispered to Jimin, who was starting to doze upright.

Namjoon was jotting something down on a paper map in the corner while Taehyung peered through a crack in the barricade with childlike fascination. Jin had found a reasonably clean blanket and was curled up with it like an idol with his stage towel.

Then—

Jungkook saw you again. His eyes caught movement near the tree line, just beyond the rough gravel road leading to the cabin. You stepped into view like some trick of the moonlight—vest still on, hoodie zipped to your chin, your silhouette unmistakable even in the dark.

He sat up straighter. No zombies around. Just you. Watching. His heart thudded in a mix of nerves and anticipation. Were you just checking in on them? Taking notes? Or—

Then your hand lifted. Tapped the button on your walkie. And you smiled. Right at him.

He couldn’t hear your voice, but your lips moved. He was sure you said, “Good luck… Now.”

A second later, the lights went out. With an audible click, the generator died. The spotlights illuminating the barricades flickered, then vanished. Instant pitch black—except for the sliver of moonlight painting the gravel and one flickering lantern down the street.

Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he muttered, not even realizing he’d said it in English. “What?” Jimin hissed beside him, now fully awake.  “I saw her. Just now. She was smiling. That was not a friendly smile. Taehyung perked up. “A plot twist?” Jin groaned from under his blanket. “I hate plot twists.”

Then—

The moans began. Soft at first. Far off. But they built, swelling like a tide. Multiple voices. Low, rasping. Fast. Namjoon was already grabbing his weapon. “Positions!” People scrambled. Someone dropped their flashlight. Someone else screamed as a “guard” tripped over his own feet trying to get back into place.

Then Jungkook saw it. A flicker. A bounce of light. Something small fell a few feet before him on the ground, rolling toward him—right up to the edge of the barricade.

“What the—?”

PFFFFFTT—

A cloud of smoke exploded outward, thick and grey. “Oh come on—a smoke grenade?!” Jungkook backing up.

“Smoke!” a woman with a crossbow screamed, not missing a beat. “They use those for haunted houses. Totally safe.”

“Terrifying,” Jin muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. “I smell artificial doom.” The fog rolled over the makeshift barricade and down the path, mixing with the moonlight and giving the street a cinematic glow—soft yet eerie. Every silhouette looked ten times taller, their edges distorted by smoke and shifting shadows.

Then came the moans.

So many.

Zombies surged from the smoke like nightmares. They were louder now. Hungrier. Faster. Their makeup looked worse in the dark—more grotesque, more desperate. Foam weapons still in their hands, but they snarled and lunged and shrieked with a commitment that made Jungkook’s blood run cold.

“THEY LOOK POSSESSED,” Jin yelped as a pair slammed against the wooden fence.

“Shit,” someone whispered from the rear. “They’re using the smoke to cover a flank.” Jungkook grinned, adrenaline kicking in again. You were really going for it tonight. One “undead” scrambled over the barricade, wild-eyed, reaching for Jimin. Jimin screamed—then clocked the guy in the shoulder with a rubber hammer.

Taehyung had tears in his eyes—from laughing. “This is the best night of my life.” Jungkook couldn’t help it—he was terrified and thrilled. He felt like a kid again. A very armed kid with a fake rifle and a vendetta.

And then—figures appeared in the fog. Dozens. Some slow, arms dragging. Others twitching unnaturally, heads jerking with every step. Even though he knew it was fake, Jungkook's heart pounded. The lighting, the fog, the groans, the chaos—it was better than any horror game. You’d turned the entire woods into a living set.

He braced his foam knife tighter in one hand and his fake gun in the other. Beside him, a guy in a battered leather jacket grinned. “Whoever planned this is evil.” Jungkook beamed, eyes locked on the misty tree line. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, spotting a flash of pink from your vest in the shadows. “She really is.”

"Positions! Now!" someone barked—not one of Jungkook’s friends, but a woman near the barricade. She had a blue streak in her hair and a crossbow slung over her back. "Close-ranged to the front! Spotters up top!"

Players sprang into action. This wasn’t just cosplay—it was commitment. Everyone threw themselves into the game like it was real. A guy wearing a dirtied duster coat and fake blood smeared across his cheek grabbed an axe and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook.

“You new?” the guy asked, breath fogging. “You three look fresh.”

Jungkook grinned, ducking as a zombie thumped against the boards. “First time.”

“Hell of a night to start. If we make it out, I’ll show you where we hide the real snacks. Not the ration boxes. The actual chocolate.”

Jungkook laughed. “Deal.”

Meanwhile, Jin had cornered himself behind a crate. “Does this look like a hero arc to you?” he snapped at a random player crawling beside him with a prop spear. “I am a bard. I sing. I complain. I don’t get eaten!”

“I don’t understand shit! You’re literally holding a hammer,” the other player said, crawling past him. “You’re doing great.” Taehyung, meanwhile, had somehow ended up in a roleplay conversation mid-battle with a grizzled survivor in a torn biker jacket and a toy pistol. “My name’s Snake,” the man said seriously. “I used to run with a group out east before the swarms came.”

Taehyung blinked. “Out east, like… Seoul?” The guy didn’t break character. “Used to be called that. Now it’s a graveyard.” Taehyung whispered to Jin, “This guy’s living his dream.”

“Yeah, and we’re living his fan fiction,” Jin muttered. The barricade groaned again—another wave.

Jimin dove forward with a group of other survivors to reinforce a gap, slamming a foam board across it just in time to hold back a zombie clawing through. Someone shouted, “We need more cover left side!” and Namjoon ran to help, organizing people like he was born to be a post-apocalyptic general.

One of the players, an older man with a scar drawn across his cheek and a “Medic” patch sewn on his jacket, muttered, “Something’s wrong.” Jungkook edged closer to the front again.

And then he saw it—you, darting across the tree line just long enough to be spotted. Just long enough for him to catch the wicked grin on your face. You disappeared into the trees again like a shadow, headset still pressed to your ear.

“She's still here,” Jungkook whispered, oddly proud. “Of course she is,” the chocolate-smuggling player muttered beside him. “We call her secretly the Puppetmaster. She only smiles like that when something real bad is about to happen.”

And then it did.

A guttural howl tore through the woods—different from the earlier zombie moans. Everyone froze. “What the hell was that?” Jin asked, eyes wide. “Boss zombie?” Jimin guessed, not sounding confident. Namjoon slowly rose from behind his makeshift command table. “Or worse.”

The front barricade shook again—but not from a horde. From something heavier. Then smoke again—this time from behind. Jungkook spun. “Back entrance!”

Several players rushed to the rear barricade as you unleashed the next chaos round. Amid the smoke, a dozen zombies swarmed from the woods—some moving faster than before. Their groans were louder, their makeup more grotesque, their eyes glowing faintly from the LEDs embedded in their masks.

You had leveled up.

“GUYS—THIS IS SO COOL,” Taehyung screamed as he dodged behind a barrel. Jin smacked a zombie's arm with his foam hammer, panic written across his face. “THIS IS A FORMAL COMPLAINT!” The players were laughing, yelling, swearing, acting—and Jungkook loved every second. The adrenaline, the immersion, the fact that you were the mastermind behind it all.

Then he caught a flash of pink again.

Your vest. You were darting through the shadows behind the zombies—counting, correcting, watching them as they attacked. Fully in control. He couldn’t help but grin. Then, your voice cut through the night commanding: “GAME STOP!”

The word was like a spell. Every player froze, weapons half-raised, breaths held in the chill dawn air. Only the few you signaled with a hand gesture moved, carefully shifting the faux-barricade aside to make the scene safe again. Jungkook blinked, heart still thudding. Even though he knew it was a game, the adrenaline refused to fade.

And then—there you were.

Stepping lightly over the uneven ground, in that same pink vest, headset snug against your cheek, clipboard in hand. You made your rounds like a stage manager inspecting the set after a complicated scene—checking faces, weapons, broken props.

When you passed Jungkook’s side of the barricade, you didn’t say anything. Just gave him a sly wink. He didn’t even try to hide his grin. Then, turning to face the cabin, you lifted your voice: “Ready?”

A few tired nods. Some thumbs up. You waited one extra beat… and then stepped aside with a flourish of your hand. “Continue.” The world shifted again—players jolting into motion as if time had resumed. As zombies now flooded the cabin.

He raised his fake gun, nodded to his new squad of random survivors, and shouted: “Let’s defend this place!” Someone cheered back, “For the chocolate stash!” “FOR SEOUL!” Snake added dramatically.

Jungkook aimed and fired a foam dart into the chest of a rushing zombie, adrenaline coursing through him like fire. He was in your world now.

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The attack had ended.

The aftermath was quiet, eerie. Six players had “died” during the horde, and one had been “bitten.” Jungkook watched as the bitten man and his friend played out a painfully convincing scene by the fire—whispers, pleading, an emotional goodbye, then a single dramatic “stab” to the chest with a foam knife. The bitten man fell back into the shadows, now part of the undead ranks.

Jungkook was impressed. He hadn’t expected people to feel this much playing pretend.

After that, the next few hours passed in relative quiet.

They re-secured the barricade—Jin helping hammer prop-boards into place while Jimin argued over who should take the next watch. Namjoon and Taehyung went through “scavenged” supplies, checking LARP rations, carefully labeled in duct-taped bags. The fake walkie-talkie system still worked, and the illusion of apocalypse held steady.

As the deep purple of night slowly melted into that strange, pale blue of early morning, Jungkook sat against the side of the shed, rubbing at his neck and breathing in the cold.

“I thought we were dead for sure,” Jin murmured next to him, legs stretched out. “I almost cried,” Jimin said dramatically, flopping down onto a sleeping mat. “I thought Tae got bitten.” Taehyung scoffed. “I was performing, thank you. Some of us have range.”

Namjoon sipped from a thermos of something that was definitely just instant coffee, but in this world felt like a potion of life. “Honestly, I’m surprised we made it through the night. That will give amazing footage.” Jungkook didn’t say anything at first.

He was looking past them—toward the tree line again, where the smoke had cleared and the trees looked just like trees again. He had seen you there, in the middle of it all. Smiling. Running the show. Creating chaos and keeping them all safe inside it.

And he’d felt… exhilarated. Not just because he’d survived. But because you’d made it feel real.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured without thinking. The others glanced at him. “Huh?” Jimin blinked. “Who’s amazing?” Jin teased, raising an eyebrow. “No one,” Jungkook said too quickly, but his ears were already red. Taehyung didn’t say a word, just smirked, bumping Jungkook’s knee with his own.

Jungkook looked up again, just as you appeared around the corner, talking into your headset with that same intense focus—head tilted, brows furrowed, clipboard under one arm.

Still working. Still organizing. Still making this world turn.

And somehow, even after staying up all night surviving fake zombies and crawling through fake smoke, Jungkook had never been more awake.

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You jogged across the field, half-laced boots kicking up dust in the early light. You had just gotten word from your comms team: one of the BTS members had officially “died” in-game.

Time to pick up the body.

The makeshift makeup atelier was full with people that wanted to turn into zombies, turn from reality into the ruined world your team had crafted. You expected someone tired, maybe a little dramatic. You did not expect Yoongi lying on a fold-out chair like a lazy vampire, arms crossed and hoodie pulled halfway over his head.

“Yo,” you greeted, brushing back your windswept hair. “Dead, or just felt like napping?” Yoongi cracked one eye open and gave you a smirk. “Bit of both. I figured I’m way better at being creepy than surviving.” You laughed. “Honestly, valid. Want a break first or should I track down the others for you?”

Yoongi sat up, hoodie slipping from his head. His eyes glittered, mischievous and strangely at peace with his new undead status. “Food. Nap. Then undead chaos.”

“Respect,” you said with a grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the kitchen. You good with whatever they’ve got, or should I threaten someone to find you a real croissant?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but followed. “If there’s a real croissant, you’re legally required to bring it to me.” You held your hand over your heart. “Scout’s honor.”

The kitchen was one of the few non-immersive zones—filled with thermoses, cereal, toast, and bleary-eyed crew. You led Yoongi in, checked he had everything he needed (which, as expected, was basically a piece of toast, tea and a quiet seat), and leaned on the table.

“If you wanna hop back in after your nap,” you said, “just head to makeup. They’ll get you zombified. Walk-ins welcome.” Yoongi gave a lazy salute. “Enjoy the chaos.”

You smirked. “Oh, I will.”

As you stepped back outside, you pulled your vest off, checked your headset, and tapped your radio.

“Sparkles goes in to play,” you told everybody in the Orga channel.

The wind stirred your hair as you walked up the stairs to get into your survivor outfit. Somewhere out there, survivors were scavenging. Somewhere in the trees, barricades were being reinforced, stories played out.

And maybe—just maybe—Jungkook would spot you again.

You couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

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You had changed.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed game runner in a bright vest and headset. In her place, standing at the back entrance of the ruined asylum terrain, was a frail young woman—dirty, disheveled, a little wild in the eyes. Your cheeks were flushed as if you’d cried, and your hair was messily pulled back like it hadn’t been washed in days. You wore a torn oversized knit sweater that hung off one shoulder, stained and torn, and your jeans were fraying at the hems like you’d worn them through hell. A ratty scarf was wrapped around your wrist, and your hair was a tangled mess like you hadn’t had a brush or mirror in days. But it was the lifeless plastic baby doll swaddled in a stained cloth to your chest like it was your entire world that completed the look.

You looked haunted.

You were embodying the character you'd warned the staff about weeks before—the “young mother,” a deeply unhinged, petty chaos agent with one goal: survival. At everyone else’s expense.

The back entrance of the asylum was quiet now, but as you predicted, players had already started establishing a trade hub there. Makeshift tables held bartered goods—scraps of old food props, dummy ammunition, lighters, glowsticks, water bottles, a few hand-written “currency” notes. Some players stood guard, clearly skeptical of strangers, while others played smooth-talking scavengers or suspicious loners.

You blended in perfectly.

Your current mark was a man with a fake shotgun and far too much fake canned food to his name. You rocked the doll in your arms, sniffled, and gestured toward the woods as you explained in slow, stilted English that you were looking for your brother.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said softly in a broken, unsure tone, gently rocking the baby doll in your arms. “He… he wanted to look for food…but… I think something happened…”

A weathered-looking survivor with a fake scar across his jaw nodded slowly. “You armed?”

You looked at him, eyes wide. “No. I—I’m not stupid, I had a knife, but I traded it. For formula.” You shook the baby slightly. “She… she was screaming. And people were starting to look. Please… he said he’d meet me here, if something happens. Please, I don’t want anything. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

Your eyes glittered with wetness. The man softened, the way players do when they think they’re being heroes. “Stay close, alright? If you need anything—”

Jungkook, Taehyung, Snake (still inexplicably calling himself that), and Molly—crossbow-slinger extraordinaire—were making their way through the asylum’s crumbling courtyard. A day and a half in, they looked the part now: mud on their clothes, sweat-dampened shirts, fake bandages here and there. They had clearly made it through a night and a morning of scavenging, and judging by the pack Taehyung carried, they were doing well.

That’s when Taehyung spotted you from a distance.

He nudged Jungkook and hissed under his breath, “No way. Is that Y/N?”

Jungkook’s eyes locked on you—and froze. “She’s… acting, right?” Jungkook asked, but he was already moving toward you.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed you that Jungkook had seen commanding a smoke grenade like it was part of your DNA. Gone was the grinning puppet master who had thrown him and his friends into a zombie nightmare for the sheer love of chaos. Instead—standing under the gray, early-morning sky—you looked like someone lost.

You stood at the trading post near the old asylum ruins, speaking softly to a weathered player with fake dirt on his face and a rusted toy gun slung over his back. Your voice was shaking. So were your hands.

“Y/N?” he said uncertainly, a flicker of hope in his voice. You didn’t react. Of course not. That wasn’t your name right now.

So he tried again, stepping closer, more hesitant. “Hey… are you okay?”

Taehyung beat him to it, his Korean accent thick but clear. “Miss? Is everything okay?”

You turned toward them slowly. Your lip trembled. And the look you gave them… it was so raw it knocked the wind out of Jungkook’s chest. You looked at all of them like you didn’t know whether to run or cry. You glanced from Taehyung to Jungkook to the two strangers flanking them. You held the baby tighter to your chest. Your lip wobbling, and your voice came out small.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said. “We—we said we’d meet here. I lost my knife. I traded it for formula. For her. Please, I don’t want anything. I just—I need help.”

You clutched the baby doll tighter and gave a little, heartbreaking smile. And Jungkook’s heart squeezed in a way that shocked him. He should know better. He did know better. This was a game. You were in character. You were one of the organizers. Hell, he’d seen you cut the power and signal a horde like a general commanding troops just last night. But right now…

Right now, all he could see was you looking scared, tired, alone—and goddammit, holding a baby. Even if it was a fake one. You looked down at the baby doll, brushing your thumb over its plastic cheek. “She’s been so quiet, but I think she’s hungry. I… I don’t know where else to go.”

Jungkook couldn’t breathe.

Your vulnerability wasn’t just convincing—it felt real. Too real. He knew it was stupid. He knew this was part of the game. But still, something primal and protective swelled in his chest. He wanted to shield you. Even from pretend danger. Even if you were one of the people causing it.

You looked up at them again with a shiver. “You’re not with the men from the train, right? They had—masks. And one had this axe…”

Molly gave a soft, reassuring nod. “We’re not with the train people. You can come with us, okay?” You nodded, eyes wide. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Snake muttered under his breath, “If that baby starts crying tonight, I swear—”

“I’ll keep her quiet,” you said quickly, gripping the doll tighter. “She knows not to cry anymore.” Jungkook couldn’t take his eyes off you. His brain kept screaming it’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake—but his heart wasn’t listening.

As the group turned and began to walk back toward their temporary outpost, you fell in step beside them, eyes alert but downcast. Jungkook moved quietly beside you, matching your pace. You didn’t look up, but you let your arm brush against his as if by accident. He glanced sideways—and for the briefest moment, your expression cracked just enough for him to see the smallest flicker of a smirk.

You knew. You knew exactly what you were doing. And god, it was working. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair and sighed through his nose, exasperated with himself.

He was so. fucking. doomed.

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It was crazy. Absolutely insane.

From the second Jungkook’s group took you in, everything changed. One of the trade vendors, a grizzled guy with a sheriff badge duct-taped to his chest, handed them two extra magazines of Nerf ammo “for the baby.” Another gave a can of pineapple, whispering with serious urgency, “Good for nursing moms.”

You nodded, clutching the doll like your life depended on it, eyes watery with gratitude. You didn’t overplay it. You didn’t need to. Back at their camp—a semicircle of barricades and scavenged supplies around the shed—chaos broke loose. You walked in and people lost their minds.

“She’s got a baby?” “She has a baby!” “Is she alone?” “Where’s the father?” “Was she pregnant during the outbreak?!”

People took it way to serious. But Jungkook kind of understood. The men swore to protect you. Loudly. With solemn nods and fist-to-chest pledges. Even the quieter ones suddenly sharpened their focus, ready to fend off zombie hordes at the sound of a rattle.

The women? They were instantly circling. One gently tugged your sleeve and whispered, “You should sleep, hon. Let someone else take care of the little one for a bit.” Another offered to heat water and try to sterilize a bottle. A third handed over a slightly-clean blanket, saying it would be softer for the baby.

Molly, tough-as-nails Molly with her battered crossbow and flinty eyes, was the most surprising of all. She stepped up, arms crossed. “You need to eat. Properly. Sit.” You blinked, nodding slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

Molly took the baby doll from your arms like it was made of glass. Then—dead serious—she growled at it. “Don’t give me that face. Your mom’s busy.” You couldn’t help but laugh, eyes crinkling with warmth. When you returned from the warm food someone shoved into your hands, Molly handed the baby back with a straight face. “Grumpy little thing. Missed you.”

“Thank you,” you said, genuinely touched, your hands brushing hers as you took the baby back. “You’re… really kind.” 

Taehyung, crouched by a rusted fire barrel with Jungkook, Jimin, and Namjoon, leaned in and hissed low under his breath, “Don’t let her distract you. She’s got villain energy written all over her right now.” Jimin snorted. “Bro, she’s holding a doll and crying.”

“That’s exactly why,” Taehyung said seriously. “That’s exactly how they get you.” Namjoon didn’t speak. He just looked across the camp, watching you sit under the tarp, huddled with the baby like a storm-wrecked statue.

Jungkook… didn’t speak either. He just looked at you.

Watched the way you curled your body around the doll, like you were shielding it from the cold. The tiny smile you gave to the woman who offered to stitch the tear in your sweater. The way your eyes scanned each person like you were searching for something real. Your brother. Maybe hope. Maybe a way out.

He knew you were acting. He knew you were playing a role.

But the tenderness of it—the truth underneath it—cut into him.

You were building something. A narrative. A presence. A story that folded into theirs, made their world feel larger, more real. You asked softly, eyes tired but kind, “Has anyone here seen my brother? He’s about this tall…” You held your hand a bit above your head, eyes sweeping over their faces. Everyone shook their head with murmurs of apology. No one had seen him. You gave a small nod, looking down at the baby. “Okay. Maybe he’s further south.”

And then, reluctantly, after they insisted—you let them lead you to a cot inside the shed, where two women covered you in blankets and one brushed your hair softly from your forehead. “Sleep,” she whispered. “We’ll keep watch.”

And you did.

 He didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Maybe because you trusted them, even just in-character. Trusted them enough to sleep.

Jungkook stood nearby, cross-legged on an overturned crate, his gun across his lap. He kept his eyes on the tree line. But every few minutes, he turned and looked toward you.

Just to be sure you were okay.

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You woke slowly, groggy but warm. For a moment, the peaceful hum of camp lulled you—muted conversations, the scrape of someone sharpening a weapon, distant birdsong. And then your hand slid over the blanket beside you. Nothing.

The baby doll was gone.

Your eyes snapped open. You sat up fast, breath catching, scanning around wildly until you spotted one of the women from earlier—Annette, the redhead with the braid—standing by the fire barrel. Holding the baby. You stormed over. And went into character.

“Give me back my child!”

Every head turned. The group froze. Annette startled, backing up a step. “I was just—he was cold! You were asleep—!”

“You took him without asking! Without telling me!” You were full of fake hysteria now, body trembling, eyes shining with fresh tears as you stomped toward her. “You were passed out!” she snapped back, holding the doll protectively. “You’re lucky you have people to help you. Don’t act like a saint—you’ve got a whole family around you now!”

“Don’t you dare guilt me for caring about my own child!” you screamed, and the camp exploded into noise.

Women yelled. Men hovered uncertainly, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon staring wide-eyed as you and Annette tore into each other like wild animals in rags and apocalypse grime. Jimin held his hands up like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Molly shoved through the circle. “Alright! Enough!” She snatched the baby out of Annette’s arms, cradled it to her chest, and stalked back toward your bed. “I’m putting him down where he belongs.” But the damage was done.

From the woods, groans began—deep, feral, unmistakable.

“Zombies!” someone shouted.

And then you and Annette were surrounded by indecision. The men hesitated—do they break up the fight? Do they protect you? Annette was still fuming. “You can’t even handle being a mother!” You looked around wildly—then saw the zombies moving closer. Ten? Maybe more.

You didn’t flinch.

“You don’t deserve him!” Annette screamed. And with a dramatic sob, you shoved her hard—right toward the oncoming horde. You stumbled back just in time not to end as Annette.  As Annette let out a perfectly-timed scream as she stumbled backward into their arms. The zombie players descended in full choreographed carnage—screeching, arms grabbing, paint splattering.

“NOOOO!” she wailed, perfectly, theatrically, just as she was “bitten” and dragged to the ground. Her hand reached out… and dropped.

Game over.

The whole camp went dead silent. Jungkook’s heart was hammering. He saw it all—your heaving shoulders, your wide tearful eyes, your trembling hands. As some of the guards went to deal with the zombies now coming your way. You had just killed someone.

Sort of.

Molly returned, baby doll back in your arms. “She touched your kid. That’s on her.” Another woman nodded sharply. “No one takes a child from its mother.”

Taehyung whispered, “She’s terrifying.” Namjoon exhaled like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Jimin blinked. “Did she just—?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook whispered. “She did.” But it wasn’t condemnation in his voice. It was awe.

You pulled the baby closer to your chest as the zombie players—groaning, covered in fake blood and smugness—left toward the next part of the map. You wiped your eyes and turned toward the fire, shaking.

And the group? They closed in around you, no questions asked. Annette’s name was crossed off the board.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

Jungkook approached slowly, hands in the pockets of his tattered apocalypse jacket, still glancing at the baby doll cradled in your arms as if it might blink.

“You know…” he said, voice low and a little awkward, “the kid has the same sparkle… in his eyes as you.” You froze. Your head snapped up immediately. Your gaze flicked to Jungkook. You gave him a small, quiet nod of understanding. “Thanks,” you said, softly. Then, to Molly, “Could you watch him for a second? I need… I need a breath.”

Molly, rocking the fake baby as if it were the most precious thing in the world, smiled. “Of course. He’s an angel when he naps.” Before you could turn, she added, “Take Jungkook with you. He looks like he needs it too.”

You looked at him grinning, one brow raised. He looked… startled. But he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

The trees offered some quiet from the chaos behind you. For a while, you just listened to the wind threading through the branches and the crunch of your boots on dry leaves. It was strange how easily the game dissolved out here. No screams. No laughter. Just you and him. Then you stopped and looked at him with the same gentle concern you’d shown to the doll not five minutes ago.

Jungkook stared at you, confused. For a moment—just a second—he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

“I… I think I used the wrong phrase,” he admitted. “The sparkle thing—I thought that’s how people got out of the game? Like… a code?” You looked at him, something melting in your expression. “It is a code,” you said softly. “You used it perfectly.” He blinked. “Then… why do I feel so messed up?”

You inhaled slowly and reached up to remove the scarf around your head, your shoulders relaxing as you let the mask of your character slide off. “I’m going to talk to you now as me,” you said. “Not the mother. Not the Game Master. Just… Y/N.”

Jungkook nodded and saw your entire demeanor change. You were instantly more open—more you.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard,” he admitted eventually. “I knew it wasn’t real. You were holding a doll. I saw it. But something about it—your voice, the way you shook, how scared you looked…” He laughed bitterly. “I thought, if something happens to her, I won’t be able to fix it.” You watched him with quiet patience.

“You know,” you said, “a lot of people come into these games thinking they’ll be cool and strategic. Like it’s chess with costumes. And then they see someone crying over soup, or hear a scream at night—and suddenly their brain forgets it’s a simulation.”

Jungkook gave a tired nod. “Yeah. That happened about three hours in.”

“Of course it did,” you smiled. “You’re human. Your empathy isn’t fake.” He looked at you. This time, really looked. “You were so good,” he said. “I thought—” His voice broke off like it betrayed something too personal.

You didn’t press. You gave him space.

“I’ve been doing this a while,” you said. “I’ve seen heroes break down because someone pretended to die in their arms. Seen friends scream at each other over fake betrayals. Emotions can be real even if the context isn’t.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you mean I’m not crazy?”

“Not even a little,” you said, stepping closer. “But I will say this—” He met your eyes again, waiting. “If you do ever get too close to a character—too emotionally tied—step out. Use the sparkle phrase. And don’t be ashamed of needing a breather. It’s not weak.”

Jungkook exhaled, long and slow. “You’re really good at this.” Your lips twitched into a grin. “That was my evil plan.” He laughed—genuine, breathy, warm. “Well, it’s working. You’ve got, like, twelve people ready to die for you back there.”

“I know,” you said, brushing a leaf off your sleeve. “I love watching human psychology unfold in these settings. Throw in a helpless baby and a crying woman, and boom—pack instinct. Protector mode activated.” Jungkook chuckled again. “You’re dangerous.”

“I try.”

You walked a little further, the air calmer now, your heart beating less like you were in a game and more like you were just… here. With him. “Do you feel better now?” you asked, tilting your head. He exhaled, but it didn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

But you could see it—how his body still carried it. The weight. The leftover adrenaline. The strange, instinctual need to protect something that was never real. You hesitated for only a breath, then took a small step closer.

“Can I offer you something?” you asked. Jungkook blinked. “Uh… what?”

“A hug.” His eyes widened, and he laughed—not at you, but because he hadn’t expected that. “A hug?”

“Sometimes it helps,” you said with a gentle smile. “Just—Something human. Especially after hours of zombies, crying, and everyone screaming about rations.” He paused. You could see him considering it. Then, with an almost sheepish smile, he said, “Yeah… okay.”

You stepped forward, arms open but soft, giving him room to change his mind. He didn’t. Instead, Jungkook folded into the hug like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it until it was happening. How it made him realize you were safe. His arms wrapped around you, firm but hesitant at first. Then, when you didn’t pull away, he held tighter.

And for a moment, there was nothing but the two of you in that quiet patch of woods—no fake apocalypse, no baby dolls, no cameras. Just his heartbeat against your chest. Just your breath near his ear. “You smell… nice,” he mumbled, half-laughing, and you felt his smile against your shoulder. You grinned too. “Thanks. Its called a shower.”

He pulled back laughing, just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer now—less dazed, less confused. Grounded. You gave him a look like, See?

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. And he meant it. You nodded. “You’re welcome.” You started turning back toward camp, but paused, reaching out and placing your hand lightly on his forearm. “One last thing,” you said quietly. He looked at you, attentive. “When the time comes,” you said, voice more serious now, “don’t try to save me.”  Jungkook frowned. “What?”

“I’m supposed to die,” you explained. With how serious he took this you didn’t want to traumatize him. “It’s planned. For story, tension, payoff—all of it. So when it happens… let it happen. Don’t let your character die for me.” He looked at you for a long moment, lips pressed tight. He didn’t like it. Not even a little.

But eventually, he gave a small nod. “Okay. I’ll try.” You smiled at him. “That’s all I ask.”

And the two of you walked back to camp—quietly, but closer. Something between you had shifted. And the end of the world kept spinning.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

Back at camp, the mood was lighter for a while. People were laughing over old canned soup, swapping stories about their fake injuries, showing off smudged zombie makeup like war medals. Jungkook sat beside the fire pit with Taehyung and Jimin, poking at the embers with a stick as the sun dipped lower behind the trees.

“I talked with Y/N earlier,” he said, voice quieter than before. Jimin raised a brow. “The mother?”

“She broke character. For me,” Jungkook added. Taehyung leaned forward, grinning. “That’s unexpected. You okay?”

“I think so,” Jungkook said, then smiled a little to himself. “It just felt… too real. Like I couldn’t separate her from the game. I looked at her and couldn’t tell where the mother ended and she began. I needed to separate them for a moment.”

“She offered me a hug,” he added softly, almost like it embarrassed him to say it. “You took it, right?” Taehyung asked, nudging him. “Yeah,” Jungkook said. “And it helped. It made it feel like… it was okay to enjoy it again.” Jimin nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “She’s good. I think she sees when someone’s slipping too far into it.”

Before they could say more, a horn blared from the far end of the camp. Then came the scream.

It was you.

Blood-curdling. Raw. Real enough that even the most seasoned players froze for a heartbeat. You crashed into camp, fake tears streaking your cheeks, your baby doll clutched tight to your chest. “They’re coming—I can’t—I can’t do this—please, someone—!”

Jungkook's body moved before his brain did. He stepped forward—but too late. Then, in your frantic scramble, you fumbled with the makeshift barricade and ripped it open. And the horde swarmed in.

Chaos erupted.

It was like a dam breaking. Zombies—dozens of them—surged from the trees with low groans and guttural snarls, their movements jerky and terrifyingly fast for something supposed to be undead. The illusion was flawless. You bolted for the other side of camp, stumbling with your doll in your arms, and vanished.

The scream that came next didn’t belong to you.

It was Jin.

“NOPE. NOPE. I’M OUT!” he yelled, laughing even as he backed himself into a corner, behind some stacked crates meant to look like a supply station. “I’m not fast enough for this sh—!”

They got him.

One of the zombies tackled him, then another. Then three more. Jin disappeared under the pile, mock screaming and laughing at the same time, smacking at the air with ketchup-smeared hands. “I’M BEING EATEN ALIVE! SAVE ME—ACTUALLY DON’T—THIS IS KINDA FUN—”

And then his hand dropped limp. Fake-dead. Out of the game.

Jungkook turned to call for Jimin—but Jimin was already being overwhelmed. He had tried to hold a makeshift line near the fire pit, swinging a padded bat and shouting commands, rallying three of the younger players behind him. “Hold the flank! Hold the—AH—!”

One grabbed him from behind. Then another. A third clung to his legs. “Shit—shit—I’m down! I’m—gah—nooooooo—!” Jimin crumpled dramatically, laughing breathlessly as he disappeared beneath a tangle of groaning zombie players. He held up a hand one last time before letting it fall with a thud. His “death” was over-the-top—classic Jimin—and it still managed to hit Jungkook square in the chest.

Within minutes, nearly half of their group had gone down.

Some were taken trying to flee. Others died fighting. Some just froze in the panic, paralyzed by the sheer size of the horde. And when it cleared, only three of the members were left, with only a few of the original survivor group.

Jungkook.

Namjoon.

Taehyung.

The camp was littered with bodies—players lying still, arms splayed, makeup smeared with fake blood, laughing and groaning as they pretended to be “fresh kills.” Jungkook stood, chest heaving, heart racing. His bat dripped red corn syrup. He looked around, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, and spotted you.

You were across the camp, standing slowly, brushing leaves off your shirt. You still had the doll but now hit hung limp like a doll in your hand, your expression was calm again. Collected. You turned. Found him with your eyes. And waved. And for the first time since the screaming started, Jungkook remembered to breathe.

He waved back, just once.

Then you were gone again—heading off toward the makeup rooms with Jin and Jimin rising to follow. They teased each other as they walked, still catching their breath, still smiling through the chaos. Followed by many other undead, ready to find other survivors or to go with you the makeup rooms.

“You really went all in,” Jin said, chuckling. “God, I thought you were actually going to cry for real.”

You laughed. “Almost did.” But it was Jimin who leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You left an impression,” he said. You blinked. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure how the baby would play with the—”

“No,” Jimin cut in. “Not the character. You.” Your brow furrowed, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” Jimin smirked. “I mean, you—Y/N—you got under Jungkook’s skin. He’s still pretending not to notice, but I’m telling you now, something cracked open in him. You’re in there.” You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck. “He just got stuck in immersion.”

“Nope,” Jimin said confidently. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I saw the way he looked at you. That wasn’t caring for just your roll.” You glanced back once, just before disappearing behind the curtain of trees toward the makeup.

Jungkook was still watching. And your chest fluttered—just a little. You smiled shyly at Jimin, brushing dust from your shirt, cheeks still warm from the earlier chaos. “Oh… then Jungkook won’t like my next character,” you murmured. Jimin raised a brow and leaned in. “Oh? What’s it gonna be?”

You only grinned. “First? Food. And maybe an hour of sleep.” Jimin laughed, nodding. “Fair. I’ll be around. Don’t forget to scare me later.” You gave him a mock salute and started making your way upstairs—up into the top floor of the asylum, where players weren’t allowed. Where you could take a breath, eat without breaking immersion, and switch roles without being spotted.

On the way up, you passed a surreal little scene—Yoongi, fully zombified with his head twisted at an odd angle and one eye gone pale with makeup, lumbered through the halls muttering, “Did you see Hoseok? I want to scare him."

You stifled a laugh. “No but I will let you know.”

“Acceptable,” Yoongi mumbled in his zombie voice, shuffling away.

You made it to the upper ward, peeled off your layers, and managed to get two and a half hours of rest. Your alarm buzzed at 9:45pm.

It was time.

By 10:00, the event would shift. The safe zones would crumble. And from 11 onward… there would be no mercy. Downstairs, five of your most seasoned zombie player had been briefed and would meet you at the NSC hall. You wanted your entrance to be theatrical, disruptive, and unforgettable.

By 10:15, you were halfway through your transformation—tight brown neoprene pants clinging to your legs, the lower half of your costume fitted. The upper part, a terrifying piece of neoprene and latex-mottled horror, hung around your hip, along with the harness system that would make your movements twitchy and unnatural.

You were just adjusting your sports bra and reaching for the torso suit when the door creaked.

“Hey, did you—” Taehyung froze in the doorway, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. He blinked hard, processing the sight of you: half-dressed, back turned, casually sorting through prosthetics and blood tubes.

You turned around, utterly unfazed in your sports bra and pants. “Dead or tired?” Taehyung swallowed, his voice catching. “Uh. Dead. I died. Heroically. Saved Snake and Molly. Got torn apart. Y’know. Normal day.” You chuckled, reaching for the suit. “Glad someone made it out with flair.”

Taehyung lingered, clearing his throat. “Uh—do you… want help?”

“Please,” you said immediately, stepping toward him and turning your back to him. “The zipper’s a nightmare.” He caught the heavy latex piece awkwardly and stepped closer. The suit was clammy from the spray blood and tight as hell, almost impossible to shimmy into without another person. You guided your arms in, shifting your weight.

Taehyung tried not to look at the way the fabric stretched around your body. “You alright?” you asked as he fumbled with the zipper. “I—yeah. It’s just—tight,” he mumbled, finally getting the zip started, pulling it slowly up your back.

When it clicked into place, you rolled your shoulders, adjusting the neckline and tugging at the seals. You met his eyes over your shoulder. “Thanks. This character’s a little… worse.”

“How bad?”

You smirked darkly, your voice lowering. “Tonight… there’s no more safe space.” Taehyung blinked. “Like—none?”

“None,” you confirmed. “No sanctuary. No barricades. Only hiding. Running. Or dying. And I’m going to make sure they remember it.” Taehyung stared at you. “I think Jungkook’s gonna have a heart attack.” You laughed. “Good. Maybe I’ll let him live if he plays it right.” He shook his head with a grin, backing toward the door. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Y/N.”

“You should’ve remembered that the moment you walked in on me half-naked,” you called after him. Taehyung flushed but grinned wider. “That wasn’t my fault!” You grinned back. “It is now.”

You picked up your blood capsule belt, slipping it over your shoulder. The last part of your transformation was almost complete. From here on out, no one would recognize you under the makeup, the prosthetics, and the twitchy, grotesque movements of your new role.

Tonight, you would become the thing people whispered about.

And Jungkook would be right in the middle of it.

The night was thick with fog and the smell of wet leaves, the moonlight too thin to offer comfort. You stood in the shadows just beyond the NSC hall, the five zombies around you adjusting their gear in eerie silence. Your neoprene suit clung to your body like diseased skin, the painted latex blistered and blackened. You had blended the mask into your neckline so your real face disappeared beneath rot and ruin. Only your eyes remained—but even they were ringed in thick, oily black makeup, obscuring any hint of humanity.

Taehyung stood nearby, wide-eyed, one hand over his mouth. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You guys look like something from Silent Hill.”

You tilted your head slowly toward him, silent.

“That’s not helping,” he added, stepping back.

The other five—Alex, David, Mira, Yuji, and Garam—stood tall beside you, identical in costume and horror. A collective nightmare. One of them cracked her neck; another flexed their fingers in tight gloves soaked in darkened blood. You all looked like a single organism splintered into six lethal bodies.

And when Eriks voice whispered through your comms—Go—you didn’t stumble or lurch like the rest of the infected.

You ran.

Fast.

The six of you surged into the night like a flock of death crows, howling, shrieking, voices jagged with distortion. You had trained for this—months of movement practice, stunts, and horror choreography. Every motion you made was unhinged and wrong, arms twitching, heads jerking too far. Real terror wrapped in rubber and foam. And when the normal zombies saw your group emerging from the darkness, they actually cheered.

“Let’s go, monsters!”

“The bosses are here!”

“Hunt them!”

It was like a celebrity entrance from hell. And that’s exactly what you were—hell in motion. And Taehyung watched in horror. He was suddenly very happy he had died and hadn’t had to face you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the map…

Jungkook sat against the cracked wall of an abandoned two-story building, head tilted back, breath steady. He hadn’t realized just how badly he needed the break until now. Namjoon dozed lightly beside him, one hand still on the prop axe resting across his lap. A few others—veteran players and a couple of newer ones—had taken refuge here too. One, who played a frazzled but skilled doctor, had claimed the cellar and set up shop with fake supplies and dim LED lights to simulate a generator hum. He’d even set up a patient cot.

Snake sat at the window, looking out into the forest with haunted eyes. “Taehyung shouldn’t have saved me,” he murmured. Jungkook leaned forward. “He would’ve done it every time.” Snake didn’t reply, just gripped the curtain tighter.

Since you had left the game earlier in the day, Jungkook had finally started breathing normally again. Watching you with that doll—sobbing, panicking, screaming as you threw open the barricades—had twisted something inside him he hadn’t expected. Even knowing it was part of the event, it had pierced something too real. Too much. Your trembling hands. Your broken cries.

And then you were gone. Not dead, not hurt. Just… absent from the game. And that distance, as strange as it was, helped. He could see it as a game again. He could focus on survival. Strategy. The vlog footage. The thrill.

But then—

The screams began. Far off at first, like crows fighting. Then closer. Louder. Sharper. Wrong. Jungkook shot up. Namjoon blinked awake, eyes wide. “What the hell is that?” It wasn’t the usual zombie moan. Not even a fast-zombie screech. This was like someone being torn in half.

And then the first impact hit.

Something—or someone—slammed into the front of the building with a crunch and a spray of fake blood. One of the new players screamed as the front barricade gave way and something darted through the broken opening.

It wasn’t stumbling. It was sprinting.

“Upstairs!” Namjoon barked. “Now!” Jungkook grabbed Snake’s arm and hauled him back as one of the monsters—rotting flesh, twitchy limbs, face all wrong—threw itself at the nearest survivor. They weren’t like the others. These were different. Silent coordination. Screaming, yes—but like hunters calling to each other, not mindless noise.

Upstairs, the survivors scrambled. Jungkook kicked over a shelf to block the stairwell. It bought them seconds at best. And then another scream—closer, more guttural. One of the new players was down. He looked out the broken top-floor window.

There were five of them. All identical in horror.

Jungkook backed away from the window, breath caught in his throat. Below, the five nightmares prowled through the dark yard like wolves who had just learned how to hate. They didn’t move like zombies. They moved like something smarter.

And then came the curse: “FUCK,” one of the veteran players snapped, fumbling with the fake gun strapped to his shoulder. “What?” Namjoon asked, crouched behind a toppled cabinet. The veteran pointed sharply out the window. “They brought them again.”

“Them?” said a new player, confused and wide-eyed.

“Crawlers,” the vet spat like it was a slur. “They’re fast, they’re coordinated, and worst of all—they don’t go down like normal zombies. You can’t just push them or tag their arm. You have to fight them. Hard.” Even Namjoon’s brow furrowed at that. “I thought this was supposed to be a survival horror game. Not full-on combat.”

“Oh, it’s both, still LARP fighting only,” the vet said grimly. “But that’s the boss class.”

The "doctor" player popped up from the cellar stairwell, glasses askew, fully in character. “But if we catch one,” he said, voice buzzing with faux-manic glee, “I might be able to extract the virus. Create an antidote.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” he said, indignant. “That’s literally my quest line.”

Upstairs, they fortified the landing. One staircase. One hallway. If nothing came through, they were safe—for now. Official game rules meant no break-ins unless an Orga member approved it. Everyone relaxed slightly.

Until a scream ripped through the room.

The vet player stumbled back, swearing again. “Window! They’re coming in through the fucking window!” Two of the Crawlers were halfway inside—literally crawling through the second-story window frame, their movements contorted and snapping, their masks reflecting the dim LED lights with a shine that made everyone recoil.

“They climbed the goddamn drainpipe!” someone shouted.

The room exploded into chaos.

One of the Crawlers lunged for the doctor, who barely rolled out of the way. The second went for the vet, who fought back—but in the scuffle, he clocked the monster hard in the ribs.

“GAME STOP!” the veteran called, hands shooting up in the air. “STOP, STOP, STOP!”

Everyone froze mid-motion. The doctor, mid-laugh, cut off instantly. Namjoon swore and backed up, gun lowered. Jungkook was halfway through a lunge and immediately paused, breath caught in his throat. Garam was slumped against the wall, arms cradling his side, eyes shut tight.

“Garam?” someone asked, voice tense.

“I didn’t mean to hit that hard—shit, I’m sorry, man,” the veteran said quickly, rushing over but stopping short, hands out in apology. “I panicked. You were coming at me like a fucking demon.”

“I’m fine,” Garam said hoarsely, holding up a hand.

“No, for real—are you sure?” Jungkook stepped in now, crouching next to him. Looking beyond the horror of a costume. “Don’t push through if you’re actually hurt.” Garam drew in a breath, sharp and shaky, then slowly exhaled. “I’m okay. Winded. Just… give me a sec.”

Namjoon knelt beside them, offering his canteen. Garam took a sip, then leaned his head back, already laughing softly. “God, you guys are so soft now. Its cute.“ The veteran muttered, visibly shaken. “I’m really sorry. I got scared, man.”

Garam looked at him properly now. “It’s okay. Honest. You got a clean hit. No cracked ribs, I think. Just knocked the air outta me. Good reaction time.” He smiled—strained, but genuine. The group laughed lightly, nerves easing. The veteran still looked remorseful but nodded gratefully as Garam gave him a reassuring pat on the leg.

“Let’s keep going,” Garam said. “I want my death scene to be worth it.” The players regrouped fast. And the fight picked up again with renewed fury. One Crawler went down under coordinated fire from Namjoon and the vet. Another—Yuji—was tackled and “captured” by the doctor with wild delight. The remaining Crawlers hissed, shrieked, and clawed, but were picked off one by one.

And then there was you.

You’d gone for Namjoon—darting in from the shadows with a curved movement that made his skin crawl. You tackled him into the wall with a guttural cry. He shouted in shock, the breath knocked from him.

But just as you leaned in to “bite,” Jungkook moved like lightning. He grabbed the prop axe from the ground and turned you off Namjoon with a strike so fast it made everyone pause.

You froze.

You dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead in the game.

Unmoving.

Breathing hard, Jungkook stood over you. Startled for a moment. Had he hurt you? But the crawler didn’t groan or called for a stop. “Nice save,” Namjoon muttered, rubbing his side. The doctor was practically dancing in place. “Bring the bodies down! I’ll dissect them for a cure!”

Normally, a dead player would be tapped or, just sit up and ask where to go. But Jungkook was staring at you like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

He crouched beside you, prop axe still in hand, and leaned down to “double tap” for dramatic effect. But as he did, he whispered low: “Y/N…?” You gave the smallest nod.

His heart jumped.

He hadn’t been wrong.

You were here. You’d been one of them. One of the nightmares. The others were getting ready to drag the bodies into the cellar, the doctor already spinning in-character theories about viral extraction and neural mutation. The noise fell away for a moment when Jungkook leaned closer, hoodie brushing your side.

He cleared his throat. “Y/N… would you be part of the cellar scene?” You gave a tiny nod, keeping your body limp. “Can I move you?”

Again, you nodded—expecting the usual signal. Normally, the player in charge of corpse transport would tap the "dead" player twice on the shoulder, telling them to get up and walk to the next area. But instead of that, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He simply leaned down and scooped you up into his arms like it was second nature. Like you weighed nothing, in front of the entire group, Jungkook slipped his arms under you and carefully picked you up, cradling you against his chest.

Startled, you tensed—and your hands instinctively gripped the front of his hoodie. Tight. Jungkook paused the second he felt it. “You okay?” he whispered softly, head close to yours. You hesitated a second, then exhaled shakily and slowly relaxed. Your body went slack in his arms.

Jungkook felt it. Felt your trust settle into his chest like warmth. He held you tighter, more securely, and started moving down the hallway toward the stairs.

The doctor whooped. “To the lab!”

“Man, how are you touching that thing like it’s not disgusting?” one of the players called playfully. “Dude, it smells like rubber and old meat!” another joked. “Jungkook,” Namjoon called, eyeing him curiously, “you sure you wanna carry that thing?”

Jungkook didn’t even look back. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ve got her.”

“Think he likes corpses now,” a third laughed.

Jungkook ignored them all, only shifting you slightly in his arms so your head wouldn’t bump the stairwell wall. As he stepped onto the first stair, he heard it: a whisper, muffled under your latex mask. “Please don’t bump me against anything…” He smiled.

His grip tightened again, protective, steady. “Never,” he whispered back.

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The doctor’s “lab” in the cellar was cluttered and eerie, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. It smelled like fake blood and floor polish. He’d cleared a long table in the center for dramatic effect, and when Jungkook arrived, the doctor clapped gleefully.

“Put her here, yes, yes—right under the light!”

Jungkook didn’t just drop you off. He gently lowered you onto the table, hands bracing your back and shoulders until he was sure you were resting comfortably. The latex of your suit squeaked faintly as you settled.

The others filed in, dragging the other Crawlers. Garam gave Jungkook a thumbs-up before collapsing back into his dramatic corpse pose. The doctor hovered over you, monologuing in detail about virus strains, moral quandaries, and the possibility of a cure—“if only we can harvest enough tissue before the mutation completes!”

Half an hour passed before the doctor clapped his hands and declared, “That’s a wrap on dissection!”

People relaxed. It was an immersion break. But sometimes that was the only way to get a group of zombies out of a scene. Laughter bubbled up. Someone offered Garam a bottle of water. Another player grabbed a granola bar.

You sat up slowly—but before you could stand, Jungkook gently touched your arm. “Wait.” You blinked at him through the mask. Your body still wore the look of rot and infection. Only your eyes were visible—blackened around the edges with makeup, narrowed at him curiously.

He stared for a moment.

Then you reached up and peeled your mask back, the latex lifting with a soft hiss. Your face was flushed from the heat, and the black makeup had smudged slightly around your eyes. Your hair stuck to your forehead.

“Better?” you asked, voice hoarse but warm. Jungkook’s lips curled into the softest smile. He nodded. “I think…” He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I think it’s easier when you’re the danger.” You chuckled—tired and amused—and without thinking too hard, you leaned forward and gave him a hug. Arms around his shoulders. Quick. Sincere. Real.

He hugged you back before he even realized it.

Then you stepped away, slipping the mask back into place like a switch had flipped. The creature returned. Crawling death. Fear incarnate. The doctor gave a playful salute. “See you on the battlefield.”

With a blood-curdling scream, you launched yourself back into the night with the other Crawlers, skittering up the stairs like nightmares given shape. Namjoon leaned into Jungkook’s side as they watched you vanish around the corner. “You’re down bad.” he teased. Jungkook didn’t look away, eyes fixed on where you vanished.

“She hugged you coverd in latex, dude. Latex.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered cheeks flushing just a little. Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “And that’s not even the weirdest thing you’ve been into this week.” Jungkook’s voice dropped, quieter than before. “She is just cool…”

Namjoon blinked, “She let you carry her like a princess.” then clapped him on the shoulder, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You need to calm down before you propose in the basement, Romeo.”

Jungkook didn’t even hear him. He was still staring toward the stairwell. Waiting for the screams.

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Now, early morning had settled over the camp. Despite all their efforts to survive the night, the relentless game had even caught up to Jungkook and Namjoon. But even the strongest couldn’t escape unscathed.

Namjoon was the first to go down. It happened so fast, almost by pure chance. They had been trying to treat a wounded player nearby when a zombie slipped in unnoticed from a side corridor. Namjoon barely had time to react before the creature was on him.

Half an hour later, Jungkook went down too. He and Snake had gone to refill their water bottles when one of the Crawlers—not you— ambushed him suddenly, and he was taken down, collapsing hard to the ground.

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Now, around the breakfast table in the NSC lounge, the members tried to catch their breath and regroup. The early morning light was soft, the room cluttered with empty coffee cups and half-eaten granola bars. Yoongi sat back, arms crossed, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I couldn’t find Hoseok anywhere last night. He’s got to be the last living member out there, right?”

Taehyung smirked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes, hell bent on changing the topic. “You know, Y/N’s got a really nice trained body.” The others immediately turned to him, eyebrows raised. “How would you know that?” Jin asked, clearly curious.

Jungkook cut in quickly, voice low but firm, “Taehyung, maybe you should drop it.” Jimin gave Taehyung a pointed look, then glanced over at Jungkook with a slight warning. “Yeah, Tae, that’s not really something you should say out loud.”

But Taehyung just laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not lying. I actually saw her—in her underwear, earlier.” Jungkook’s jaw twitched involuntarily at that confession, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. Taehyung grinned wider, clearly enjoying the moment. “I was helping her get dressed after her break. You know, the suit’s tricky to put on alone.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but Jungkook’s expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement. Jin clapped his hands, eager to change the mood. “Hey Namjoon, why don’t you get zombified with us? We can go find Hoseok and scare the hell out of him.”

Namjoon grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Sounds like a plan.” He looked expectantly at Jungkook. Jungkook shook his head firmly, rubbing his tired eyes. “No way. I want to sleep for at least two hours before anything else. I’m wiped.”

Just then, the door creaked open and you walked in, still in your Crawler costume — the latex suit clinging tightly, eyes rimmed with smudged black makeup from sweat. You grabbed a banana and a granola bar from the counter, munching casually.

“Morning. Looks like you all had fun without me.”

Yoongi grinned slyly, waving a hand. “You have no idea. I’ve been having a blast scaring the other players. You should see their faces.” They shared stories, laughing about close calls and wild moments. You smiled, genuinely happy they’d had fun.

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You and Jungkook moved quietly up the creaking stairs together, the weight of the night’s chaos finally pressing down on both of you. The stale air clung to your skin, mixed with sweat and the grime of hours spent playing your part in the nightmare. You could already feel the tight neoprene suit clinging uncomfortably, suffocating you in every movement.

You placed your mask and gloves at the foot of your mattress, giving a small sigh of relief to finally be rid of them. The room still smelled faintly of latex, dust, and whatever old building materials had long since decayed here. Now came the tricky part—getting out of your suit. You reached behind your back, fingers fumbling for the zipper, but as expected, it was nearly impossible to grab at that angle.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Jungkook walking by, towel slung over one shoulder and his small toiletry bag in hand, clearly headed for the showers.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you called, turning your head toward him with a sheepish smile. “Can you help me with the zipper real quick?” He stopped mid-step, blinking. “Oh—uh… yeah, sure.” His voice cracked slightly, caught off guard, but he didn’t need to be asked twice.

You turned around fully, holding your hair out of the way so he could see the zipper running along the back of your suit. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your back as he grabbed the zipper tab. His touch was warm—surprisingly careful. The sound of the zipper sliding down seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet of the room.

As he pulled it lower, his eyes involuntarily dropped, catching a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your sweat-slicked back. Taehyung hadn’t lied—your body was strong, defined, glistening slightly from the hours of movement. Jungkook’s fingers lingered a moment longer than they had to, hovering near your spine before he cleared his throat and stepped back like he’d touched something sacred.

“There,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You’re good.”

You turned back to him with an easy smile. “Thanks, lifesaver.” He gave you a short nod, but didn’t meet your eyes. As you peeled the top of the suit down and started pulling it off your legs, Jungkook retreated into the bathroom, flushing hard even before he got to his cabin.

Inside, the showers were basic—four stalls with curtains, old tiles that had probably seen better days. Still, the hot water was a gift after hours in costume. Jungkook stepped into his stall, undressed and put his clothes on a hock and turned the knob, exhaling as the warm water hit his skin. But then he heard your voice from the stall just two over—cheerful and relaxed.

“So how did you die?” you asked through the running water.

“Huh?” he answered, caught off guard again to here your voice so close with his state of undress. “In the game,” you laughed. “Last I saw you, you were still human. What got you?”

“Oh. Uh… Namjoon went first, some zombie got him when we were trying to distract for a medic run. Then me and Snake went to refill water and one of your creepy little friends came crawling out of a hole and nailed me.” He chuckled. “I didn’t even see them coming. They were small.”

“That was probably Mira,” you replied, amused. “She’s got the smallest frame but is pure chaos in the dark. She lives for that kind of ambush.”

“She’s terrifying,” Jungkook admitted, grinning despite himself. You laughed, and he could hear the sound of you scrubbing your hair. “So you didn’t last long without me.”

“Are you saying I need you for survival?” he teased back, as he washed his own hair.

“I’m saying you should’ve let me kill you. I would’ve taken you out dramatically.”

Your banter echoed between the stalls, easy and natural—both of you shedding more than just the sweat and grime of the game in that moment. The intimacy wasn’t physical, but it was there, warm and unspoken.

After the shower, both of you dressed in sleepwear—loose, clean clothes that smelled faintly of soap. You stepped out first, toweling off your hair. Jungkook followed shortly after, ruffling his own damp hair into a messy puff. He was wearing simple sweatpants and a hoodie, but he still managed to look unfairly good in the dim light.

You returned to your mat with a small yawn, ready to collapse—and then frowned.

Your blankets were gone. You looked around once. Twice. Only your sleeping bag remained. “What the hell,” you muttered. “Did Pia take my blankets again?”

Jungkook glanced over, already halfway through pulling on his hood. “What’s wrong?”

“My blankets are missing,” you said flatly, rubbing your arms. “Again. That’s like, the third time during a break. I’m gonna freeze.” You grumbled under your breath, tugging your sleeping bag tighter around you as you curled inward, trying to trap any hint of warmth. It wasn’t working. The bag alone just wasn’t enough, not after hours of sweat and adrenaline that had now chilled on your skin.

Next to your mattress, Jungkook had already made himself comfortable, lying cocooned in his own sleeping bag, arms tucked under his head. He watched you silently for a moment, then sat up a little, reaching for the extra blanket that lay folded over his legs.

“Here,” he offered gently, holding it out to you. “Take this.” You looked up at him, surprised, and hesitated before shaking your head. “I’ll be fine,” you murmured, forcing a small smile. “Just need to fall asleep quickly, that’s all.”

Jungkook didn’t argue at first, but you could tell from his expression that he didn’t buy it. And honestly, neither did you. Not even a minute later, your body gave you away as a shiver rippled through you, followed by another. Jungkook sat up again with a sigh, clearly having reached his limit.

“Seriously—just take the blanket,” he said, a little firmer this time. You shook your head again, teeth almost chattering. “You need it too—if you give it to me, you’ll be cold.” Jungkook stared at you, frustration twitching in his brow, and then—without warning—he huffed loudly and tossed the blanket at you with a bit more force than necessary.

“Okay, then we’re both using it,” he muttered.

Before you could even react, he scooted over with a soft grunt, shifting from his mat to yours with a little “hup.” You blinked at him, startled, still lying on your back as he threw the blanket over both of you and pulled the edge down to tuck it around your sides.

“There,” he said, grumbling, but not unkindly. “Better?” You swallowed, your heart giving a strange little kick as you nodded slowly. “Yeah. Better.” Your voice came out quiet, meek even. “Thanks.”

You could still feel the cold—your limbs hadn’t quite caught up yet—but the difference was immediate. The blanket added a crucial barrier, but more than that, Jungkook's body was a furnace next to yours. You were lying close, shoulders nearly touching, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your hoodie like sunlight under a door.

Minutes passed in silence. You stayed perfectly still, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, hoping he’d fallen asleep—because the truth was, you were still cold. Less so than before, but it lingered. The kind of chill that settled into your bones. You hated the idea of waking him if he had managed to doze off.

But then, you heard it—another huff. A small, exasperated sigh that made it obvious he was still awake. “Are you seriously still cold?” he asked, voice low but clear in the darkness. You didn’t answer right away, unsure if you should lie or not. “I’m fine,” you whispered eventually. Jungkook shifted beside you, the sound of fabric rustling. “You’re shaking.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but the next second, you felt his arm slip across your waist, pulling you ever so slightly toward him. Not forceful. Just enough that your sides touched fully now, his chest against your shoulder. The heat from him was immediate, his hoodie warm against your arms.

“Okay?” he asked softly, this time with less exasperation—just concern. You hesitated, heart thudding, then nodded into the pillow. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Thank you.” He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a quieter sigh, this one sounding more like relief. His hand stayed at your side, resting lightly, and the closeness wasn’t awkward—it was grounding. Your shivering slowed, then stopped.

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew quiet again. The air had stilled. But the space between you and Jungkook was something different—small, warm, shared. You closed your eyes.

“Night,” Jungkook murmured, his voice just barely audible.

And for once, you were warm enough to whisper back, “Night.”

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You woke slowly, the edge of sleep still soft around your thoughts. Everything was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Sometime during your rest, your sleeping bag had worked itself open—or maybe Jungkook had helped, you weren’t sure—but now you lay wrapped in something better. Jungkook’s arm, solid and warm, lay snug around your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. His tattooed forearm rested across your middle, the ink just barely brushing your skin where your hoodie had ridden up. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and slow.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

Even with all the work still to come—players to scare, undead routes to reset, makeup touch-ups to manage—you couldn’t bring yourself to shift away. Not yet. Instead, you nuzzled back a little deeper against his chest, murmuring a quiet, contented, “Warm.”

A subtle ripple moved through Jungkook’s chest in response—a slight hitch of breath, then the unmistakable rumble of his voice, low and gravelly from sleep. “Morning,” he murmured, the sound wrapping around you like a second blanket.

His arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you more securely against him until the crumpled sleeping bags beneath you rustled. You felt the line of his body at your back, his warmth chasing away the last of the chill from your sleep. You smiled. “Morning.”

He stayed quiet for a moment longer before speaking again. “Did you sleep okay?” You hummed, nodding as you tipped your head gently back against him. “Yeah. I did. You?” There was a pause. And then, too honest to be casual, came his answer: “I did. Best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

The quiet that followed was thick and strange and sweet all at once. Your heart did an unhelpful little flutter as you stared at the wall. His voice had been quiet—like a secret—but it was the way he said it, the way it settled under your skin, that startled you.

Still tucked in his arms, you hesitated before slowly peeling yourself away, stretching your legs and arms with a small groan. “We should probably get up,” you muttered. Jungkook made a reluctant noise behind you, but eventually pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He blinked down at you, his voice still a little hoarse. “So… what horrors await us today?”

You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. Your eyes widened. “Shit. We overslept.” You turned to him, already scrambling to gather your things. “We were supposed to be up at least an hour ago to prep the player routes. Come on!”

Jungkook followed suit, grabbing his clothes and slipping them on with smooth, practiced motions. He grinned as he shoved his arm through a hoodie sleeve. “Guess I really did sleep well.”

“You better hope I can still get you into the zombie ranks,” you teased over your shoulder, pulling on your boots. “They might reject you for being too cuddly.”

“Hey,” he said, raising a brow as he followed you out into the hall. “That was survival cuddling.”

“Oh yeah?” you laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Absolutely. Basic warmth acquisition.” He bumped his shoulder against yours lightly, and the two of you headed down the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the sleepy silence of the building.

You both made your way to the kitchen, where the smell of instant coffee and oatmeal powder greeted you. Inside, Taehyung was leaning against the counter, his long limbs wrapped in a tattered bloodstained robe, clearly halfway into his zombie transformation (or out of it) already. Jimin sat at the table eating a banana, one eye shadowed with black makeup.

“Well, well,” Jimin drawled, spotting the two of you. “Look who finally decided to rise from the dead.” Taehyung grinned. “Didn’t know we had to go wake the lovebirds.” Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. You just raised a brow and headed to the table for the last granola bar. “You’re just mad we look better rested than you,” you quipped.

“Debatable,” Jimin muttered around a mouthful of banana. “So. We still got one survivor left—Hoseok. You two in?” Jungkook grinned. “Absolutely.” You leaned on the counter next to him, smirking. “He won’t know what hit him.”

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The day moved at a full sprint. The final night of the event loomed close—players were on edge, volunteers ran from one side of the forested game area to the other, and the undead roamed with renewed energy, determined to make the last full round of scares their best yet.

Jungkook, freshly zombiefied with a smear of fake blood on his cheek and a torn-up hoodie that somehow still looked good on him, had left with Jimin and Taehyung just after lunch. The three of them had dramatically limped into the woods, groaning and growling, arms outstretched as they slipped into character followed by on of there camera guys. You’d only had a second to wave at Jungkook before he disappeared behind the tree line, flashing you a boyish grin beneath all the gore.

You, meanwhile, were knee-deep in logistics. Between coordinating player movements, monitoring timelines, and fixing half a dozen costume or prop-related mishaps, your feet barely touched the ground. Still, through the organized chaos, you caught glimpses of the guys doing what they did best—causing a scene.

At one point, you spotted Jungkook chasing a trio of screaming players down a muddy path with Jimin crawling out of the bushes behind them. Later, you heard Taehyung howling like a banshee near the river checkpoint. It was impossible not to smile. They were having the time of their lives.

But by nightfall, with just a few hours left before the grand finale at 6pm tomorrow—and the afterparty that would follow—it was becoming clear that one thing was still unresolved. “Hoseok’s still MIA?” you asked one of the Orgas, brows raised as you checked your notes. “Completely vanished,” the guy replied, breathless from running equipment between checkpoints. “Jungkook swore he saw him near the cornfield trail, but then poof. Gone.”

“Okay, either he’s in deep stealth mode, or he’s sleeping in a tree,” you muttered.

Around 10 PM, drained but steady, you made your way back to the NSCs rooms. You were just about to climb the stairs toward the staff rooms when the door burst open and the rest of the crew poured in—Yoongi, Jin, and Namjoon among them.

“I’m done,” Yoongi declared, already pulling off his gloves. “Like, corpse-mode. Actual sleep tonight.”

“Same,” Jin said, groaning. “If Hoseok’s really vanished, I’ll haunt him tomorrow.”

You smiled tiredly. “I just came to change back into my crawler costume. I need to help with the tunnels. We’ve got a group going through in twenty minutes.” Taehyung immediately perked up, nearly tripping over his own boots as he took a step forward. “Want help changing again?” he asked, eyes bright and hand half-raised like an eager kid.

You hesitated, suddenly more flustered than you expected to be. Taehyung had already helped you into the suit earlier with no shame whatsoever. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate—it had just been functional.

Still... you’d kind of hoped someone else might offer this time.

You stumbled for a second, unsure how to phrase your answer, but you didn’t have to say anything. Wordlessly, Jungkook came up beside you and gently placed a hand on the small of your back. Without saying a thing, he guided you up the rest of the stairs.

Taehyung blinked after you both. “I was just—”

“She’s fine,” Jungkook said over his shoulder, calm but firm. “We’ll wait outside if she needs help.”

“Wait, we?” Taehyung started. But Jungkook turned, holding a hand out against Taehyung’s chest and calmly, but with that subtle steel in his tone, said again, “Wait. Outside.” Before Taehyung could protest again, Jungkook closed the door with a soft click, leaving you blinking inside the small room, alone and stunned.

That… was kind of adorable.

You got changed fast, tugging on the skin-tight crawler suit, grimy from hours of wear. With the bulk of it on, you opened the door a crack, needing just a bit of help with the zipper. The first thing you saw was Jungkook’s back—broad, inked arm crossed as he leaned against the railing, still arguing quietly with Taehyung about “giving people space.”

He must have sensed your presence because he turned at once, and the second your eyes met his, you grinned. Wordlessly, you turned around and held up your hair.

Without hesitation, Jungkook stepped into the room, his hands warm against your back as he reached for the zipper. His fingers brushed your skin lightly as he drew it up, not rushed, not clumsy. You could feel his breath near your neck, the subtle tension in his shoulders. His touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to—his fingertips barely grazing your lower back before he let go.

It wasn’t overt.

But it was enough for your heart to stutter. Was that on purpose? You didn’t dare turn around yet, just let your hair fall back down and murmured, “Thanks.” Behind you, Jungkook cleared his throat, voice quiet. “Anytime.” There was something intimate in the silence that followed, something thick and unspoken. You finally turned, meeting his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, but he was watching you—really watching you. Not with teasing or smugness like Taehyung, but something quieter. Something... careful.

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The moody, overcast sky hung low as your group of undead moved silently across the clearing, a grim swarm of crawling, shuffling figures. Those who hadn’t needed rest—the tireless, restless ones—had followed you and the other crawlers, forming the largest horde of the weekend so far. It was impressive. Terrifying. Beautiful.

Jungkook kept close to your side, his gait eerily fluid now that he’d embraced the undead role. His makeup—smudged and dripping as intended—made him look like he’d clawed his way from a shallow grave. It was hard to look at him and not feel a chill, even knowing it was all fake.

Your target loomed ahead: the same weather-worn house from yesterday. The survivors had taken the whole day reinforcing it, piling fake furniture against doors, jamming wood panels over the windows, and even reinforcing the crawlspaces and drainage. You had to admit—you were impressed.

No ordinary zombie was going to breach those defenses.

But you and the crawlers weren’t ordinary.

You circled to the back, scanning every possible entry point. The drain was blocked. The cellar sealed. Windows barricaded. But then you spotted it—an open skylight above the sunroom extension. Small, maybe two feet wide, but you could make it through.

You just needed a lift.

Turning to Jungkook, you lowered your voice to a whisper. “How strong are you?” He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—what?” You pointed toward the skylight. Jungkook followed your gaze, his expression morphing from confusion to surprise. “You want me to… hurl you up there?”

“If you think that’s too much, I can ask someone else,” you teased, your voice cool, deliberate. Jungkook's jaw set. “No way. I’ve got you.” He wouldn’t risk someone else making a mistake that could get you hurt. You grinned, already backing up to get a running start, moving in position as Jungkook did as well. “Alright then. Just don’t drop me.” He crouched, hands out in position. “You better jump like you mean it.”

The two of you moved like you’d practiced it for years. You dashed toward him, boots silent on the damp grass. At the right moment, you planted your feet into his hands. Jungkook grunted as he pushed upward with strength that surprised even you. The world tilted—sky, house, the sharp outline of the skylight racing toward you.

Fingertips caught the ledge. You gritted your teeth, swung a leg up, and wriggled through. It was tight—but you made it.

You dropped into the attic-like space below with a soft thud and a grin, heart pounding from the adrenaline. A second later, you peeked back through the skylight. Jungkook stood below, looking stunned. You whispered down, “I will never ask someone else for this shit ever again!” He gave a breathless laugh, already approached by the next crawler.

In the next few minutes, you helped pull up two more. One got through on their own, the other needed Jungkook’s full strength and a bit of a climb. From your high perch, you coordinated their positions through narrow crawlspaces and above ceiling beams. Inside the house, muffled voices from the survivors grew louder—unaware of the silent, slithering danger creeping above.

And then the screams began.

Chaos erupted inside.

One of the crawlers dropped from the attic into a bedroom and shrieked. Another lunged from the shadows of the hallway, forcing a survivor to tumble back and crash through a makeshift barricade. The rest of the horde—waiting like hungry wolves—poured through the newly opened path.

You grinned with satisfaction as the house devolved into beautiful, fake carnage.

By the time it was over, the “survivors” were either “dead” or fleeing into the woods with wildly flailing arms, laughing and screaming in equal parts. You climbed out through the front window, breathing heavy but beaming, makeup streaked with sweat again.

Jungkook waited by the tree line, breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “That was… insane.” You sauntered toward him, brushing a cobweb from your shoulder, the thrill still sparkling in your chest. “You mean brilliant,” you corrected, giving his shoulder a friendly nudge. “Couldn’t have done it without my undead catapult.”

Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were just—like—gone. I thought I overthrew you for a second.”

“Well, lucky for both of us,” you said, nudging him again, “I have excellent upper body strength.” He looked at you for a moment longer than he probably meant to, eyes tracing your face, your smirk, the fading makeup. There was something new in the way he was seeing you—somewhere between admiration and being completely, quietly floored.

“I’m seriously not sure if I should be impressed,” he murmured, “or mildly intimidated.” You raised a brow, amused. “Why not both?” Jungkook grinned—genuine, wide, and a little shy. “Yeah. Both works.”

And together, shoulder to shoulder, you wandered back toward camp, the last moans of the “dead” trailing off behind you.

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You had played through the night. One relentless wave after another, your massive horde had flushed the most of the remaining survivors out of every hideout they had pieced together over the weekend. Some screamed. Some laughed. Some fought back valiantly—but none of them lasted long. It had been glorious.

Jungkook had stuck by your side for most of it, shambling and snarling beside you as if he'd been part of your crew since day one. By now, he fully understood why you loved this—why Yoongi had defected to the undead team without hesitation. There was something cathartic about giving in to chaos, something addicting in being the fear rather than the prey.

But still… playing a survivor had made Jungkook feel more. Adrenaline. Hope. Loss. Victory. Desperation. And you. You, always right in the thick of it. There was something unforgettable about the way you'd looked at him, teasing and alive.

It was nearing 10 AM now. The fog was finally burning off the morning air. Everyone had dragged themselves back to base. Some were already sleeping in bunks or huddled in chairs. Others slumped over mugs of instant coffee. The ones that hadn’t been up all night, just came back from their zombification to pick up were you left of.

You had wandered into the break area for off-duty undead NSCs. There, without a word, you'd climbed onto the billiard table, peeled off your gloves and mask, and lay down flat on your back, arms draped across your stomach. Eyes closed. Still in costume. Still streaked with grime and fake blood. But utterly at peace.

And Jungkook couldn’t stop looking at you.

He wasn’t the only one. Taehyung leaned lazily against the wall next to Namjoon, watching you with a curious tilt of his head. “She’s knocked out cold?” Taehyung asked, though he already knew the answer. Namjoon smirked faintly. “Nah. Just recharging. Like a haunted Roomba.”

“Should I poke her?” Taehyung grinned, raising a finger.

“Do it and lose that finger,” Yoongi mumbled from his spot in a nearby armchair, eyes barely open. “She hasn’t slept properly since Thursday.” Jungkook smiled to himself at Yoongi’s comment. But then someone else entered the room. The last person Jungkook wanted to see.

Lukas.

The same guy who had all but tried to force himself on you as he arrived here on the first day, eager and overly familiar from the start. A former survivor who’d now joined the undead side like everyone else. And apparently still hadn’t taken the hint.

Lukas sauntered over to your resting spot, standing at the edge of the billiard table and launching into some one-sided conversation about how epic the finale last year had been and how this year would probably be even better, he’d totally bring better gear next year, and how “you and me should team up next time” and on and on.

You didn’t move much, didn’t open your eyes, but the subtle pinch of your brow was all Jungkook needed to see. You weren’t relaxed anymore. Jungkook set down the energy bar he’d been holding and stood up.

Namjoon noticed. “Oh?” he murmured, nudging Taehyung. Taehyung leaned closer. “Here we go.”

Jungkook ignored them both, grabbed a bottle of water and a bag of chips from the supply table, and made his way over to you. He stopped right beside Lukas, who faltered midsentence, startled by the sudden appearance of the younger man.

In slow, careful English, Jungkook said, “Make space, please.” You opened one eye in surprise.

Lukas blinked. Jungkook held the bottle out toward you. “Water. For you.”

You stared at him for a second, then slowly sat up to make room on the table, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks,” you said, genuinely touched. You hadn’t asked him for anything—but you also wouldn’t say no. Especially not if it meant Lukas stopped talking.

Jungkook climbed up next to you without hesitation, stretching out on the green felt beside you, propping his head on one arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t even subtle about it—he just was there. Close enough to feel the heat of him again. Like last night.

Lukas stood awkwardly at the edge of the table, clearly thrown. “Uh… well. I guess… I’ll see you later?”

You hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look at him. Lukas lingered for a second more, then mumbled something and left the room. Taehyung whistled low. “Oh damn.” Namjoon laughed under his breath. “That was smooth. Very nonchalant. Ten out of ten for execution.”

Yoongi cracked one eye open from his chair. “Is he lying next to her now?” Taehyung nodded. “Full-on pool table cuddling. He just stared that dude down in second language flirtation mode and won.” Yoongi closed his eye again. “About time.”

Jungkook ignored them, offering you the chips as well. You took one, still smiling. “Didn’t mean to steal your table,” he murmured. “You didn’t,” you said, voice soft and relaxed now. “You upgraded it.” His grin was small but pleased. You lay back down beside him, arms occasionally brushing as the room fell into a comfortable lull.

The room buzzed around you in muted tones—people talking in corners, the occasional thud of boots, a laugh carried on the tired air—but next to him, it felt like the eye of the storm. Warm, peaceful, grounded. You didn’t need words. Just the rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest next to yours and the shared quiet of mutual exhaustion. And this time, no one interrupted your peace.

That was, until Jimin appeared.

Without hesitation, he climbed up onto the billiard table with the agility of a cat and flopped across your legs like he belonged there. Which, apparently, he did. “Comfy,” Jimin murmured, his head pillowed on your thigh. “You’re crushing my soul,” you replied, flicking the back of his head affectionately. “Good. You weren’t using it.”

Jungkook snorted, as you muttered, “He always like this?”

“Worse when he’s had sugar.”

You all stayed like that until the walkie-talkie on your belt crackled and broke the spell. “HQ to zombie queen Sparkles. Everything’s in place. Megaphone announcement’s done. All survivors have been warned. Last stand is good to go.” Eriks voice offered.

You sighed, sitting up with an exaggerated groan. Jimin flopped onto the floor dramatically like you’d cast him off a cliff. Jungkook stretched beside you, rubbing a hand over his face and smearing the last of his undead face paint across his cheek. The three of you reluctantly peeled yourselves off the table and made your way to the final battlefield.

The terrain had been cleared. Flags were up. The megaphone had roared across the campgrounds announcing the final stand. The survivors, what few were left, had gathered and were bracing themselves behind makeshift defenses, guns ready, darts loaded.

You moved among your horde. Dead eyes. Snarling mouths. Fake blood drying on skin and clothes and fingernails. All of them buzzing with excitement and end-of-event adrenaline. Everyone was here.

Everyone… but Hoseok.

You were starting to worry, but then—

A scream. A scramble. And then, emerging from the woods, looking like he’d barely slept or eaten in a week, came Hoseok followed by a cameraman and hunted by two Zombies. Mud-streaked. Wide-eyed. Alive.

Barely.

Yoongi didn’t miss a beat—lunging from a bush with a banshee screech. Hoseok screamed. Like a horror movie final girl. Dropped to the ground, arms over his face, bracing for impact. Yoongi just cackled and stood over him. Namjoon helped Hoseok to his feet, who was still shaking like a leaf.

“How the hell—” Namjoon began, looking both amused and baffled, “—how are you still alive?” Hoseok blinked rapidly, eyes darting around at all the undead closing in now. “I… I did what she said,” he stammered, gesturing weakly toward you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What did I say?”

“Keep moving,” Hoseok replied. “Don’t stay too long in any one group. Hide when it’s quiet. I—” He swallowed. “I spent the night in a tree.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Taehyung let out a bark of laughter. “You feral squirrel! You slept in a tree?”

“I panicked, okay!” Hoseok shouted, hands in the air. The final stand didn’t last long after that. You and your horde overwhelmed the last defenders like a slow-moving tidal wave of moans, shrieks, and Nerf darts. The end came gloriously, with dramatic deaths and heroic sacrifice.

And then—it was over.

Cheers erupted. Everyone collapsed on the grass. Some in laughter, some in total exhaustion. Hugs were exchanged. Final photos were taken. The event was officially declared a success.

Which meant only one thing: the after party.

What began as a mad dash turned into a full-blown war in the dorms. Everyone rushed after you as they saw you make a run for the room and then to the limited bathroom stalls. You, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Yoongi ended up in a four-way standoff in the hallway outside the bathrooms, all equally caked in grime and fake blood.

“There’s four showers!” you said, already tugging at the zipper of your jacket. “We can do this. We can be civil.”

“We’re never civil,” Yoongi muttered, eyeing the doors like he was going to sprint at the first handle that turned. “I vote Taehyung showers last,” Jungkook said, pointing at Taehyung’s face. “You literally have glitter glued to your cheek.”

“It’s part of my character,” Taehyung retorted. “I was a vampire zombie warlord, thank you very much.”

“I call stall three,” Jimin shouted as he skidded in, already half out of costume. “And if anyone touches my conditioner, I will bite.” You laughed, giving up the illusion of control. “We’re all feral.” But you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Especially not the way Jungkook’s eyes kept drifting toward you, even now—mud-streaked, tired, and grinning like a man who had just found something worth crawling through dirt and fake gore to keep seeing.

From your group of eight, you, Jimin, Jungkook, and—surprisingly—Namjoon had won the great shower battle and secured first dibs on the stalls. Victory had never felt so warm and sudsy.

But that victory came with a price: the walk of shame.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, hair still dripping and skin flushed from hot water and scrubbing off layers of fake gore, you had to walk barefoot from the shared bathroom back into your room—with them. Not your usual mix of female friends and old LARP buddies, but instead a full suite of K-pop idols with unfair cheekbones and far too many curious eyes.

You opened the door and stepped inside, water-slicked and entirely underdressed. Yoongi whistled, long and low.

Taehyung? Didn’t even pretend to be subtle. His eyes dragged over you like it was part of a performance piece. Jungkook, bless him, nearly dropped the hoodie he was folding and spluttered, “You—you forgot to grab clothes?”

You shrugged, casual as could be, striding across the room to your duffel bag. “Didn’t forget. Just didn’t want to lose my spot in the shower queue.” This wasn’t your first post-bathroom towel walk. But you had to admit, it was a lot easier around your usual chaos crew. You were used to that. You weren’t used to standing in a towel while the nation’s heartthrobs stared at you like you were a comet they weren’t supposed to look directly at.

You bent down, rifled through your things, and grabbed your black underwear and—

—pulled out your party outfit.

Jimin, still towel-drying his hair, froze. “You’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” As you wiggled into your panties, trying not to lose your dignity and keeping the towel in place, Jungkook caught Taehyung shifting on his bed and very pointedly moved to block his view. With Jungkook’s back turned to you like a protective wall, you quickly slipped on the rest of your clothes and zipped up the front of your fuzzy red panda onesie.

You were warm, soft, and immediately happier. Taehyung laughed, incredulous. “A red panda? For a party?” You grinned, cheeks flushed but triumphant. “All the Orga are wearing onesies tonight. And this one’s warm. And comfy. And now—” you spread your arms with mock pride “—I am fluffy.” Jimin ran over like a heat-seeking missile and threw his arms around you. “Confirmed. Very fluffy.”

Jungkook, finally looking at you in full red-panda glory, let out a soft laugh, and the last of the embarrassment in his expression faded into something gentler. He didn’t say it out loud, but the look in his eyes clearly read: adorable.

By the time the group of you arrived at the after-party, the hall had already transformed. Music was pumping, string lights strung between beams. People were dancing, drinking, lounging on couches—some still in costume, some freshly scrubbed clean like you, and others halfway in between.

You headed toward the bar, where Lea was already pouring drinks with practiced speed and familiar chaos, dressed in a beautiful dragon onesie.

“Beer?” she asked, without needing to be prompted.

“You know it.” You turned to Jungkook, who was already pulling out his wallet with that polite determination he always showed when trying to do something nice. “I’ll get hers too,” he said to Lea. You chuckled and lightly pushed his hand down. “No need, golden boy.”

“Huh?”

You leaned in, voice pitched over the music. “It’s my event, remember? My name’s on the staff list. I drink for free.” His eyes went wide. “Wait—you organizers drink for free?”

“Perks of power,” you said, and with a wink, handed him a beer instead—on your tab. Jungkook stared at it like it might explode in his hand. “You got me a drink?”

“Don’t look so shocked. You helped me catapult into a house full of screaming survivors, I figured I owed you one.” He took it with both hands like it was sacred. And then he blushed.

Hard.

Taehyung, passing behind him with two colorful drinks and glitter again clinging to his jaw, gave you a knowing smirk. “Careful. Jungkook might fall harder than that survivor who tripped into the fog machine earlier.” You raised your beer to your lips and shrugged, grinning. “I don’t mind a little drama.” And beside you, Jungkook drank, trying not to smile too hard—and failing.

The party had a warm chaos to it, the kind that made the exhaustion of the last few days dissolve into beer foam and basslines.

Somewhere during the first hour, a regular player—Mads, one of the older guys who had survived every single event you ran—took over Erik’s place at the grill. Erik, grateful, passed off the tongs with mock ceremony and rejoined the rest of the organizer crew.

That meant, for once, all of you (except poor Lea, glued to the bar like a bartender in some Viking saga) could give your traditional end-of-event speech.

So there you were: standing on the makeshift podium in your red panda onesie, Erik beside you in his lemur suit (complete with a striped tail and hauntingly round eyes), Pia in an inflatable frog getup, and four more of your crew in various animal-shaped fleeces. You each held beers, shouted into the mic, and barely kept a straight face.

“Thank you for not dying too early!” Erik called out, the lemur ears wobbling as he waved his beer in salute. “Thank you for dying dramatically!” Pia added. “And remember,” you said, holding your mic aloft with one paw-gloved hand, “when in doubt—scream louder.”

Your crew’s unofficial anthem blared from the speakers. And with that, the dance floor was officially open.

Players whooped. Some already half-drunk stumbled forward. Others started clapping, and the lights dimmed enough to encourage even the shy ones. Your crew, still in onesies, immediately launched into the most chaotic, uncoordinated, off-beat dancing the LARP world had ever seen.

You waved your arms like a raver raccoon on energy drinks. Pia was hopping. Erik did something disturbingly close to twerking with his lemur tail. It was a mess. Jungkook watched from the sidelines, drink in hand, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—not to laugh. “What… are they doing?” he asked quietly, in disbelief. “They’re dancing,” Namjoon said around a mouthful of chips. “I think.”

“No one taught them rhythm?” Taehyung asked, grinning. Yoongi chuckled. “Who needs rhythm when you’ve got that much conviction?” Jungkook took another sip of his beer, gaze lingering on you, red panda tail bouncing as you did a spin that nearly knocked over Pia. It was stupid. It was adorable.

But then his jaw tensed.

Because there, half-shadowed near the back of the hall, stood Lukas—again—watching you with a kind of focus that rubbed Jungkook the wrong way.

He stiffened.

Yoongi noticed immediately. “What’s up, lover boy?” Jungkook blinked, caught. “You’re staring at that guy staring at her,” Jimin chimed, leaning into Jungkook’s side like a nosy little devil. “You gonna do something or keep clutching that beer like it’s gonna kiss her for you?”

“He’s just… watching her. Again.” Jungkook’s tone was too neutral to fool them. Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “So you watch her, but when someone else does it, it’s creepy?”

“Yeah, because he didn’t get her hint. Not the first day, not earlier. He doesn’t even know her.” Jimin tilted his head. “And you do?” Jungkook opened his mouth—then closed it. “I know enough.”

“Then go talk to her,” Yoongi said simply. “It’s not that easy.” Jungkook looked away, jaw tight. “She’s… different. This isn’t some club. We’re in the woods. This whole thing’s temporary. What am I supposed to give her? A one-night stand in a barrack at the ass-end of nowhere?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment. Then: “Why are you deciding for her?”

Jungkook blinked.

“If that’s all she wants,” Jimin added, “fine. Go for it and stop looking at her like a lovesick puppy. But what if she wants more?”

“I’m an idol,” Jungkook said quietly. “Schedules. Tours. Cameras. Chaos. I don’t even know where I’ll be next month. How do you fit something real into that?”

Yoongi leaned on the table next to him. “First of, this doesn’t look real to me,” and with that Yoongi pointed back at you and your friends now all twerking… in a circle… rubbing your butts together? “Second, maybe you don’t. Maybe she fits you into her life.”

That thought lingered, heavy and hopeful. Jungkook stared into the crowd, finding you again—laughing now as you leaned on the bar next to Lea, talking with some of the remaining players. One girl clasped your hand and said something earnest. Another guy raised his drink and said, “Best LARP I’ve ever done.”

You looked genuinely happy. Genuinely in your element. Jungkook felt his chest tighten. But before he could take a step—before he could even turn around—

There was a commotion.

All heads turned. Glass clinked. Music faltered for a second. Jungkook shoved his drink into Yoongi’s hand and moved. He didn’t hear Yoongi call after him. He was already in motion, eyes locked on you, on Lukas, on the way your shoulders tensed and your voice cut through the music like glass.

“Let me GO!”

Lukas had you by the arm—tight. His face was flushed, not just with drink but something rawer. Jungkook’s pulse surged. By the time he got to you, Erik and two other guys were already there, trying to pry Lukas off. You weren’t crying, but your face was pale, and the way you leaned back, straining against Lukas’ grip, made Jungkook’s stomach twist. Your body was tight with fury.

Jungkook didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He just stepped forward and gripped Lukas’s wrist—not his shoulder, not his chest, but right at the tendon and bone where Lukas was holding you. His grip was precise. Firm. Final. His other hand found your waist. Gentle. Protective. Steadying.

“Let go,” Jungkook said—low, dangerous, and razor-sharp. Lukas jolted at the tone, but his grip stayed locked on your arm. “I just wanted to talk—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you snapped, voice ringing out above the crowd. “Not now. Not ever.” Lukas faltered, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that in front of everyone—as if his entitlement had never once been challenged. His hand stayed where it was, fingers tight around your skin.

Jungkook’s fingers pressed harder on Lukas’s wrist, just enough to make the point clearer. But you weren’t done. Your eyes blazed as your spine straightened. “If you don’t let me go in the next five seconds,” you said, voice shaking with rage, “I swear to god I will break your nose.” Jungkook could feel the rage vibrating through you—radiating off your body like a storm about to burst. He wasn’t sure if you were bluffing or if you were about to swing.

Honestly? He wasn’t sure if he should stop you if you swung.

But Lukas still didn’t let go. His pride puffed up like a balloon on the verge of popping. He looked around, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. Of how many people weren’t stepping in to defend him—but you. Cornered, humiliated, he snapped. His voice turned sharp and bitter as he sneered at Jungkook, eyes flicking to the hand still resting protectively on your waist.

“What, a ching chong like you thinks he can just show up here and take my girl?”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, vile, and so incredibly wrong. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He’d been called worse before—more vile, more venomous. He’d learned, long ago, to let it pass over him like cold wind. But here? In a place like this, surrounded by paint-stained props and foam swords and people just trying to have a good time? It surprised him. How casual the cruelty was.

And it surprised him even more—how fast you moved.

Your fists clenched, words hissed. “What did you just say?” Everything about that sentence—the racism, the possessiveness, the delusion—made your blood boil. And you lunged.

And Jungkook caught you. Barely.

His arms snapped around your waist like instinct. His fingers curled tight, grounding you as your momentum dragged both of you forward a step. He was strong, but you were all rage, and it took everything in him to anchor you still. Erik and his friends surged forward again, grabbing Lukas and dragging him off you.

You thrashed once in his hold, fists curled, jaw clenched. “Let me go,” you growled, low and lethal. “I’ll break his fucking jaw for that—I swear to God—" Every inch of you wanted to throw your fist into Lukas’s face. And you would’ve—if Jungkook didn’t hold you.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed against your temple, voice still calm, still quiet—but laced with something tight and simmering underneath. “He’s not worth it. Not your hands. Not your energy. He’s not worth you.”

But you were shaking with more than rage now—humiliation, helplessness, the aftershock of being touched like that, spoken to like that, in front of everyone. If not for Jungkook holding you tight, grounding you, you might’ve done it. You wanted to.

Lukas shouted something incoherent as Erik and his friends dragged him away, kicking and protesting. “This is bullshit! I didn’t even do anything—!” As they dragged Lukas toward the gate, shouting and protests growing quieter, you stood trembling—but trying to take slow and controlled breaths. Your hands shook as they fisted in Jungkook’s hoodie. Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

You weren’t scared. Not with Jungkook behind you, Erik standing guard, and half the event ready to rip Lukas apart. But you had been handled. In public. Dragged like you didn’t matter.

And that... stayed with you.

Jungkook’s grip loosened just slightly, but he didn’t let go. You didn’t either.

He glanced down, brows tight with worry. His hands were steady. But his pulse wasn’t. He could feel the fury in you—righteous, volcanic—and for a second, something deep inside him marveled. At how fast you’d defended him. He wasn’t proud that it had happened—wasn’t proud of being reduced to a slur in front of strangers. But he was proud of you.

Proud he’d had to catch you mid-swing because you’d chosen to step in—for him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” you muttered automatically. But you weren’t. Your arm was red—angrily so—and your fingers, curled into his hoodie shaky. That told him all he needed to know. You weren’t fine. And the way the red panda fluff of your onesie caught in the light only made it more noticeable. Jungkook followed your line of sight, then looked down at you again, brows pinched.

“Can I see?” he asked gently, nodding toward your arm. You hesitated—just for a second—then gave a short nod. He let go of you slowly. You turned to face him as he carefully reached for your wrist. His fingertips brushed the discolored skin—hot, raised, aching.

You hissed through your teeth before you could stop it. He pulled back instantly. “Okay,” he said softly, like talking to a cornered animal. “You’re gonna need ice. And space.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

But your voice was strained, and your hand trembled again—this time against the chest of his hoodie, where you were still holding on.

You weren’t fine. You were furious. And humiliated.

Jungkook didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. You were standing there—shaking, unsure, your arm throbbing now that the adrenaline had started to burn out of your bloodstream. You felt the ache settling in, the way your fingers trembled at your side, the warmth of Jungkook’s presence suddenly too close and not close enough.

Embarrassment burned hotter than the bruise.

You couldn’t look at him. Not really. Not after lunging like that. Not after being manhandled in front of half your own damn crew. Behind Jungkook, Jimin and Yoongi stood nearby. They hadn’t interfered but had clearly been ready to jump in if things had escalated. Jimin’s jaw was set, eyes still flinty and sharp with anger on your behalf. Yoongi, meanwhile, had that unreadable look—cool, assessing, but not uncaring.

Then Yoongi tilted his head, dry humor flickering in his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he said, glancing at your clenched fist. “Jungkook should’ve let you throw that punch.” That broke the tension like glass underfoot. You blinked up, startled. So did Jungkook.

A small laugh escaped you—wry and strained, but real. Jungkook huffed a soft sound. “Don’t encourage her,” he said, though his mouth twitched. “She was serious.”

Yoongi just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Exactly. When was the last time a pretty lady was ready to throw a punch for you?” that forced a chuckle out of you and Jungkook.Seconds later, Taehyung arrived with long strides and no smile in sight. His usual easy warmth was replaced by something clipped and focused as he held out a bottle of water to you.

“Erik’s walking him out,” he reported, eyes flicking to Jungkook, then back to you. “I called our security. He’s handled.” He paused. “Jungkook, you might want to press charges.” You nodded before Jungkook could answer, your fingers brushing his. Even that soft contact was shaky. Your grip was weak around a water bottle, and it took you more strength than normal to unscrew the cap. Your mouth was dry, but swallowing felt harder.

Jungkook’s voice was calm but resolute. “I’m not pressing charges.” That made your head snap toward him, brows pinched. He met your gaze. “It’ll only drag the event into it. Headlines, attention… you don’t need that.” The quiet that followed wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t peace. It was the stillness of something raw, exposed.

You nodded slowly, but you felt small. Shrinking. The ember of humiliation sat low in your chest—tight and awful. Being grabbed like that—dismissed like that—had settled in your bones. Your voice was smaller than you intended. “I think I’m gonna sit down for a second.”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. “Come on.” He placed a hand lightly on your back, steering you gently toward a quieter corner behind the bar. You weren’t sure how you got there—just that he never left your side. You could still feel the aftershocks in your hands. The tremble wouldn’t stop.

Lea saw you coming and immediately crossed the bar with urgency. She passed Jungkook a folded towel packed with ice, eyes widening at the redness blooming across your arm. “Thanks,” you murmured, pressing the bundle to your skin.

You sank onto the bench like your knees had finally given out. Jungkook crouched in front of you, eyes locked on your face. His brows furrowed—not with frustration, but with a quiet, watchful worry. He waited until your gaze finally lifted to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, throat thick. “For… ruining the mood.”

“You didn’t,” Jungkook said immediately, voice low, unwavering. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” But still, the weight of it sat heavy in your chest—like you’d broken something sacred by needing help.

“Yeah, no offense,” Jimin chimed in gently from somewhere just behind Jungkook, “but the mood was already kinda dead when you guys started that weird circle twerk thing.” You blinked. Then snorted. Taehyung pulled another bench over, slouching onto it with theatrical despair. “Was that meant to be dancing? Because I think my eyes need therapy.”

Yoongi gave a low chuckle from behind a cup of water someone had handed him. “Honestly, I think I preferred the screaming zombies.” The laughter this time was softer, but it curled through your chest like something healing.

The boys were trying to lighten the air, you realized. Trying to give you a minute to feel normal again. And you realized—this was what safety felt like. Jungkook didn’t smile, though. Not really. He huffed, looking down with a rueful smile, then leaned in a little closer, voice quiet and serious. “Honestly? Would’ve been nice to watch Lukas get dropped flat. Especially by you.”

Yoongi gave a quiet snort of agreement, and Jimin let out a low, appreciative, “Damn.” Then Jungkook looked back up at you, head tilting. “And you came in swinging for my honor. That was… sweet.” Your stomach dropped. You groaned, burying your face in one hand. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“What?” Jungkook grinned, teasing. “It was kinda romantic.”

“I hate this,” you mumbled into your hand, burning. “I should’ve just bitten him.”

“You were aiming,” Yoongi commented. “I saw that jaw clench.” Jimin leaned in, mock-serious. “Next time, lead with the knee.” Taehyung, blinked. “I miss five minutes of drama and apparently it turned into Mortal Kombat?” That finally earned a real laugh from you—soft and sore-throated but genuine.

You looked down at Jungkook—still crouched in front of you like you might fall over again if he wasn’t anchoring you. He looked up, eyes dark and gentle. “You sure you’re okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded once. “…Getting there.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything to that. But the look in his eyes said enough.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

Part 2

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[ericawantstoescape]

OMG this was so amazing! It was so unique and so creative. I've never read anything like this before. It was so detailed that it makes me wonder if there is actually something like this event that exists in real life, or if you're just that much of a creative writing genius that thought this all up. I love the OC. She was so cool! No wonder the guys all loved her. Her relationship with JK bloomed so realistic, it was cute and adorable. I loved the second part too. I really hope you continue this in some form. Even if it's an epilogue or short one shot. I really want to see how they manage to make such a long distance relationship work. I want to see the "after". Maybe you could set it a year or two down the line and explain how they've made it worked over the year(s). I really just want some more closure from them.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Ahhh thank you so much!! Your comment seriously made me smile so big. actually—there are places like this! Not to go into too much detail lol but i’ve been to events kinda similar to the one i described, and i’ve definitely attended parties that escalated like that one :D not exactly the same, of course, but close enough to imagin a thing or two about the setting.

i didn’t really plan on extending it, but you’re making me think about writing a little one-shot “after” epilogue. I’ll let the idea simmer a bit~ thank you again for reading and sharing your thoughts, it truly means the world <3

[sweetvoidstuff]

Seeing JK and Jimin’s live, I automatically remembered our Just a Normal Night couple! I miss them! But we miss you more! I hope you’re having a great month. Take care of yourself, eat well, and always have fun🙌🏽

Omg i saw this live too! And also JK’s live singing! Not gonna lie, it healed my soul <3 I had a super stressful month but now i’m finally on vacation! I wrote a little in between and might be able to post one or two things this weekend. But honestly, you really made my day with this message, you perfect mochi <3

[sweetvoidstuff]

Epilog: Loose Ends- Steel and Starlight

(Jungkook x Reader | Sci-Fi | Action | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Survival)

A skilled mechanic finds themselves entangled with Jungkook, a dangerously efficient fighter who was meant to be nothing more than cargo. As they navigate threats, their uneasy alliance is tested in ways neither expected. But as they face impossible choices, the question remains—who is truly in control here?

Masterlist

Steel and Starlight

Wordcount: 430

Namjoon stood in the empty crew quarters of the Stellar Hound, arms crossed, jaw tight.

It had been three days since you and Jungkook vanished.

Three days since he woke up to silence, your gear missing from your bunk, and an unsettling weight in his gut telling him exactly what had happened before he even checked the ship’s logs.

Now, all he had was a damn note.

He unfolded the scrap of paper again, even though he had already read it a dozen times.

Sorry. If it helps, tell the company that ordered Jungkook’s transport that he kidnapped me to get away. Don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough fuel and patched systems to make it to the next safe station without a hitch. Consider it my last job.

Namjoon exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

Of course, you’d make it sound like a choice. Like Jungkook hadn’t dragged you into this mess from the moment he set foot on this ship.

But Namjoon wasn’t an idiot.

And the more he thought about it, the more he was starting to agree with you all this weeks ago—this was a shit deal.

The company that had hired them to transport Jungkook? Too clean. The payout? Too good. And the sudden attack that had crippled their ship before they even made it to their destination?

Too convenient.

They’d never been meant to make the delivery.

Jungkook wasn’t a prisoner. He was a target.

And now, so were you.

Namjoon clenched his teeth, scanning the room again, searching for any sign of how you managed to get off his ship without setting off the alarms.

Then his eyes landed on the maintenance hatch leading to the cargo hold.

His stomach sank.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

It was barely noticeable—just a slight shift in the floor panels, a space where something had been moved recently.

And Namjoon knew exactly what it was.

One of the emergency escape pods was missing.

He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose.

You must have waited until everyone was asleep. Slipped out of the crew quarters. Overridden the pod’s tracking system so no one could follow.

And Jungkook?

That bastard must have helped.

Namjoon let out a rough sigh, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

This was a disaster.

And yet—

He found himself smiling. Just a little.

Because damn it, if anyone could pull something like this off, it was you.

And despite himself—despite all his doubts—he had a feeling you’d be okay.

For now.

Masterlist

Taglist: @dachshunddame@hecatesdescendant@chaeisrichnow@canarystwin@mar-lo-pap@notyourfriendooo@bjoriis

[sweetvoidstuff]

Point of No Return- Steel and Starlight

(Jungkook x Reader | Sci-Fi | Action | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Survival)

A skilled mechanic finds themselves entangled with Jungkook, a dangerously efficient fighter who was meant to be nothing more than cargo. As they navigate threats, their uneasy alliance is tested in ways neither expected. But as they face impossible choices, the question remains—who is truly in control here?

Masterlist

Steel and Starlight

Wordcount: ~430

The Stellar Hound was silent.

The fight was over. The bodies had been cleared. But the tension still clung to the air like smoke.

You stood in the main hold, hands still trembling from the adrenaline, staring at Jungkook across the room.

He was watching you. Again.

But this time, there was no smirk. No teasing remark.

Just silence.

It stretched between you, thick and heavy, like something neither of you wanted to name.

You swallowed hard. “You should have run.”

Jungkook tilted his head, something unreadable in his expression. “Maybe.”

“You had your chance.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You really think I didn’t notice?”

Your pulse quickened. “Notice what?”

“That you covered me.” His eyes darkened. “That you nearly got yourself killed—for me.”

Your throat felt tight. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” He took a slow step forward. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “You’re still a flight risk.”

“Am I?” Another step. “Then why did you create this opportunity?”

You hated him. Hated that he was right.

Because even now, when he was standing too close, when the scent of gunpowder and sweat and something distinctly him filled your lungs—you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away.

You should.

But you wouldn’t.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Y/N.”

Something in his voice made your chest ache.

And then—

His hands were on you.

Gripping your waist. Pulling you close.

You barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed into yours.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate.

Like he’d been holding himself back for too long, and now that the dam had broken, there was no stopping it.

You weren’t stopping it either.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer, heat curling through your spine as his fingers tightened on your hips.

He kissed like he fought—reckless, all-consuming, like he had something to prove.

And maybe he did.

Maybe this was his way of telling you he wasn’t leaving.

Maybe it was yours, too.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless.

Jungkook rested his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not running.”

Your fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket, grounding yourself.

“You better not,” you murmured. “Because if you do—”

“I won’t,” he said, firmer this time. “Not from you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of those words sink in.

Because for the first time—

You believed him.

And that?

That was more dangerous than anything else.

Taglist: @dachshunddame@hecatesdescendant@chaeisrichnow@canarystwin@mar-lo-pap@notyourfriendooo@bjoriis

[sweetvoidstuff]

Undead, Undressed, Unexpected I Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Slowburn (sort of) I zombie larp au I smut with feelings I friends to lovers vibes I soft but messy I table trauma I kinda domestic kinda feral I camping chaos I emotional intimacy

Summary: A LARP weekend takes an unexpected turn when BTS wants to film there Vlog there. Or: “I don’t know what’s weirder,” Yoongi muttered, sipping the beer you’d tossed at him. “That this is happening or that you’re all so prepared for it.”

Word Count: 50K (both Parts)

Masterlist

Part 2

A/N: Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me… so I’ll be posting Part 1 and Part 2 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.

I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

You had always thought your inbox was a place of controlled chaos—occasional partnership requests, a flood of player questions, shipping delays on makeup foam, and the usual budget arguments with your logistics friend, Pia. But the chaos started earlier than usual that day—with a phone call from Lea, the friend who usually handled the LARP's shared email account.

“Hey,” she said casually, “some Korean entertainment company emailed us? Something about a possible collab for the next event?” You nearly dropped your lunch.

“Wait—what Korean company?”

“I don’t know, Big-something. Big…Hit? BigPunch? I forwarded it to you.”

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “BigHit? Are you serious?”

Lea made a confused noise. “Yeah, is that a big deal? I just thought it was, like, a local talent agency or something. They didn’t say much. You okay? You sound like you’re gonna combust.” You didn’t answer right away because your brain was rebooting.

“They’re—Lea, they manage BTS. Like, the BTS. Global. World tour. Grammy-stage BTS.”

There was a pause on her end. “...Oh. Uh. Is that the one with the guy who did a thing with Charlie Puth? Or is that the ramen guy?” You laughed, a choked, borderline hysterical sound. “Yes. No. Sort of. I’ll check the email. Just—thank you.”

“Anytime,” she replied, bemused. “I guess let me know if the ramen guy’s showing up.” You hung up with shaking hands and sprinted for your laptop, yanking it open so fast the battery nearly popped out.

And there it was.

FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Collaboration Inquiry – Upcoming LARP Project

You stared at it for a solid minute, blinking hard, rereading the signature and domain. You even copied the email into a group chat with your seven friends titled “Project Zombie Apocalypse 202X” with the caption:

"Tell me I’m hallucinating."

You didn’t.

Over the next few weeks, the back-and-forth with BigHit solidified something real and turned into a full-blown project folder on your desktop—contracts, security forms, scheduling proposals, and endless discussions about what was feasible and what wasn’t.

They were interested in sending one of their groups for a LARP experience to include in their “challenge vlog” series. They loved your concept: four days in a remote woodland complex turned survival horror sim, where around 250 participants would play out a fictional zombie outbreak in real-time. Minimum power except for medical posts and staff centers. No phone service. Just radios, bloodied props, a kitchen, and pure adrenaline.

At first, your team didn’t take it seriously.

“Some Korean band wants to vlog here?” Pia had said during your first group Zoom call. “Okay, sure. Do they know our kitchen runs on two electric hot plates and prayers?”

“They know,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “I told them in the first reply. I made it very clear that we’re... rustic.”

“They probably think we’re some scenic wilderness experience,” Erik muttered. “Wait ‘til they see our ‘bedding options.’”

“It’s not just some band,” you shot back. “It’s BigHit. That’s... that’s massive. This is actual, career-changing visibility. Even if they send a small or new band.” That caught everyone’s attention, but the tone shifted from surprise to skepticism quickly.

“Okay, but do we want that kind of visibility?” Lea asked. “We built this to be immersive, chaotic fun. Not something where we have to worry about stepping on a celebrity’s shoe.”

“It would mean a lot more work,” Pia added cautiously. “Like...a lot. Extra infrastructure, coordination, liability coverage. Probably hiring more crew down the line. And taxes—Jesus, we’ll have to register it differently. No more fun hobby exemption. We’ll need to go full business mode.” You felt a cold knot in your gut. She wasn’t wrong.

“But it also means we could finally get paid properly,” you said, more softly now. “Like... not just break even. We could maybe even fund the next LARP without crowdfunding. Or get better props. Maybe even hire full-time help. This could be our way out of ‘barely-making-it.’” That silenced them. For a moment.

“Only if we survive it first,” Erik muttered. “And if it doesn’t kill the vibe.”

In the end it was decided, you would give it a try.

You found yourself writing emails late into the night, negotiating with BigHit’s reps while triple-checking your spreadsheets for costs. At one point, you were balancing on a stepladder fixing a hanging light while on the phone with your accountant friend, trying to figure out how to legally declare sudden international income.

BigHit wanted privacy, but also good footage. They wanted realism, but no actual injuries. You had to promise fast response plans, prep multilingual safety briefings, and accommodate a small filming crew without giving the players any clue who was coming.

It was exhausting, overwhelming, and a logistical headache—but when BigHit confirmed the collaboration and wired the down payment, you stared at the numbers in your bank account for a full minute in shock.

This wasn’t just a cool opportunity. This could be the thing that made your dream sustainable.

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It was the day before the event—the day you’d circled in red on every planning calendar and spreadsheet. You and one of the BigHit staff had agreed: the band would arrive a full day early for privacy, filming, and a crash course in zombie apocalypse survival.

You were their primary contact for the duration. The only one on your team fluent in Korean and English, which meant every question, every request, every last-minute panic would come straight to you.

The old asylum grounds you rented every year sat deep in the woods, surrounded by rusted fences, gravel paths, and fog-thick silence. It looked exactly as eerie and perfect as ever—half horror movie set, half forgotten relic. Soon, over two hundred players would fight to survive a fictional outbreak here. The zombies (your tireless NSC crew) would sleep in a locked-off wing of the asylum, like always. The uppermost floor—off-limits to players—was reserved for the organizing staff. You’d already transformed it with air mattresses, fairy lights, warm blankets, and the half-desperate charm of veteran event runners.

Whoever BigHit sent would be staying there too. In the same room as you.

For privacy. And for emergencies. And not to interfere with the other Orga or the plot.

The Orga floor had its own bathrooms—tiny, ancient, and a little creepy—but it was better than the alternative: the heavily trafficked bathrooms down near the NSC quarters, split by gender but used by dozens. The kitchen was also down near the NSC zone, which meant any idol who wanted a snack might have to wade through latex-coated zombie crew at 2 a.m. That’s why you had your personal stash of snacks on hand.

You’d explained all of this to BigHit in a painfully detailed PDF. They had agreed. You still weren’t sure if they fully understood what they were walking into.

You had just finished breakfast—instant coffee and a lukewarm breakfast wrap—and were lounging outside in a creaky camping chair, soaking in your last hour of relative calm before the storm. Erik was beside you, sorting through printed liability waivers and contracts for the players arriving tomorrow to sign.

“I still don’t get why they want to film here,” he muttered, flipping a page. “Like, no offense to our haunted horror dreamscape, but... this isn’t luxury content.” You shrugged, sipping from your dented thermos. “Maybe they want something gritty. Or real. Or ironic. I dunno. Maybe they just like zombies.”

He smirked. “Sure. Maybe one of them has a secret undead kink.” You opened your mouth to sass him back—then stopped cold. Three sleek black SUVs rolled down the gravel path toward the asylum gates. Silent, shiny, and entirely out of place.

Erik raised a brow. “...Oh shit.”

You stood so fast your chair fell backward into the dirt. You swore your heart stopped. The first door opened. Jeon Jungkook stepped out of the first SUV like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Casual in black cargo pants, a harness vest, and a hoodie, he looked like he’d walked straight off a dystopian movie poster. His eyes flicked over the asylum grounds with quiet curiosity.

Behind him came Taehyung, laughing at something Jin said as he followed. Taehyung wore a long coat and combat boots like it was fashion week.

Yoongi had earbuds in, head down, expression unreadable. Jimin waved cheerfully, his hair fluffing in the breeze. Namjoon caught your eye and nodded—calm, respectful, already reading the vibe. And Hoseok, last out, stretched and turned his face toward the fog like he was trying to feel the mood in the air.

They were all here. All of BTS.

In your forest. At your LARP. At your chaos-riddled, mud-streaked, budget-scraping zombie survival event.

Erik leaned closer, whispering, “So uh… I guess it’s not the ramen guy after all.” You couldn’t answer. Your brain had short-circuited.

And the real chaos hadn’t even started yet.

You took a deep breath, forced your legs to move, and tried your best to walk over professionally, even though the inside of your chest felt like a popcorn machine of nerves. All seven members of BTS stood together, flanked by three guys from the filming crew—compact gear bags slung over shoulders, cameras padded in protective foam, one of them already eyeing angles like he was mapping a cinematic plan in real-time.

You greeted them in Korean, voice steady even as your palms sweated.

"Welcome to Outbreak Protocol. I’m Y/N, I’ll be your main contact before and during the event." Namjoon smiled, surprised but happy you spoke Korean, his voice warm. "We’ve heard a lot about the project. Sounds pretty intense." Jungkook’s eyes drifted past you to the rusted fences and fog-cloaked trees. "This place looks like a horror movie set."

You grinned like he’d handed you an Oscar. "Perfect. Because tomorrow, you’re all survivors."

You shifted into logistics mode before your brain could spiral. You pointed toward the makeshift parking area. "You can park over there. We’ve got the legal documents all ready—Erik will help you with those." The filming crew gave polite nods and peeled off toward the cars. Erik waved and waited near the porch, clipboard in hand.

You turned back to the members. "Would you like the grand tour first, or do you want to settle in upstairs and look around later?" The group exchanged glances, some rolling their shoulders to shake off travel fatigue. Jin was already shifting his backpack into a more comfortable position. Jungkook flexed one hand to crack his knuckles.

“We’ll drop our stuff off first,” Namjoon said. “But we’re definitely doing the tour after.” You nodded. “Follow me then.”

As you led the way toward the heavy front doors and up the creaking staircase, you caught a few quiet murmurs of interest from behind—Yoongi commenting on the paint-peeling walls, Jimin quietly admiring the fog that still clung to the edges of the broken windows.

A strange thump echoed from the lower hallway, something shifting in the NSC quarters. Probably a dropped bin or one of the staff testing props. Hoseok jumped. You couldn’t help your grin as you looked back. “First scare of the weekend goes to you, I guess.”

He laughed, embarrassed but entertained. “Is it always like this?”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” you teased. Just as you reached the upper floor, Lea passed by holding a coil of LED fairy lights and two rolls of duct tape under her arm. She paused, nodded politely to the group, then looked at you and held out a radio.

“For you,” she said. “Orga team check-ins start now.” You took the radio and clipped it to your belt, clicking the button twice before speaking: “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Guests incoming.” There was a long pause, then Erik’s voice crackled through, dramatic and low: “Copy that, Sparkles. Hostiles confirmed. Prepare for contact.”

Taehyung laughed aloud, almost tripping on the last step. “Wait—did you say Sparkles?” You looked over your shoulder with a wink. “I did.”

“Is that your code name?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

You grinned wider. “Just because.”

Taehyung snorted. “That’s not a reason.”

“That’s exactly the point.” He grinned at you like you were a riddle he wanted to solve. You opened the door to the upper dorm hallway, leading them past the first room on the left. “This one here,” you said, pausing with your hand on the frame, “is the organizers-only room. Our private space, mostly for sensitive documents, extra gear, and collapsing in secret when the caffeine wears off.”

You continued walking and stopped at the next room, opening it fully this time. “This one,” you gestured them in, “is where you’ll stay. It’s a shared space. Sorry, no luxury suites here.” Inside, air mattresses had already been inflated and neatly spaced out. Each was made with sleeping bags, throw blankets, and a small labeled bag of towels and toiletries. Fairy lights flickered lazily along the upper edge of the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of mint tea, dust and fresh laundry.

“We had to compromise,” you explained. “This room has somewhat heating, and it’s closer to the emergency exit in case of… well, any kind of problem. Plus, it’s more private than the downstairs dorms. The bathroom’s through there—shared, though. Welcome to the apocalypse.” Jin raised an eyebrow, inspecting the setup. “Charming.”

“I did warn your manager about the rustic conditions,” you said with a small shrug. “It’s better than some green rooms we’ve had,” Yoongi mumbled, setting down his backpack. Namjoon gave you a grateful nod. “This’ll do. Thanks for being upfront about everything.”

You returned the nod with a smile, then turned to gesture down the hallway. “This floor is the staff area. Off-limits to players, which means you’ll have some privacy here when needed. Once the game starts, though—”

You turned back toward them, your smile shifting into something more mischievous.

“—you’re all survivors. No exceptions. Survivors can’t come up here—not even to sleep. You’ll have to make do with what you find out there and work with other players to get a place to rest. And trust me,” your voice dropped to a playful threat, “I run the NSC , the zombie side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.”

Taehyung looked half-terrified, half-thrilled. Jungkook grinned like someone had just challenged him to a fight. Yoongi raised a hand immediately. “Can I just be a zombie from the start and skip the sleep deprivation part?”

You laughed. “Yes, absolutely. You can request to switch roles if you want. It’s a game—not actual torture. If anyone gets too exhausted, just tell me. You can and should rest. This is meant to be immersive fun, not military training.” He nodded in approval, clearly filing away that option.

As they set their bags down, Jimin drifted toward one of the mattresses—clean, thick blankets folded neatly, some big fluffy pillows, a water bottle placed in the middle like a hotel mint. It looked more like an actual bed. He tilted his head and asked: “Who gets the fancy bed?”

You followed his gaze and smirked. “That one’s mine.” A beat. Then a chorus of mock groans followed. “Of course it is,” Jin muttered. “I respect the flex,” Jungkook said, dropping his bag onto the floor next to a less-decorated mattress.

But then something in the air shifted—a glance shared between a few of them. Some of the members looked uncertain, shifting slightly in place. Hoseok scratched the back of his neck. Taehyung was unusually quiet. Finally, it was Yoongi who broke the silence. “Wait, so… we’re all sleeping in here with you?”

You blinked, nodding. “Yeah. Didn’t they tell you? This was the agreement with your staff—one room for all of you and me, so I’m close in case of an emergency and you don’t have to look for me. This is the safest and most direct setup.”

Namjoon cleared his throat, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Right. They did tell us that. We just didn’t know about you and logistics, exactly…”

You tilted your head, eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. “What about me and logistics?” There was a beat of silence. Namjoon sighed and rubbed at his temple. “This might sound awkward, but… you know, sleeping in the same room. You are a woman and might be in, uh, sleeping clothes. Or… yeah.”

You blinked. Jungkook suddenly found the floor intensely interesting. His ears flushed red. You stared for a second longer, and then laughed—just once, not mocking, but surprised. “Oh. I mean—sure. I get it. Thanks for saying something.”

Then your tone shifted into something firmer but still friendly. You looked at each of them in turn. “This could turn into a cultural, or language misfire so bear with me I will be direct... Let me ask you this: do any of you intend to do anything to me—without my consent?” The effect was instant. A few of them looked scandalized. Jimin’s eyes widened like a deer in headlights. Hoseok choked on a breath. Jungkook’s ears turned even redder.

Namjoon stepped forward, hands raised slightly. “No. Absolutely not. Never.” You nodded once, satisfied. “Then, I don’t see a problem. I’m not here to be uncomfortable—I’m here to make sure this whole thing doesn’t fall apart. And at night it can get really cold. So no way for short shorts. I’ll probably pass out in leggings and a hoodie, and you’ll be too tired to care.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Yoongi let out a single low chuckle. “That… actually makes me feel better.”

“Same,” Jin muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called out so politely and so brutally in the same sentence.”

You grinned. “Good. Now that that’s settled—pick your mattress. Tomorrow, you're all getting hunted by the undead.” Jungkook finally looked up, still red around the ears, but with the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile.

Taehyung slung his bag onto the far corner mattress. “I want the spot closest to the door in case I have to run from you.” You gasped in mock offense, hand to your chest. “Run from me? Please, I’m the safest person here—unless you insult my campfire coffee. Then it’s over for you.” Taehyung grinned wide, eyes crinkling. “Noted. No coffee jokes.”

“Exactly,” you said with a wink. “Respect the bean or face the consequences.” The others chuckled, and you caught a flicker of movement from the corner of your eye. Jungkook, who had just set his bag   on a mattress near the edge of the room, paused. His gaze flicked from Taehyung to you—lingering for half a beat longer than necessary. Without a word, he picked his bag back up, walked past a few other mattresses, and set it down on the one right next to yours.

You noticed—of course you did—but didn’t say anything. You just glanced down at where he was now crouched, adjusting the pillow like it needed perfect alignment. “Strategic placement?” you asked lightly, not looking directly at him.

Jungkook glanced up through his lashes, a crooked smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just figured I’d want to be near the person who controls the zombie apocalypse.”

“Oh, smart,” you replied, lips twitching into a sly grin. “Stick close to the Game Master. That’s either genius or cheating.” He looked like he might respond, but Jimin threw himself backward onto his chosen mattress with a groan, breaking the moment.

Taehyung leaned toward you and whispered loud enough for only the closest to hear, “I still think you’re secretly a final boss.” You gave him a dangerous smile. “You’re not ready for my final form.” Jungkook coughed—just once—and looked back down at his bag like it had suddenly become fascinating.

You raised your walkie again, clicking it twice. “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Base camp secured. Survivors setting up now.” Erik’s voice crackled through after a second. “HQ copies. Keep ‘em alive, Sparkles.”

“Can’t promise that,” you muttered, already mentally ticking off the next steps on your checklist.

“Why Sparkles again?” Taehyung asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. You winked. “Because it makes people underestimate me.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted.”

You smiled at them all as you backed toward the door. “Once you’re settled, come find me downstairs. We’ll start the tour, walk through the storyline, and then go over the filming schedule. If you have time, I’d like to give you a short survival orientation too.”

Jungkook perked up. “Like… a zombie boot camp?” You smirked, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “Exactly. Think of it as your apocalypse training montage.”

His mouth parted like he was about to say something else, but just then, the walkie crackled at your hip. “Sparkles, this is HQ. Got a delivery truck trying to get through the west gate—paperwork’s a mess.” You sighed and clicked your radio. “On it.”

Turning back to the room, you gave the guys a quick wave. “Duty calls. I’ll see you all in a bit.” With that, you slipped out the door, your boots soft against the scuffed linoleum.

Jungkook watched you go, his brow furrowed slightly. You were cool. Open. Friendly in a way that wasn’t fake or overly impressed. You didn’t act like they were some otherworldly beings descended from the sky. You were just… normal. Confident. You had a job to do, a passion you clearly lived and breathed—and somehow, you still kept it together even when seven global superstars walked out of three SUVs.

And now you were gone before he got to ask what role you usually played. Or how long you’d been running events. Or what made you pick zombies of all things. He frowned at the floor. How had Taehyung managed to flirt so much with you already?

His grumbling thoughts were cut off when Hobi dramatically fell backward onto a mattress and groaned, face squishing into the pillow.

“Ugh. I’m already regretting this. You know they’re gonna put me through hell tomorrow.” Yoongi, setting his phone to charge beside his mattress, didn’t even look up. “You can die early and join the dark side. I plan to. I already feel like a corpse.”

“Can I be a fast zombie?” Taehyung asked. “I want to be dramatic.”

“You are always dramatic,” Jin replied, tossing him a rolled-up blanket. Namjoon glanced around at the mattresses and raised an eyebrow at Jungkook. “You moved your stuff?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, just mumbled something about lighting and space. Not about the way you’d smiled at Taehyung, or how you’d winked during that “respect the bean” comment. Jimin sprawled across two mattresses and groaned, “I’m not ready to fight for food in the woods.”

“Don’t worry,” Namjoon replied dryly. “If we lose you, I’ll eat your snacks first.” The room filled with laughter as the group continued settling in. They unpacked bags, laid out blankets, and immediately began comparing the modest comforts of their temporary setup to your very clearly upgraded, fairy-light-lit corner of the room.

“Yo,” Jimin said, poking Jungkook’s side. “She really has the best bed.”

“I saw,” Jungkook murmured, glancing again at the door you’d disappeared through.

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When they came back down to find you, they didn’t expect the sight they walked into. You were hunched forward, arms wrapped around one side of a massive wooden euro pallet—one of three—that you and Erik were hauling toward the large toolshed near the edge of the gravel lot. From the looks of it, you weren’t on your first trip and dangerously close to snapping your spine in half.

“Wait—are they lifting pallets?” Jin blinked.

“Damn,” Taehyung murmured. “She’s gonna pop something.” Before you could straighten or even notice them fully, Jungkook was already moving. He practically jogged ahead of the group, brushing past Jimin, who huffed, “There he goes.”

You saw motion and started, “It’s fine, I—”

But it was too late. Jungkook was already there, nudging you gently out of the way with the side of his shoulder, his brows furrowed in focus. He slipped in opposite Erik, bent down, and lifted the side you’d been hauling with practiced ease.

“Where to?” he asked. You blinked, slightly thrown off. “Uh—behind the shed. Along the wall. They’re barricade props.” Jungkook nodded without another word and followed Erik, muscles shifting under his sleeves, tattoos dancing as he hoisted the pallet like it weighed nothing.

“Helpful,” Jimin chuckled behind you, watching your expression. “He’s just bad at saying it out loud.”

“I noticed,” you said with a small smile, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks.” A few minutes later, Erik came back, Jungkook trailing behind him and brushing dirt off his hands. You made sure to stop him with a light tap to the arm.

“Hey,” you said, looking him in the eye. “Seriously—thanks. That was a lot.” He gave a small, sheepish grin. “It’s no problem.” And with that, you launched into what you’d promised earlier—the grand tour.

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You led them through the central facilities first, starting with the compact, camp-style kitchen.

“This is where the NSC—Non-Survivor Characters, but also the makeup team and staff—get food. Basic stuff. We’ll prep three times a day but no five-course meals, sorry.” You gave them a mock apologetic shrug. Jin raised a hand. “Will there be snacks?”

“No promises,” you teased.

The next stop was the makeup rooms, where several folding chairs, makeup kits, and prosthetic materials lined the walls. “Here’s where we zombify people. If you die in-game, you’ll come here, get turned, and be sent back out with directions. Sometimes as slow walkers, sometimes fast. Sometimes… something weirder.”

Jimin leaned in. “Something weirder?”

You just smiled. “You’ll see.”

Then came the outdoor terrain. You walked them past several adjacent cabins and storage sheds. “These are part of the playable zones. All of them are open unless marked otherwise. We have hidden clue points, some locked areas, and a couple jumpscares set up, but you’ll get used to it.”

You led them toward the forest edge, indicating with hand signals where the terrain began and ended. “The game area ends about five hundred meters that way. Beyond that? Too steep, too muddy, or just plain dangerous. Avoid it.” Yoongi eyed the tree line. “How will we know?”

“I’ll point it out tomorrow again before game start, but we’ve also put up orange tape and warning markers. You’ll know.” Back near the edge of the game field, you turned to face them all again and reached into your backpack. You pulled out a bright, eye-searing pink warning vest and held it up dramatically.

“This is your holy relic,” you said, grinning. “If you see me wearing this during the game, it means I’m in staff mode. You can approach me for help, questions, breaks, water, whatever. I’ll avoid interfering unless it’s an emergency. But my every word is law.”

“And if you’re not wearing it?” Namjoon asked. “Then I’m playing as a survivor or NSC. You’ll find me out there, somewhere, scrounging for food and dodging zombies like the rest of you. However—if you get uncomfortable or need out of a situation for any reason, say the phrase, ‘That has a nice sparkle to it.’ Or something similar.”

Taehyung snorted. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” you said. “It’s a safe phrase. The game can get intense. If I hear it or any other Orga for that matter, we’ll pull you from the scene immediately—no questions, no breaking character.”

“That’s actually smart,” Namjoon admitted.

Jungkook stepped in closer, curiosity in his voice. “So if you’re out there as a survivor… are you playing to win?” You raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You think there's winning at the literal end of the world?”

He blinked, taken off guard for a second, but you didn’t give him time to recover. You smiled—but didn’t tell him how you really liked to play the game. Instead, you slipped into a mock arrogance that fit too easily. “I’ll be scavenging, bartering… probably stealing. So stay alert.”

“I will,” Jungkook said, mouth curling in a slow grin. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.” You smirked, gaze flicking up and down him. “That goes both ways.” Taehyung slung an arm over Jungkook’s shoulder, all mischief. “She’s got bite, huh?”

You didn’t miss a beat, voice sweet but edged with a grin. “Some zombies every year actually do. But me?” You flashed your signature mocking smile. “I only bite if you ask nicely.”

Jungkook’s head turned toward you too fast—eyes narrowing with a spark of surprised amusement, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or lean in closer. Taehyung burst out cackling. Even Yoongi gave a low whistle under his breath.

Jungkook shook Taehyung’s arm off with a grumble and stepped just a touch closer to you, adjusting his hoodie like he needed something to do with his hands.

“So,” he asked, tone a bit lower, “what’s your tip for surviving the first night?” You tilted your head, studying him. For a moment, you actually thought about it. Then you answered, quietly but clearly, “Stay moving. And don’t just trust any survivor. If they kill you, they’ll loot your shit.” His brows furrowed slightly.

You added, “So yeah… best tip? Stay quiet. And stay off the main road.” Jungkook looked at you like he was filing away every word. “Noted,” he said softly.

After you had finished explaining how to fake fight and how “death” in the game would work—that the moment they "died," you'd pull them aside to explain how to play as a zombie and give them their undead assignment—they were all quiet for a second. Attentive. Processing.

Especially Jungkook. His gaze didn’t leave you. “And… you designed all this? The rules, the props, all of it?” You gave a small, casual shrug. “With my friends, yeah. A lot of long nights. A lot of coffee.” There was something about the way he looked at you that caught you off guard. Not the usual idol poker-face. He looked… impressed. And maybe a little something else—like he was trying to figure out you, not just the game.

“It’s… impressive,” Jungkook said, voice quieter than the others. “Kinda crazy. In a good way.” You opened your mouth, unsure whether to say thank you or make a joke—but all that came was a laugh, slightly flustered. You turned away before you could smile too obviously.

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Later that evening, the guys were off filming some of their vlog content—lots of running through the woods, fake dramatic reactions, and over-the-top “lost in the apocalypse” monologues. You gave them full freedom for the rest of the day to capture whatever material they wanted. You had work to do anyway: final checks on game mechanics, syncing walkie-talkie channels, triple-confirming the food schedule, and helping your team scatter props in the right zones.

You only got pulled in once—when Jin called over to you with a shout about “something moody.” Yoongi was standing next to him, holding up a camera and trying to catch the golden-hour light streaking between the trees. “Do you have something… cinematic?”

You pulled off your bag, unzipped one of the side pouches, and without missing a beat, produced a smoke grenade—sleek, matte black, like something out of a spy movie. Jin’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Wait, what?”

Yoongi blinked. “You just have that in your bag?”  You gave a sweet smile. “Always keep one for emergencies.” Hoseok, already half-suspicious about the creepy makeup room earlier, took a cautious step back. “What kind of emergencies need smoke grenades?!” You didn’t answer—just gave him a devilish grin.

Jimin cracked up. “She’s totally evil.” Taehyung beamed, clearly delighted. “That’s exactly the vibe. I love it.” Jungkook didn’t laugh immediately—he was watching you again. But then a soft chuckle escaped him, and he looked down like he hadn’t meant to smile that wide. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

You shot him a wink. “Naw, too fun.”

He laughed properly then—low and surprised—and you had to turn back to your work fast before anyone saw the grin tugging at your lips.

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You had just come from the shower, wrapped up in your oversized hoodie—your LARP team’s logo printed proudly on the back—and a pair of leggings that still clung to you with faint humidity. Your hair was damp and pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, a quiet testimony to how fast you’d gotten ready after a long day.

You found an empty camping chair near the bonfire and immediately sank into it, curling around a warm mug of tea or maybe mulled juice—whatever had been available. The scent of grilled vegetables, meat, and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air. Laughter bubbled from you as Pia leaned over to mutter something only meant for your ears, and you nearly choked on your drink in response.

Not far away, Jungkook emerged from the trees with the rest of the BTS members, the last golden slivers of twilight painting their silhouettes as they returned from filming. He spotted you immediately.

You looked different now. Not in a dramatic way—just… softer. Cozy. The sharp, efficient energy you’d carried during the tour and safety briefing had melted into something warm and content. It was the first time today he saw you truly at rest. You noticed them coming in and lifted your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” you called, voice already lazy with bonfire comfort. “Food’s self-serve. We grilled ahead for the evening. I made two kinds of pasta salad, Lea did her cucumber-dill thing, and Erik has clearly declared war on every sausage in the region.”

They laughed, and Namjoon gave a thankful little bow as he made his way toward the tables. “It smells amazing.”

“All the stuff we don’t finish gets put out again tomorrow,” you added. “So dig in. There’s no losing here.” Jungkook’s eyes wandered from the food to the little table you and your friends had arranged—organized chaos, a mix of homemade sides in mismatched containers and tin trays with foil. Without realizing it, he made a mental note: Try the pasta salad you made first.

The group spread out slowly—Yoongi asked where he could find drinks, Jin demanded more marshmallows with absolute seriousness, and Hoseok yelped dramatically when an owl hooted a bit too close for comfort. You were still translating here and there, weaving between your team and theirs with a natural ease, until eventually things just settled.

Jungkook ended up back near the fire, hoodie pulled over his head, paper plate in one hand as he lowered himself into the camping chair beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just sat there, cheeks a little flushed from the heat, watching the fire flicker and crackle with the same quiet pleasure as everyone else. The shadows danced across your face. Jungkook looked at you, a bit longer than maybe he should’ve, and realized he didn’t want to interrupt the peace you were wrapped in.

But still, he found himself asking, “Tired?” You turned your head just slightly toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So tired I forgot I’m tired. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, mirroring your smile. “It does.” He took a bite of your pasta salad, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is really good.” You looked smug. “Lea and I spent an unreasonable amount of time arguing about whether we needed more garlic. The answer is always more garlic.”

Jungkook chuckled. “You should sell this stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” you drawled playfully. “Just a side hustle while running full-scale zombie wars in the woods and having an adult job. Easy.”

“You don’t mind being out here for days?” he asked, voice low, pitched only for you. You turned your head toward him, and your smile was quiet, grounded. “I live for this. It’s exhausting, sure. But when the game starts? Everyone forgets it’s fake. And for four days… it’s just survival. Emotionally messy. Physically brutal. And unforgettable. If you let it happen.”

Jungkook studied your face for a moment—how the embers danced in your eyes, how certain you sounded. You weren’t just hosting a game. You were throwing people headfirst into a world you loved. He leaned in, just a little. “You ever thought about filming it like a movie? You’re already doing something cinematic.”

You blinked, surprised by the question, then smiled. His tone hadn’t been flippant. He really meant it. “Actually… yeah. We’ve talked about a YouTube channel. Mini-series, behind-the-scenes stuff. But we don’t have the gear. Or the time. Or a consistent enough crew.” You glanced at him with a tilt of your head. “You think people would actually watch?”

“I’d watch it,” Jungkook said without hesitation. His grin turned a little crooked. “I mean, if I survive the next four days.” That made you laugh, and the sound felt natural between you, easy. Warmer than the fire now burning low in the pit.

The longer you sat next to him, the stranger it felt that you hadn’t known him longer. There was an openness to him tonight—a curiosity, a genuine effort to understand your world, and it wasn’t performative. He hadn’t needed to ask those questions. He just wanted to.

The fire crackled again. Your friends and his were mingling in overlapping conversations now—language barriers half-forgotten in the mix of food and warmth. Your friends were joking around in rapid English while trying to coax Namjoon and Taehyung into playing some kind of night-tag game with glow sticks. Jimin was fully horizontal in a deck chair, whisper-singing spooky background music. Jin had given up and wrapped a blanket around himself like a burrito, muttering about zombie bites and indigestion.

You took another sip from your mug, and Jungkook watched as you closed your eyes for just a second, letting the night settle over your shoulders like a second hoodie. It was quiet, comfortable, unforced.

And Jungkook thought—not for the first time today—how unfair it was that Taehyung had gotten to flirt with you first.

One by one, people started trickling back to the sleeping quarters. Eventually, Erik started packing up the grill with sleepy movements, Pia tossed a blanket over her shoulders, and Hoseok finally declared he couldn’t feel his toes.

As you stood, knees crackling a bit from sitting so long, you stretched your arms above your head with a quiet groan. Jungkook’s eyes lingered, just for a second—like he couldn’t help watching your hoodie move higher—before he stood too, brushing stray bits of ash off his sleeves.

The rest of the members were already grumbling about the cold, groggy and slow-moving.

So they began retreating into the main house or their sleeping quarters. Jin flapped his arms dramatically. “Why does it feel like I’m sleeping in a refrigerator? Who builds houses out here with no insulation?”

“It’s historical,” you reminded him, biting back a grin as you grabbed your toiletry bag. “Be honored. You’re basically in a museum.” You turned in the low, amber-hued glow of the fairy lights strung loosely above the old rafters, their dim twinkle casting soft halos over the mattresses lined up like dominoes across the floor. Yours was nestled near the corner, extra blankets piled at the edge, and Jungkook’s mat had ended up right beside it—not close enough to touch, but closer than coincidence.

“Yeah, a museum of frostbite,” Jin shot back, wrapping his hoodie tighter. By the time you got to the bathroom, you found Jimin leaning against the doorframe. “Can I brush with you?” he asked, voice soft, already holding his toothbrush.

You nodded with a smile, and the two of you brushed side-by-side. Soon, Hoseok padded in to rinse his face and complain about the cold again. Jungkook came in last, hair still tousled from the hoodie, looking far too good for someone about to camp in a half-renovated asylum for the night.

Back in the sleeping area everyone was getting situated. The fairy lights making barely any light. Despite the portable heaters you had brought, it was still drafty. The floorboards creaked under your steps. The windows hissed with night wind.

“Okay, no, seriously,” Hoseok groaned from his nest of sleeping bag. “This is inhuman. Jin-hyung, I can feel my soul freezing. My kneecaps are shivering. Who brought us to the North Pole?!”

“I think I lost three toes already,” Jin added dramatically, clutching his hoodie like a shawl. “This is not what I signed up for. I’m not even a real actor and I don’t deserve this.”

“You’re not even outside,” Yoongi mumbled from under a blanket. “Doesn’t matter,” Jin whispered, haunted. “The cold found me.” Hoseok rolled closer to Jin like a dying Victorian noble. “Hyung. If I don’t make it through the night… tell my stylist I loved her.” Namjoon groaned loudly from the other side of the room. “Oh my god, Hyung, please. Just sleep!”

“Easy fix,” you said, sitting up and tightening your hoodie. “Just bunk with someone. Body heat solves most of it.” You meant it practically—your team had done this a dozen times. It was survival basics. But before the sentence even finished, Taehyung had already propped himself up with an eager glint in his eyes.

“Can I bunk with you?” he asked with a mischievous grin, already halfway toward your mat like a very cold puppy. You snorted, raising an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an invitation.” Before you could answer, Jungkook sat up from his corner with a sharp huff. “Yah—don’t just ask like that.”

Taehyung turned toward him slowly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You wanna bunk with us, Jungkook? You keep her right side warm, I’ll be her left?” You lost it, full-on laughing now as Yoongi let out a long, tortured groan and flopped a pillow over his face. Namjoon was face-down in his blanket, shaking his head in exhausted disapproval.

Jungkook looked mortified. His ears flushed pink even in the low light. “It’s not—! I wasn’t—!” He cleared his throat hard. “It’s rude, that’s all. She’s the organizer. She needs space.” Your brows lifted, amusement all over your face. “Uh-huh.” Taehyung looked like he was biting his tongue just to stop himself from saying something even worse.

Jimin, bless  him, nudged Taehyung back toward the other side of the room. “Come on, Tae. You’re gonna get us kicked out. I’ll bunk with you. Stop flirting.” With a dramatic sigh, Taehyung accepted it, flopping down beside Jimin and stealing half his blanket. “But just know—I could have been the hottest option.”

Yoongi didn’t even open his eyes. “You radiate chaos, not heat.”, when Hoseok snuck under his blanket and just sighed like a man who had given up on peace. Jin wiggled his eyebrows at Namjoon, who just deadpanned: “Try it and I’m tossing you outside.”

You shook your head fondly, digging into your supplies. “Jin, I’ve got an extra blanket if you want one.”  He hesitated, shaking his head. “No, no, I’ll manage—”

“Really its fine,” already holding it out. He accepted it with a sheepish grin. “You’re sure you don’t need it?”

“I’ve still got two more and a sleeping bag. I’ll be fine.” You moved carefully through the half-dark, stepping around boots and duffel bags, a folded blanket in your arms for Jin. The wooden floor creaked beneath your socked feet, each step an exercise in balance over warped boards and chaos. You murmured something to Jin, who accepted the blanket like he’d been rescued from an arctic death, dramatically clutching it to his chest.

You turned back toward your mattress, navigating the familiar obstacles in reverse. As you made your way back to your spot. And then you caught your foot on the edge of someone's abandoned hoodie.

“Shit—!” You stumbled forward—arms flailing—and would’ve face-planted if it weren’t for a solid pair of hands catching you mid-fall. Warmth met you.

You blinked.

Jungkook.

He was already sitting up, half-covered in his sleeping bag, hoodie still up, his phone forgotten beside him. His hands had caught your arms instinctively, steady but not grabbing. You were kneeling awkwardly now, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the mattress behind him, close enough to feel his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet with concern, eyes wide in the fairy-lit dark. Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it. “I—yeah—sorry,” you stammered, cheeks already burning. “Didn’t see where I—uh—my foot—hoodie—” He chuckled under his breath, one hand still lightly on your elbow. “It’s okay. You didn’t fall. Technically.”

Your eyes flicked up to his—too close, too pretty in this soft, sleepy light—and then down again, like maybe you could disappear straight into the floorboards if you just willed it hard enough.

From the dark, Jimin’s voice floated lazily through the room. “Everything good over there?”

“Yup!” you squeaked, trying to stand too fast and instead just half-falling sideways—straight into your sleeping bag with a flustered huff. There was a moment of silence before Jungkook chuckled again, softer this time. You could hear the shift of fabric as he laid back down beside you, his voice pitched low. “Smooth recovery.”

“Shut up,” you whispered through a grin, tugging the sleeping bag over your head in self-defense.

The fairy lights buzzed faintly above, and somewhere in the room Jin sighed contentedly into his new blanket like a satisfied burrito. But Jungkook stayed quiet beside you now, arms folded under his head, gaze occasionally drifting in your direction long after the rest had fallen asleep.

He couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

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The house woke slowly. The soft creak of floors and the smell of coffee drifted through the old wooden frame as morning sunlight filtered in through mismatched curtains. Jin was the first to loudly complain that someone had stolen his blanket—which turned out to be Hoseok, who claimed it had “drifted onto his mat” during the night.

“You were snoring like a vacuum cleaner,” Hoseok groaned, head buried under a pillow, insisting he needed another hour. “It’s the least you owe me.”

“I don’t snore,” Jin declared with wounded dignity. Namjoon hummed dryly. “You do. Aggressively.” Laughter bubbled through the group, even as no one quite managed to leave the warmth of their sleeping bags. Jungkook was the last to sit up, hoodie still half covering his eyes, glancing once to his left—to where your mat lay empty. Already cold. You’d been up for hours.

The smell of instant coffee and toast lingered faintly in the air, and while the boys slowly filtered through breakfast—some filming themselves with still-sleepy voices—you and your team were already darting between bags of props, radio check-ins, and set dressing. You'd been radioing Pia about the entrance setup while giving Erik a checklist and stuffing a walkie into your jacket all before most of the group had even laced their boots.

“Do you even sleep?” Jungkook had asked, watching you with something like awe as he munched on toast with one hand and held his camera with the other. “After the apocalypse,” you’d joked without slowing down, already halfway through sorting a box of bloodied bandages and prop ID cards.

Around midmorning, it was time to head to the game zone.

The boys filmed their "arrival" separately, capturing the forest entrance and the handmade wooden signpost marked "ZONE 3 – MISSION: BLACKOUT" while Erik, now dressed in dusty cargo pants and boots, played the enthusiastic guide.

"Welcome to hell, gentlemen," Erik grinned in-character, flinging his arms wide. Jin burst out laughing immediately, and Yoongi muttered, “This already feels like a fever dream.” Meanwhile, you and your friends were spread across the clearing and bunker grounds, setting up props, panning out gear to the incoming LARPers, and checking walkie frequencies.

You pulled the boys aside just before the first players arrived.

“All right,” you said, already in your organizer vest and scarf. “Masks, caps, scarves—anything to obscure your faces. Just until everyone’s settled.”

“I feel like a secret agent,” Taehyung said as you handed him a half-face tactical mask.

“Good,” you smirked. “You’re not supposed to be famous here. You’re a dirty, starving survivor like the rest.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jin huffed dramatically. “I’m going to be the hottest starving man in the zone.”

“AH! And no selfies unless you’re dead,” you added with a teasing glance.

“That’s so specific,” Namjoon muttered.

“It’s been a problem before,” you grinned. “One guy literally tried to live-stream his own death scene. Kinda ruined the mood.” Still, they complied—caps tugged low, scarves around mouths, sunglasses here and there. They settled off to the side near a small outcrop of trees, watching the entry path as players trickled in.

Jungkook pulled his mask halfway over his face, watching you bounce from person to person, still radiating energy despite the chaos. Even beneath your scarf and with your walkie clipped to your belt, you looked in your element. Confident. Happy.

That’s when the first wave of survivors started to arrive.

Boots crunched gravel. Cars rolled in, gear piled high on roof racks. The first few survivors were new and wide-eyed, some shy, some filming themselves as they approached. But others came in loud, excited—familiar faces from past games. People spilled out in various levels of post-apocalyptic chic—some clearly new, blinking in wonder, others grinning with the casual swagger of veterans. Some even had also Go-Pros on them.

“Hey, look at them,” Jimin nudged Jungkook, nodding toward a group of heavily geared players striding in like Mad Max extras. “Wow,” Taehyung whispered. “Some of these people look like they live here.”

Then they saw you.

You were greeting people by name, hugging a few, clapping shoulders. One player—a tall, bearded man with a thick leather coat and a ridiculous foam axe strapped to his back—let out a joyful bellow.

“THERE SHE IS!” he boomed, arms already out. “My favorite corpse-wrangler!”

You turned just in time for him to lift you clean off the ground and spin you in a circle, your laughter ringing out across the lot. “Markus!” you wheezed, swatting at his shoulder as he set you down. “Warn me next time! My spine isn’t apocalypse-proof!”

“Missed you, boss,” he grinned. “Ready to get emotionally traumatized again?”

“Always.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. He was too slow to school his expression. Taehyung, still beside him, caught it instantly. “Ohhh?” Taehyung leaned closer with a smug grin. “What was that face, Jeon Jungkook?”

Before Jungkook could deny anything, another man approached you—this one younger, maybe late twenties, tall and lanky with buzzed hair dyed copper red. “Hey there, fluffball,” he grinned, eyes dragging down your body.

You gave him a polite smile but stepped slightly back, putting some space between you as you shook his hand instead of accepting the hug he clearly wanted. “Hi, Lukas.” He didn’t quite get the hint, his hand brushing along your back as if to pull you into a side hug, but you dipped forward just in time to greet someone else passing by.

“Excuse me! I’ve been looking for you!” you said loudly to a surprised but delighted player behind him. Lukas was left smiling awkwardly at your back. He was, one of the newer regulars, known for pushing boundaries and blaming it on “just being friendly.”

Jungkook had taken a step forward, body tense—but as you gracefully handled it, he forced himself to stop. Taehyung saw that too.

“...Someone’s jealous,” Tae sing-songed under his breath, elbowing Jungkook lightly in the ribs.  “Looked like ‘mildly jealous caveman’ to me,” Jimin added, peeking over his mask. “Shut up,” Jungkook muttered. Taehyung grinned. “You want to go spin her around too? Or just go hug her? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—”

Jungkook snorted. “Shut up.”

Jimin held up both hands, laughing. “You’re so obvious, man. You’ve been watching her like she’s the main quest.”

“She is the organizer,” Jungkook grumbled, though his eyes followed you again as you helped someone fix their shoulder rig. “Of course I’m watching her.”

“Sure,” Taehyung said. “It’s definitely about the logistics. Not about how you almost exploded when the Mad Max McThighs got touchy.” Jungkook tugged his scarf higher up his face to hide the small, helpless smile. He’d never seen you laugh like that. Not while working, not while briefing them. It was unguarded. Effortless.

And somehow, he wanted to see it again.

Even if the guy spinning you around was the size of a refrigerator.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

By noon, the grounds were buzzing. The last car had pulled up, and nearly 200 players were now scattered around the staging area. Some stood in loose, eager groups, already forming alliances. Others sat quietly with water bottles, eyes scanning every detail like it might matter later.

You, already hoarse from shouting, clapped your hands to gather attention. "NPCs to the barn! Survivors over here—yeah, red scarves, come to Erik. Zombies, you're with me. Group A briefing starts now, Group B you're next."

As you walked backward through the chaos, still calling instructions, Jungkook spotted your pink vest and your megaphone clipped to your belt. It amazed him how you moved through the mess with such control. Like a general of the end times.

The members had already received their own briefing—thankfully in Korean, which made it easier to absorb the detailed rules and storyline. BigHit’s crew, mostly keeping a low profile, helped secure GoPros and test audio. They would run after the members and try to get as much footage as possible.

“You ready?” Jungkook asked, testing the strap of his fake holster as he caught up to Taehyung. Taehyung tilted his foam machete like it was a guitar. “Born ready. I’m emotionally prepared to die in the first ten minutes.” Jin snorted. “Please. I’m planning to survive and retire with a fake garden and fake dog.”

“Can we have fake ramen?” Jungkook asked, smirking. “Or do we have to scavenge that too?” Then, like a starter pistol, the airhorn blasted. A long, echoing blare that shattered the warm afternoon.

Everywhere, people moved.

Screams. Laughter. Stomping boots. Half the crowd surged toward the tree line, another half bolted for the barn. Some fell immediately into character, yelling things like, “Split up! Head north!” or “They’re coming from the creek!”

Jungkook was startled to see how real it felt.

He hadn’t expected the panic—the thrill. Despite the fake weapons, the rubber knives, and the painted faces, when a mass of snarling “zombies” came barreling out of the woods, the instinct was to run.

Even he flinched before catching himself.

The zombies were good. Dirty, growling, twitchy. You were leading the pack from behind—he recognized your pink vest, your voice barking direction to the others in character, but you were already gone again into the trees.

Only those with long-range weapons made a stand—firing their limited fake ammo with purpose, trying to buy time for others to flee. In the chaos they had already lost some of the members. Jin clutched a piece of bent cardboard like a broken riot shield. “Okay, okay, fallback, regroup, hide—what are we doing?”

“Hide,” Jungkook said immediately. “Barricade if we can.”

“Find ramen,” Taehyung added.

“You’re obsessed,” Jin said.

“I’m hungry, Hyung.”

Behind them, Erik—wearing a bright pink vest that read “MODERATOR”—raised two arms and made a dramatic “breaking” motion.

“That’s the signal!” Jungkook yelled. “Barricade’s compromised!” Players screamed, laughing as they fled in a dozen directions. Taehyung grabbed Jin’s arm and bolted toward a row of abandoned sheds, while Jungkook pushed the crew member following them behind a thick wooden post before diving for cover himself.

“Okay, now what?” Jin gasped, crouched behind a fallen sign. “We regroup,” Jungkook said, catching his breath. “Try to find Yoongi or Namjoon.”

“Or her,” Taehyung added, eyes twinkling even beneath his mask.

Jungkook pretended not to hear it. Still, his thoughts drifted back to you—your voice, you disappearing into the woods, your laughter from earlier. He hoped you were okay out there in the madness you’d helped create.

Though, something told him you were probably more than fine.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

The first day had been equal parts chaos and clever hiding. It was kind of a miracle that he, Jin, and Taehyung had stayed out of the early chaos—ducking behind barns, creeping through drainage ditches, hiding under an overturned canoe at one point while a group of howling zombies passed within arm’s reach. Some groups had immediately gone feral, fighting over water jugs or arguing about whose map was correct. Others just wandered, yelling for allies or screaming when someone leapt out of the bushes as a fake infected.

Jin’s idea had been simple: “Stick together, don’t get bitten, and avoid anything that sounds like foley work.”

Jungkook agreed. They didn’t run. They didn’t shout. They watched. Stuck to the edges. By the time the sun began to dip past the tree line, casting a soft violet glow over the LARP zone, they had only minor dirt smears and one near-miss.

“I never thought crawling through actual dirt would be part of this,” Jin muttered, wiping leaves from his face. Taehyung laughed, breathless. “We were born for this. We’re survivors, Hyung.” Jungkook had just grinned, heart thudding, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line and the shadows turned long and gold, they were dirty, tired, and hungry—but they found them.

“Jimin-ah!” Taehyung called in a stage whisper. Jimin—who had been rifling through an overturned toolbox with Namjoon and two strangers—turned, eyes wide, then relaxed into a smile. “Hyung! You’re alive!”

“Holy crap,” Namjoon said with a breathless laugh. “You made it.” The reunion was short but sweet. The group Jimin and Namjoon had fallen in with—mostly guys in tattered cosplay and thrift-store camo—were initially suspicious of the newcomers.

Several of them were already carrying canvas satchels and worn-looking packs, with scavenged “rations” (pre-placed supplies from the orga) tied at their hips. A few were skeptical at first.

“Who the hell are the new guys?” a tall man with a buzzcut muttered.

“We’re clean,” Jin said with a flash of his ‘actor smile.’ “Untouched. Pure. Like rice at a wedding.”

“I hate that metaphor,” Taehyung whispered.

It took some convincing. Namjoon vouched for them—half in character, half with real charisma—and eventually, the group let them stay. The trek back to the safe zone was cautious, deliberate. No one shouted. No one ran. Even the leaves beneath their feet seemed to hush under the weight of tension.

Their new “base camp” turned out to be a miracle of DIY survivalist craft. And Jungkook was impressed. There were rotating shifts for keeping watch and a pile of ration cards being counted for their next food run. Spotlight had been placed and where working, casting bright cones of light around the camp's edge. A whiteboard on the wall labeled who was “on shift,” “scouting,” or “MIA.”

It felt like a real camp.

“Who built all this in six hours?” Jin asked, amazed as he folded onto an upturned crate near a lantern. “Apparently some of the veteran players just… knew what to do,” Jimin said, unwrapping a protein bar. “It was like instinct kicked in. With the things the Orga carried around yesterday.”

“I watched a guy build a water collection system from trash bags and a mop,” Namjoon added, shaking his head. “People are scary smart under pressure.”

“He wants to drink from it?” Jungkook looked shocked. But Namjoon shook his head, “Said the Orga would bring water if he builds it.”

“It’s crazy, So much for realism.” Taehyung muttered back.

 Jungkook sat near the barricade, fake rifle laid across his lap. He chewed a bite of cold ration bread and scanned the tree line, still charged with energy. They were just starting to relax—just starting to settle for the night—when the first growl came from the tree line.

It was subtle at first. A rustle of leaves. Then a shuffling footstep. Then a hiss.

Just two at first—figures staggering toward the barricade in the fading light, their shadows stretching long over the grass. The nearest watchman gave the alarm, and others scrambled into place. Flashlights switched on with shaky hands. Someone dropped a rubber axe.

“They’re coming!” a survivor called.

But the barricade held. More zombies emerged from the trees, groaning and clawing. Foam weapons swung, shouts echoed. One particularly committed zombie hurled himself at the gate with a blood-curdling screech that made even Jin yelp behind Jungkook.

“They’re good,” Jungkook muttered, eyes wide. “Too good,” Jimin whispered beside him, holding a battered flashlight like it might actually do something. Taehyung was grinning ear to ear. “I want to die dramatically. Let me jump from the roof.”

“No,” Jin said. “You’ll twist your ankle.”

“Then carry my corpse and avenge me.” Jungkook was laughing quietly, heart thudding.

Then—

From the woods. A flicker of movement. A splash of pink just barely visible beyond the tree line. His breath caught. There. A pink vest. It was you. Even in the low light, he knew. The confident way you moved, one hand raised in signal, clipboard tucked under your arm like a weapon. You watched the chaos unfold with a hand on your hip, head tilted.

Jungkook’s pulse jumped. He nudged Taehyung, whispering, “It’s her.”

“Huh?”

He pointed. “Pink vest.” Taehyung squinted, then smirked. “Your little crush?”

“Shut up.” But he couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips. You were behind this. Orchestrating this wild, thrilling, immersive madness. He remembered what you’d said the night before: I run the NSC side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.

“What are you planning now?” he murmured to himself, eyes locked on your figure as you turned and melted into the woods again.

Whatever it was—you’d already hooked him.

And he had a feeling things were just getting started.

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The air had stilled for a moment. No more groans from the woods. No rustling leaves. The tension that had coiled tight for the last hour had begun to loosen. Jungkook leaned back against the cabin’s wooden siding, rifle balanced across his knees. “Maybe they’ve gone to harass another group,” Jin whispered to Jimin, who was starting to doze upright.

Namjoon was jotting something down on a paper map in the corner while Taehyung peered through a crack in the barricade with childlike fascination. Jin had found a reasonably clean blanket and was curled up with it like an idol with his stage towel.

Then—

Jungkook saw you again. His eyes caught movement near the tree line, just beyond the rough gravel road leading to the cabin. You stepped into view like some trick of the moonlight—vest still on, hoodie zipped to your chin, your silhouette unmistakable even in the dark.

He sat up straighter. No zombies around. Just you. Watching. His heart thudded in a mix of nerves and anticipation. Were you just checking in on them? Taking notes? Or—

Then your hand lifted. Tapped the button on your walkie. And you smiled. Right at him.

He couldn’t hear your voice, but your lips moved. He was sure you said, “Good luck… Now.”

A second later, the lights went out. With an audible click, the generator died. The spotlights illuminating the barricades flickered, then vanished. Instant pitch black—except for the sliver of moonlight painting the gravel and one flickering lantern down the street.

Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he muttered, not even realizing he’d said it in English. “What?” Jimin hissed beside him, now fully awake.  “I saw her. Just now. She was smiling. That was not a friendly smile. Taehyung perked up. “A plot twist?” Jin groaned from under his blanket. “I hate plot twists.”

Then—

The moans began. Soft at first. Far off. But they built, swelling like a tide. Multiple voices. Low, rasping. Fast. Namjoon was already grabbing his weapon. “Positions!” People scrambled. Someone dropped their flashlight. Someone else screamed as a “guard” tripped over his own feet trying to get back into place.

Then Jungkook saw it. A flicker. A bounce of light. Something small fell a few feet before him on the ground, rolling toward him—right up to the edge of the barricade.

“What the—?”

PFFFFFTT—

A cloud of smoke exploded outward, thick and grey. “Oh come on—a smoke grenade?!” Jungkook backing up.

“Smoke!” a woman with a crossbow screamed, not missing a beat. “They use those for haunted houses. Totally safe.”

“Terrifying,” Jin muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. “I smell artificial doom.” The fog rolled over the makeshift barricade and down the path, mixing with the moonlight and giving the street a cinematic glow—soft yet eerie. Every silhouette looked ten times taller, their edges distorted by smoke and shifting shadows.

Then came the moans.

So many.

Zombies surged from the smoke like nightmares. They were louder now. Hungrier. Faster. Their makeup looked worse in the dark—more grotesque, more desperate. Foam weapons still in their hands, but they snarled and lunged and shrieked with a commitment that made Jungkook’s blood run cold.

“THEY LOOK POSSESSED,” Jin yelped as a pair slammed against the wooden fence.

“Shit,” someone whispered from the rear. “They’re using the smoke to cover a flank.” Jungkook grinned, adrenaline kicking in again. You were really going for it tonight. One “undead” scrambled over the barricade, wild-eyed, reaching for Jimin. Jimin screamed—then clocked the guy in the shoulder with a rubber hammer.

Taehyung had tears in his eyes—from laughing. “This is the best night of my life.” Jungkook couldn’t help it—he was terrified and thrilled. He felt like a kid again. A very armed kid with a fake rifle and a vendetta.

And then—figures appeared in the fog. Dozens. Some slow, arms dragging. Others twitching unnaturally, heads jerking with every step. Even though he knew it was fake, Jungkook's heart pounded. The lighting, the fog, the groans, the chaos—it was better than any horror game. You’d turned the entire woods into a living set.

He braced his foam knife tighter in one hand and his fake gun in the other. Beside him, a guy in a battered leather jacket grinned. “Whoever planned this is evil.” Jungkook beamed, eyes locked on the misty tree line. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, spotting a flash of pink from your vest in the shadows. “She really is.”

"Positions! Now!" someone barked—not one of Jungkook’s friends, but a woman near the barricade. She had a blue streak in her hair and a crossbow slung over her back. "Close-ranged to the front! Spotters up top!"

Players sprang into action. This wasn’t just cosplay—it was commitment. Everyone threw themselves into the game like it was real. A guy wearing a dirtied duster coat and fake blood smeared across his cheek grabbed an axe and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook.

“You new?” the guy asked, breath fogging. “You three look fresh.”

Jungkook grinned, ducking as a zombie thumped against the boards. “First time.”

“Hell of a night to start. If we make it out, I’ll show you where we hide the real snacks. Not the ration boxes. The actual chocolate.”

Jungkook laughed. “Deal.”

Meanwhile, Jin had cornered himself behind a crate. “Does this look like a hero arc to you?” he snapped at a random player crawling beside him with a prop spear. “I am a bard. I sing. I complain. I don’t get eaten!”

“I don’t understand shit! You’re literally holding a hammer,” the other player said, crawling past him. “You’re doing great.” Taehyung, meanwhile, had somehow ended up in a roleplay conversation mid-battle with a grizzled survivor in a torn biker jacket and a toy pistol. “My name’s Snake,” the man said seriously. “I used to run with a group out east before the swarms came.”

Taehyung blinked. “Out east, like… Seoul?” The guy didn’t break character. “Used to be called that. Now it’s a graveyard.” Taehyung whispered to Jin, “This guy’s living his dream.”

“Yeah, and we’re living his fan fiction,” Jin muttered. The barricade groaned again—another wave.

Jimin dove forward with a group of other survivors to reinforce a gap, slamming a foam board across it just in time to hold back a zombie clawing through. Someone shouted, “We need more cover left side!” and Namjoon ran to help, organizing people like he was born to be a post-apocalyptic general.

One of the players, an older man with a scar drawn across his cheek and a “Medic” patch sewn on his jacket, muttered, “Something’s wrong.” Jungkook edged closer to the front again.

And then he saw it—you, darting across the tree line just long enough to be spotted. Just long enough for him to catch the wicked grin on your face. You disappeared into the trees again like a shadow, headset still pressed to your ear.

“She's still here,” Jungkook whispered, oddly proud. “Of course she is,” the chocolate-smuggling player muttered beside him. “We call her secretly the Puppetmaster. She only smiles like that when something real bad is about to happen.”

And then it did.

A guttural howl tore through the woods—different from the earlier zombie moans. Everyone froze. “What the hell was that?” Jin asked, eyes wide. “Boss zombie?” Jimin guessed, not sounding confident. Namjoon slowly rose from behind his makeshift command table. “Or worse.”

The front barricade shook again—but not from a horde. From something heavier. Then smoke again—this time from behind. Jungkook spun. “Back entrance!”

Several players rushed to the rear barricade as you unleashed the next chaos round. Amid the smoke, a dozen zombies swarmed from the woods—some moving faster than before. Their groans were louder, their makeup more grotesque, their eyes glowing faintly from the LEDs embedded in their masks.

You had leveled up.

“GUYS—THIS IS SO COOL,” Taehyung screamed as he dodged behind a barrel. Jin smacked a zombie's arm with his foam hammer, panic written across his face. “THIS IS A FORMAL COMPLAINT!” The players were laughing, yelling, swearing, acting—and Jungkook loved every second. The adrenaline, the immersion, the fact that you were the mastermind behind it all.

Then he caught a flash of pink again.

Your vest. You were darting through the shadows behind the zombies—counting, correcting, watching them as they attacked. Fully in control. He couldn’t help but grin. Then, your voice cut through the night commanding: “GAME STOP!”

The word was like a spell. Every player froze, weapons half-raised, breaths held in the chill dawn air. Only the few you signaled with a hand gesture moved, carefully shifting the faux-barricade aside to make the scene safe again. Jungkook blinked, heart still thudding. Even though he knew it was a game, the adrenaline refused to fade.

And then—there you were.

Stepping lightly over the uneven ground, in that same pink vest, headset snug against your cheek, clipboard in hand. You made your rounds like a stage manager inspecting the set after a complicated scene—checking faces, weapons, broken props.

When you passed Jungkook’s side of the barricade, you didn’t say anything. Just gave him a sly wink. He didn’t even try to hide his grin. Then, turning to face the cabin, you lifted your voice: “Ready?”

A few tired nods. Some thumbs up. You waited one extra beat… and then stepped aside with a flourish of your hand. “Continue.” The world shifted again—players jolting into motion as if time had resumed. As zombies now flooded the cabin.

He raised his fake gun, nodded to his new squad of random survivors, and shouted: “Let’s defend this place!” Someone cheered back, “For the chocolate stash!” “FOR SEOUL!” Snake added dramatically.

Jungkook aimed and fired a foam dart into the chest of a rushing zombie, adrenaline coursing through him like fire. He was in your world now.

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The attack had ended.

The aftermath was quiet, eerie. Six players had “died” during the horde, and one had been “bitten.” Jungkook watched as the bitten man and his friend played out a painfully convincing scene by the fire—whispers, pleading, an emotional goodbye, then a single dramatic “stab” to the chest with a foam knife. The bitten man fell back into the shadows, now part of the undead ranks.

Jungkook was impressed. He hadn’t expected people to feel this much playing pretend.

After that, the next few hours passed in relative quiet.

They re-secured the barricade—Jin helping hammer prop-boards into place while Jimin argued over who should take the next watch. Namjoon and Taehyung went through “scavenged” supplies, checking LARP rations, carefully labeled in duct-taped bags. The fake walkie-talkie system still worked, and the illusion of apocalypse held steady.

As the deep purple of night slowly melted into that strange, pale blue of early morning, Jungkook sat against the side of the shed, rubbing at his neck and breathing in the cold.

“I thought we were dead for sure,” Jin murmured next to him, legs stretched out. “I almost cried,” Jimin said dramatically, flopping down onto a sleeping mat. “I thought Tae got bitten.” Taehyung scoffed. “I was performing, thank you. Some of us have range.”

Namjoon sipped from a thermos of something that was definitely just instant coffee, but in this world felt like a potion of life. “Honestly, I’m surprised we made it through the night. That will give amazing footage.” Jungkook didn’t say anything at first.

He was looking past them—toward the tree line again, where the smoke had cleared and the trees looked just like trees again. He had seen you there, in the middle of it all. Smiling. Running the show. Creating chaos and keeping them all safe inside it.

And he’d felt… exhilarated. Not just because he’d survived. But because you’d made it feel real.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured without thinking. The others glanced at him. “Huh?” Jimin blinked. “Who’s amazing?” Jin teased, raising an eyebrow. “No one,” Jungkook said too quickly, but his ears were already red. Taehyung didn’t say a word, just smirked, bumping Jungkook’s knee with his own.

Jungkook looked up again, just as you appeared around the corner, talking into your headset with that same intense focus—head tilted, brows furrowed, clipboard under one arm.

Still working. Still organizing. Still making this world turn.

And somehow, even after staying up all night surviving fake zombies and crawling through fake smoke, Jungkook had never been more awake.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

You jogged across the field, half-laced boots kicking up dust in the early light. You had just gotten word from your comms team: one of the BTS members had officially “died” in-game.

Time to pick up the body.

The makeshift makeup atelier was full with people that wanted to turn into zombies, turn from reality into the ruined world your team had crafted. You expected someone tired, maybe a little dramatic. You did not expect Yoongi lying on a fold-out chair like a lazy vampire, arms crossed and hoodie pulled halfway over his head.

“Yo,” you greeted, brushing back your windswept hair. “Dead, or just felt like napping?” Yoongi cracked one eye open and gave you a smirk. “Bit of both. I figured I’m way better at being creepy than surviving.” You laughed. “Honestly, valid. Want a break first or should I track down the others for you?”

Yoongi sat up, hoodie slipping from his head. His eyes glittered, mischievous and strangely at peace with his new undead status. “Food. Nap. Then undead chaos.”

“Respect,” you said with a grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the kitchen. You good with whatever they’ve got, or should I threaten someone to find you a real croissant?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but followed. “If there’s a real croissant, you’re legally required to bring it to me.” You held your hand over your heart. “Scout’s honor.”

The kitchen was one of the few non-immersive zones—filled with thermoses, cereal, toast, and bleary-eyed crew. You led Yoongi in, checked he had everything he needed (which, as expected, was basically a piece of toast, tea and a quiet seat), and leaned on the table.

“If you wanna hop back in after your nap,” you said, “just head to makeup. They’ll get you zombified. Walk-ins welcome.” Yoongi gave a lazy salute. “Enjoy the chaos.”

You smirked. “Oh, I will.”

As you stepped back outside, you pulled your vest off, checked your headset, and tapped your radio.

“Sparkles goes in to play,” you told everybody in the Orga channel.

The wind stirred your hair as you walked up the stairs to get into your survivor outfit. Somewhere out there, survivors were scavenging. Somewhere in the trees, barricades were being reinforced, stories played out.

And maybe—just maybe—Jungkook would spot you again.

You couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

You had changed.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed game runner in a bright vest and headset. In her place, standing at the back entrance of the ruined asylum terrain, was a frail young woman—dirty, disheveled, a little wild in the eyes. Your cheeks were flushed as if you’d cried, and your hair was messily pulled back like it hadn’t been washed in days. You wore a torn oversized knit sweater that hung off one shoulder, stained and torn, and your jeans were fraying at the hems like you’d worn them through hell. A ratty scarf was wrapped around your wrist, and your hair was a tangled mess like you hadn’t had a brush or mirror in days. But it was the lifeless plastic baby doll swaddled in a stained cloth to your chest like it was your entire world that completed the look.

You looked haunted.

You were embodying the character you'd warned the staff about weeks before—the “young mother,” a deeply unhinged, petty chaos agent with one goal: survival. At everyone else’s expense.

The back entrance of the asylum was quiet now, but as you predicted, players had already started establishing a trade hub there. Makeshift tables held bartered goods—scraps of old food props, dummy ammunition, lighters, glowsticks, water bottles, a few hand-written “currency” notes. Some players stood guard, clearly skeptical of strangers, while others played smooth-talking scavengers or suspicious loners.

You blended in perfectly.

Your current mark was a man with a fake shotgun and far too much fake canned food to his name. You rocked the doll in your arms, sniffled, and gestured toward the woods as you explained in slow, stilted English that you were looking for your brother.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said softly in a broken, unsure tone, gently rocking the baby doll in your arms. “He… he wanted to look for food…but… I think something happened…”

A weathered-looking survivor with a fake scar across his jaw nodded slowly. “You armed?”

You looked at him, eyes wide. “No. I—I’m not stupid, I had a knife, but I traded it. For formula.” You shook the baby slightly. “She… she was screaming. And people were starting to look. Please… he said he’d meet me here, if something happens. Please, I don’t want anything. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

Your eyes glittered with wetness. The man softened, the way players do when they think they’re being heroes. “Stay close, alright? If you need anything—”

Jungkook, Taehyung, Snake (still inexplicably calling himself that), and Molly—crossbow-slinger extraordinaire—were making their way through the asylum’s crumbling courtyard. A day and a half in, they looked the part now: mud on their clothes, sweat-dampened shirts, fake bandages here and there. They had clearly made it through a night and a morning of scavenging, and judging by the pack Taehyung carried, they were doing well.

That’s when Taehyung spotted you from a distance.

He nudged Jungkook and hissed under his breath, “No way. Is that Y/N?”

Jungkook’s eyes locked on you—and froze. “She’s… acting, right?” Jungkook asked, but he was already moving toward you.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed you that Jungkook had seen commanding a smoke grenade like it was part of your DNA. Gone was the grinning puppet master who had thrown him and his friends into a zombie nightmare for the sheer love of chaos. Instead—standing under the gray, early-morning sky—you looked like someone lost.

You stood at the trading post near the old asylum ruins, speaking softly to a weathered player with fake dirt on his face and a rusted toy gun slung over his back. Your voice was shaking. So were your hands.

“Y/N?” he said uncertainly, a flicker of hope in his voice. You didn’t react. Of course not. That wasn’t your name right now.

So he tried again, stepping closer, more hesitant. “Hey… are you okay?”

Taehyung beat him to it, his Korean accent thick but clear. “Miss? Is everything okay?”

You turned toward them slowly. Your lip trembled. And the look you gave them… it was so raw it knocked the wind out of Jungkook’s chest. You looked at all of them like you didn’t know whether to run or cry. You glanced from Taehyung to Jungkook to the two strangers flanking them. You held the baby tighter to your chest. Your lip wobbling, and your voice came out small.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said. “We—we said we’d meet here. I lost my knife. I traded it for formula. For her. Please, I don’t want anything. I just—I need help.”

You clutched the baby doll tighter and gave a little, heartbreaking smile. And Jungkook’s heart squeezed in a way that shocked him. He should know better. He did know better. This was a game. You were in character. You were one of the organizers. Hell, he’d seen you cut the power and signal a horde like a general commanding troops just last night. But right now…

Right now, all he could see was you looking scared, tired, alone—and goddammit, holding a baby. Even if it was a fake one. You looked down at the baby doll, brushing your thumb over its plastic cheek. “She’s been so quiet, but I think she’s hungry. I… I don’t know where else to go.”

Jungkook couldn’t breathe.

Your vulnerability wasn’t just convincing—it felt real. Too real. He knew it was stupid. He knew this was part of the game. But still, something primal and protective swelled in his chest. He wanted to shield you. Even from pretend danger. Even if you were one of the people causing it.

You looked up at them again with a shiver. “You’re not with the men from the train, right? They had—masks. And one had this axe…”

Molly gave a soft, reassuring nod. “We’re not with the train people. You can come with us, okay?” You nodded, eyes wide. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Snake muttered under his breath, “If that baby starts crying tonight, I swear—”

“I’ll keep her quiet,” you said quickly, gripping the doll tighter. “She knows not to cry anymore.” Jungkook couldn’t take his eyes off you. His brain kept screaming it’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake—but his heart wasn’t listening.

As the group turned and began to walk back toward their temporary outpost, you fell in step beside them, eyes alert but downcast. Jungkook moved quietly beside you, matching your pace. You didn’t look up, but you let your arm brush against his as if by accident. He glanced sideways—and for the briefest moment, your expression cracked just enough for him to see the smallest flicker of a smirk.

You knew. You knew exactly what you were doing. And god, it was working. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair and sighed through his nose, exasperated with himself.

He was so. fucking. doomed.

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It was crazy. Absolutely insane.

From the second Jungkook’s group took you in, everything changed. One of the trade vendors, a grizzled guy with a sheriff badge duct-taped to his chest, handed them two extra magazines of Nerf ammo “for the baby.” Another gave a can of pineapple, whispering with serious urgency, “Good for nursing moms.”

You nodded, clutching the doll like your life depended on it, eyes watery with gratitude. You didn’t overplay it. You didn’t need to. Back at their camp—a semicircle of barricades and scavenged supplies around the shed—chaos broke loose. You walked in and people lost their minds.

“She’s got a baby?” “She has a baby!” “Is she alone?” “Where’s the father?” “Was she pregnant during the outbreak?!”

People took it way to serious. But Jungkook kind of understood. The men swore to protect you. Loudly. With solemn nods and fist-to-chest pledges. Even the quieter ones suddenly sharpened their focus, ready to fend off zombie hordes at the sound of a rattle.

The women? They were instantly circling. One gently tugged your sleeve and whispered, “You should sleep, hon. Let someone else take care of the little one for a bit.” Another offered to heat water and try to sterilize a bottle. A third handed over a slightly-clean blanket, saying it would be softer for the baby.

Molly, tough-as-nails Molly with her battered crossbow and flinty eyes, was the most surprising of all. She stepped up, arms crossed. “You need to eat. Properly. Sit.” You blinked, nodding slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

Molly took the baby doll from your arms like it was made of glass. Then—dead serious—she growled at it. “Don’t give me that face. Your mom’s busy.” You couldn’t help but laugh, eyes crinkling with warmth. When you returned from the warm food someone shoved into your hands, Molly handed the baby back with a straight face. “Grumpy little thing. Missed you.”

“Thank you,” you said, genuinely touched, your hands brushing hers as you took the baby back. “You’re… really kind.” 

Taehyung, crouched by a rusted fire barrel with Jungkook, Jimin, and Namjoon, leaned in and hissed low under his breath, “Don’t let her distract you. She’s got villain energy written all over her right now.” Jimin snorted. “Bro, she’s holding a doll and crying.”

“That’s exactly why,” Taehyung said seriously. “That’s exactly how they get you.” Namjoon didn’t speak. He just looked across the camp, watching you sit under the tarp, huddled with the baby like a storm-wrecked statue.

Jungkook… didn’t speak either. He just looked at you.

Watched the way you curled your body around the doll, like you were shielding it from the cold. The tiny smile you gave to the woman who offered to stitch the tear in your sweater. The way your eyes scanned each person like you were searching for something real. Your brother. Maybe hope. Maybe a way out.

He knew you were acting. He knew you were playing a role.

But the tenderness of it—the truth underneath it—cut into him.

You were building something. A narrative. A presence. A story that folded into theirs, made their world feel larger, more real. You asked softly, eyes tired but kind, “Has anyone here seen my brother? He’s about this tall…” You held your hand a bit above your head, eyes sweeping over their faces. Everyone shook their head with murmurs of apology. No one had seen him. You gave a small nod, looking down at the baby. “Okay. Maybe he’s further south.”

And then, reluctantly, after they insisted—you let them lead you to a cot inside the shed, where two women covered you in blankets and one brushed your hair softly from your forehead. “Sleep,” she whispered. “We’ll keep watch.”

And you did.

 He didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Maybe because you trusted them, even just in-character. Trusted them enough to sleep.

Jungkook stood nearby, cross-legged on an overturned crate, his gun across his lap. He kept his eyes on the tree line. But every few minutes, he turned and looked toward you.

Just to be sure you were okay.

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You woke slowly, groggy but warm. For a moment, the peaceful hum of camp lulled you—muted conversations, the scrape of someone sharpening a weapon, distant birdsong. And then your hand slid over the blanket beside you. Nothing.

The baby doll was gone.

Your eyes snapped open. You sat up fast, breath catching, scanning around wildly until you spotted one of the women from earlier—Annette, the redhead with the braid—standing by the fire barrel. Holding the baby. You stormed over. And went into character.

“Give me back my child!”

Every head turned. The group froze. Annette startled, backing up a step. “I was just—he was cold! You were asleep—!”

“You took him without asking! Without telling me!” You were full of fake hysteria now, body trembling, eyes shining with fresh tears as you stomped toward her. “You were passed out!” she snapped back, holding the doll protectively. “You’re lucky you have people to help you. Don’t act like a saint—you’ve got a whole family around you now!”

“Don’t you dare guilt me for caring about my own child!” you screamed, and the camp exploded into noise.

Women yelled. Men hovered uncertainly, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon staring wide-eyed as you and Annette tore into each other like wild animals in rags and apocalypse grime. Jimin held his hands up like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Molly shoved through the circle. “Alright! Enough!” She snatched the baby out of Annette’s arms, cradled it to her chest, and stalked back toward your bed. “I’m putting him down where he belongs.” But the damage was done.

From the woods, groans began—deep, feral, unmistakable.

“Zombies!” someone shouted.

And then you and Annette were surrounded by indecision. The men hesitated—do they break up the fight? Do they protect you? Annette was still fuming. “You can’t even handle being a mother!” You looked around wildly—then saw the zombies moving closer. Ten? Maybe more.

You didn’t flinch.

“You don’t deserve him!” Annette screamed. And with a dramatic sob, you shoved her hard—right toward the oncoming horde. You stumbled back just in time not to end as Annette.  As Annette let out a perfectly-timed scream as she stumbled backward into their arms. The zombie players descended in full choreographed carnage—screeching, arms grabbing, paint splattering.

“NOOOO!” she wailed, perfectly, theatrically, just as she was “bitten” and dragged to the ground. Her hand reached out… and dropped.

Game over.

The whole camp went dead silent. Jungkook’s heart was hammering. He saw it all—your heaving shoulders, your wide tearful eyes, your trembling hands. As some of the guards went to deal with the zombies now coming your way. You had just killed someone.

Sort of.

Molly returned, baby doll back in your arms. “She touched your kid. That’s on her.” Another woman nodded sharply. “No one takes a child from its mother.”

Taehyung whispered, “She’s terrifying.” Namjoon exhaled like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Jimin blinked. “Did she just—?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook whispered. “She did.” But it wasn’t condemnation in his voice. It was awe.

You pulled the baby closer to your chest as the zombie players—groaning, covered in fake blood and smugness—left toward the next part of the map. You wiped your eyes and turned toward the fire, shaking.

And the group? They closed in around you, no questions asked. Annette’s name was crossed off the board.

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Jungkook approached slowly, hands in the pockets of his tattered apocalypse jacket, still glancing at the baby doll cradled in your arms as if it might blink.

“You know…” he said, voice low and a little awkward, “the kid has the same sparkle… in his eyes as you.” You froze. Your head snapped up immediately. Your gaze flicked to Jungkook. You gave him a small, quiet nod of understanding. “Thanks,” you said, softly. Then, to Molly, “Could you watch him for a second? I need… I need a breath.”

Molly, rocking the fake baby as if it were the most precious thing in the world, smiled. “Of course. He’s an angel when he naps.” Before you could turn, she added, “Take Jungkook with you. He looks like he needs it too.”

You looked at him grinning, one brow raised. He looked… startled. But he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

The trees offered some quiet from the chaos behind you. For a while, you just listened to the wind threading through the branches and the crunch of your boots on dry leaves. It was strange how easily the game dissolved out here. No screams. No laughter. Just you and him. Then you stopped and looked at him with the same gentle concern you’d shown to the doll not five minutes ago.

Jungkook stared at you, confused. For a moment—just a second—he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

“I… I think I used the wrong phrase,” he admitted. “The sparkle thing—I thought that’s how people got out of the game? Like… a code?” You looked at him, something melting in your expression. “It is a code,” you said softly. “You used it perfectly.” He blinked. “Then… why do I feel so messed up?”

You inhaled slowly and reached up to remove the scarf around your head, your shoulders relaxing as you let the mask of your character slide off. “I’m going to talk to you now as me,” you said. “Not the mother. Not the Game Master. Just… Y/N.”

Jungkook nodded and saw your entire demeanor change. You were instantly more open—more you.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard,” he admitted eventually. “I knew it wasn’t real. You were holding a doll. I saw it. But something about it—your voice, the way you shook, how scared you looked…” He laughed bitterly. “I thought, if something happens to her, I won’t be able to fix it.” You watched him with quiet patience.

“You know,” you said, “a lot of people come into these games thinking they’ll be cool and strategic. Like it’s chess with costumes. And then they see someone crying over soup, or hear a scream at night—and suddenly their brain forgets it’s a simulation.”

Jungkook gave a tired nod. “Yeah. That happened about three hours in.”

“Of course it did,” you smiled. “You’re human. Your empathy isn’t fake.” He looked at you. This time, really looked. “You were so good,” he said. “I thought—” His voice broke off like it betrayed something too personal.

You didn’t press. You gave him space.

“I’ve been doing this a while,” you said. “I’ve seen heroes break down because someone pretended to die in their arms. Seen friends scream at each other over fake betrayals. Emotions can be real even if the context isn’t.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you mean I’m not crazy?”

“Not even a little,” you said, stepping closer. “But I will say this—” He met your eyes again, waiting. “If you do ever get too close to a character—too emotionally tied—step out. Use the sparkle phrase. And don’t be ashamed of needing a breather. It’s not weak.”

Jungkook exhaled, long and slow. “You’re really good at this.” Your lips twitched into a grin. “That was my evil plan.” He laughed—genuine, breathy, warm. “Well, it’s working. You’ve got, like, twelve people ready to die for you back there.”

“I know,” you said, brushing a leaf off your sleeve. “I love watching human psychology unfold in these settings. Throw in a helpless baby and a crying woman, and boom—pack instinct. Protector mode activated.” Jungkook chuckled again. “You’re dangerous.”

“I try.”

You walked a little further, the air calmer now, your heart beating less like you were in a game and more like you were just… here. With him. “Do you feel better now?” you asked, tilting your head. He exhaled, but it didn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

But you could see it—how his body still carried it. The weight. The leftover adrenaline. The strange, instinctual need to protect something that was never real. You hesitated for only a breath, then took a small step closer.

“Can I offer you something?” you asked. Jungkook blinked. “Uh… what?”

“A hug.” His eyes widened, and he laughed—not at you, but because he hadn’t expected that. “A hug?”

“Sometimes it helps,” you said with a gentle smile. “Just—Something human. Especially after hours of zombies, crying, and everyone screaming about rations.” He paused. You could see him considering it. Then, with an almost sheepish smile, he said, “Yeah… okay.”

You stepped forward, arms open but soft, giving him room to change his mind. He didn’t. Instead, Jungkook folded into the hug like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it until it was happening. How it made him realize you were safe. His arms wrapped around you, firm but hesitant at first. Then, when you didn’t pull away, he held tighter.

And for a moment, there was nothing but the two of you in that quiet patch of woods—no fake apocalypse, no baby dolls, no cameras. Just his heartbeat against your chest. Just your breath near his ear. “You smell… nice,” he mumbled, half-laughing, and you felt his smile against your shoulder. You grinned too. “Thanks. Its called a shower.”

He pulled back laughing, just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer now—less dazed, less confused. Grounded. You gave him a look like, See?

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. And he meant it. You nodded. “You’re welcome.” You started turning back toward camp, but paused, reaching out and placing your hand lightly on his forearm. “One last thing,” you said quietly. He looked at you, attentive. “When the time comes,” you said, voice more serious now, “don’t try to save me.”  Jungkook frowned. “What?”

“I’m supposed to die,” you explained. With how serious he took this you didn’t want to traumatize him. “It’s planned. For story, tension, payoff—all of it. So when it happens… let it happen. Don’t let your character die for me.” He looked at you for a long moment, lips pressed tight. He didn’t like it. Not even a little.

But eventually, he gave a small nod. “Okay. I’ll try.” You smiled at him. “That’s all I ask.”

And the two of you walked back to camp—quietly, but closer. Something between you had shifted. And the end of the world kept spinning.

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Back at camp, the mood was lighter for a while. People were laughing over old canned soup, swapping stories about their fake injuries, showing off smudged zombie makeup like war medals. Jungkook sat beside the fire pit with Taehyung and Jimin, poking at the embers with a stick as the sun dipped lower behind the trees.

“I talked with Y/N earlier,” he said, voice quieter than before. Jimin raised a brow. “The mother?”

“She broke character. For me,” Jungkook added. Taehyung leaned forward, grinning. “That’s unexpected. You okay?”

“I think so,” Jungkook said, then smiled a little to himself. “It just felt… too real. Like I couldn’t separate her from the game. I looked at her and couldn’t tell where the mother ended and she began. I needed to separate them for a moment.”

“She offered me a hug,” he added softly, almost like it embarrassed him to say it. “You took it, right?” Taehyung asked, nudging him. “Yeah,” Jungkook said. “And it helped. It made it feel like… it was okay to enjoy it again.” Jimin nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “She’s good. I think she sees when someone’s slipping too far into it.”

Before they could say more, a horn blared from the far end of the camp. Then came the scream.

It was you.

Blood-curdling. Raw. Real enough that even the most seasoned players froze for a heartbeat. You crashed into camp, fake tears streaking your cheeks, your baby doll clutched tight to your chest. “They’re coming—I can’t—I can’t do this—please, someone—!”

Jungkook's body moved before his brain did. He stepped forward—but too late. Then, in your frantic scramble, you fumbled with the makeshift barricade and ripped it open. And the horde swarmed in.

Chaos erupted.

It was like a dam breaking. Zombies—dozens of them—surged from the trees with low groans and guttural snarls, their movements jerky and terrifyingly fast for something supposed to be undead. The illusion was flawless. You bolted for the other side of camp, stumbling with your doll in your arms, and vanished.

The scream that came next didn’t belong to you.

It was Jin.

“NOPE. NOPE. I’M OUT!” he yelled, laughing even as he backed himself into a corner, behind some stacked crates meant to look like a supply station. “I’m not fast enough for this sh—!”

They got him.

One of the zombies tackled him, then another. Then three more. Jin disappeared under the pile, mock screaming and laughing at the same time, smacking at the air with ketchup-smeared hands. “I’M BEING EATEN ALIVE! SAVE ME—ACTUALLY DON’T—THIS IS KINDA FUN—”

And then his hand dropped limp. Fake-dead. Out of the game.

Jungkook turned to call for Jimin—but Jimin was already being overwhelmed. He had tried to hold a makeshift line near the fire pit, swinging a padded bat and shouting commands, rallying three of the younger players behind him. “Hold the flank! Hold the—AH—!”

One grabbed him from behind. Then another. A third clung to his legs. “Shit—shit—I’m down! I’m—gah—nooooooo—!” Jimin crumpled dramatically, laughing breathlessly as he disappeared beneath a tangle of groaning zombie players. He held up a hand one last time before letting it fall with a thud. His “death” was over-the-top—classic Jimin—and it still managed to hit Jungkook square in the chest.

Within minutes, nearly half of their group had gone down.

Some were taken trying to flee. Others died fighting. Some just froze in the panic, paralyzed by the sheer size of the horde. And when it cleared, only three of the members were left, with only a few of the original survivor group.

Jungkook.

Namjoon.

Taehyung.

The camp was littered with bodies—players lying still, arms splayed, makeup smeared with fake blood, laughing and groaning as they pretended to be “fresh kills.” Jungkook stood, chest heaving, heart racing. His bat dripped red corn syrup. He looked around, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, and spotted you.

You were across the camp, standing slowly, brushing leaves off your shirt. You still had the doll but now hit hung limp like a doll in your hand, your expression was calm again. Collected. You turned. Found him with your eyes. And waved. And for the first time since the screaming started, Jungkook remembered to breathe.

He waved back, just once.

Then you were gone again—heading off toward the makeup rooms with Jin and Jimin rising to follow. They teased each other as they walked, still catching their breath, still smiling through the chaos. Followed by many other undead, ready to find other survivors or to go with you the makeup rooms.

“You really went all in,” Jin said, chuckling. “God, I thought you were actually going to cry for real.”

You laughed. “Almost did.” But it was Jimin who leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You left an impression,” he said. You blinked. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure how the baby would play with the—”

“No,” Jimin cut in. “Not the character. You.” Your brow furrowed, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” Jimin smirked. “I mean, you—Y/N—you got under Jungkook’s skin. He’s still pretending not to notice, but I’m telling you now, something cracked open in him. You’re in there.” You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck. “He just got stuck in immersion.”

“Nope,” Jimin said confidently. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I saw the way he looked at you. That wasn’t caring for just your roll.” You glanced back once, just before disappearing behind the curtain of trees toward the makeup.

Jungkook was still watching. And your chest fluttered—just a little. You smiled shyly at Jimin, brushing dust from your shirt, cheeks still warm from the earlier chaos. “Oh… then Jungkook won’t like my next character,” you murmured. Jimin raised a brow and leaned in. “Oh? What’s it gonna be?”

You only grinned. “First? Food. And maybe an hour of sleep.” Jimin laughed, nodding. “Fair. I’ll be around. Don’t forget to scare me later.” You gave him a mock salute and started making your way upstairs—up into the top floor of the asylum, where players weren’t allowed. Where you could take a breath, eat without breaking immersion, and switch roles without being spotted.

On the way up, you passed a surreal little scene—Yoongi, fully zombified with his head twisted at an odd angle and one eye gone pale with makeup, lumbered through the halls muttering, “Did you see Hoseok? I want to scare him."

You stifled a laugh. “No but I will let you know.”

“Acceptable,” Yoongi mumbled in his zombie voice, shuffling away.

You made it to the upper ward, peeled off your layers, and managed to get two and a half hours of rest. Your alarm buzzed at 9:45pm.

It was time.

By 10:00, the event would shift. The safe zones would crumble. And from 11 onward… there would be no mercy. Downstairs, five of your most seasoned zombie player had been briefed and would meet you at the NSC hall. You wanted your entrance to be theatrical, disruptive, and unforgettable.

By 10:15, you were halfway through your transformation—tight brown neoprene pants clinging to your legs, the lower half of your costume fitted. The upper part, a terrifying piece of neoprene and latex-mottled horror, hung around your hip, along with the harness system that would make your movements twitchy and unnatural.

You were just adjusting your sports bra and reaching for the torso suit when the door creaked.

“Hey, did you—” Taehyung froze in the doorway, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. He blinked hard, processing the sight of you: half-dressed, back turned, casually sorting through prosthetics and blood tubes.

You turned around, utterly unfazed in your sports bra and pants. “Dead or tired?” Taehyung swallowed, his voice catching. “Uh. Dead. I died. Heroically. Saved Snake and Molly. Got torn apart. Y’know. Normal day.” You chuckled, reaching for the suit. “Glad someone made it out with flair.”

Taehyung lingered, clearing his throat. “Uh—do you… want help?”

“Please,” you said immediately, stepping toward him and turning your back to him. “The zipper’s a nightmare.” He caught the heavy latex piece awkwardly and stepped closer. The suit was clammy from the spray blood and tight as hell, almost impossible to shimmy into without another person. You guided your arms in, shifting your weight.

Taehyung tried not to look at the way the fabric stretched around your body. “You alright?” you asked as he fumbled with the zipper. “I—yeah. It’s just—tight,” he mumbled, finally getting the zip started, pulling it slowly up your back.

When it clicked into place, you rolled your shoulders, adjusting the neckline and tugging at the seals. You met his eyes over your shoulder. “Thanks. This character’s a little… worse.”

“How bad?”

You smirked darkly, your voice lowering. “Tonight… there’s no more safe space.” Taehyung blinked. “Like—none?”

“None,” you confirmed. “No sanctuary. No barricades. Only hiding. Running. Or dying. And I’m going to make sure they remember it.” Taehyung stared at you. “I think Jungkook’s gonna have a heart attack.” You laughed. “Good. Maybe I’ll let him live if he plays it right.” He shook his head with a grin, backing toward the door. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Y/N.”

“You should’ve remembered that the moment you walked in on me half-naked,” you called after him. Taehyung flushed but grinned wider. “That wasn’t my fault!” You grinned back. “It is now.”

You picked up your blood capsule belt, slipping it over your shoulder. The last part of your transformation was almost complete. From here on out, no one would recognize you under the makeup, the prosthetics, and the twitchy, grotesque movements of your new role.

Tonight, you would become the thing people whispered about.

And Jungkook would be right in the middle of it.

The night was thick with fog and the smell of wet leaves, the moonlight too thin to offer comfort. You stood in the shadows just beyond the NSC hall, the five zombies around you adjusting their gear in eerie silence. Your neoprene suit clung to your body like diseased skin, the painted latex blistered and blackened. You had blended the mask into your neckline so your real face disappeared beneath rot and ruin. Only your eyes remained—but even they were ringed in thick, oily black makeup, obscuring any hint of humanity.

Taehyung stood nearby, wide-eyed, one hand over his mouth. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You guys look like something from Silent Hill.”

You tilted your head slowly toward him, silent.

“That’s not helping,” he added, stepping back.

The other five—Alex, David, Mira, Yuji, and Garam—stood tall beside you, identical in costume and horror. A collective nightmare. One of them cracked her neck; another flexed their fingers in tight gloves soaked in darkened blood. You all looked like a single organism splintered into six lethal bodies.

And when Eriks voice whispered through your comms—Go—you didn’t stumble or lurch like the rest of the infected.

You ran.

Fast.

The six of you surged into the night like a flock of death crows, howling, shrieking, voices jagged with distortion. You had trained for this—months of movement practice, stunts, and horror choreography. Every motion you made was unhinged and wrong, arms twitching, heads jerking too far. Real terror wrapped in rubber and foam. And when the normal zombies saw your group emerging from the darkness, they actually cheered.

“Let’s go, monsters!”

“The bosses are here!”

“Hunt them!”

It was like a celebrity entrance from hell. And that’s exactly what you were—hell in motion. And Taehyung watched in horror. He was suddenly very happy he had died and hadn’t had to face you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the map…

Jungkook sat against the cracked wall of an abandoned two-story building, head tilted back, breath steady. He hadn’t realized just how badly he needed the break until now. Namjoon dozed lightly beside him, one hand still on the prop axe resting across his lap. A few others—veteran players and a couple of newer ones—had taken refuge here too. One, who played a frazzled but skilled doctor, had claimed the cellar and set up shop with fake supplies and dim LED lights to simulate a generator hum. He’d even set up a patient cot.

Snake sat at the window, looking out into the forest with haunted eyes. “Taehyung shouldn’t have saved me,” he murmured. Jungkook leaned forward. “He would’ve done it every time.” Snake didn’t reply, just gripped the curtain tighter.

Since you had left the game earlier in the day, Jungkook had finally started breathing normally again. Watching you with that doll—sobbing, panicking, screaming as you threw open the barricades—had twisted something inside him he hadn’t expected. Even knowing it was part of the event, it had pierced something too real. Too much. Your trembling hands. Your broken cries.

And then you were gone. Not dead, not hurt. Just… absent from the game. And that distance, as strange as it was, helped. He could see it as a game again. He could focus on survival. Strategy. The vlog footage. The thrill.

But then—

The screams began. Far off at first, like crows fighting. Then closer. Louder. Sharper. Wrong. Jungkook shot up. Namjoon blinked awake, eyes wide. “What the hell is that?” It wasn’t the usual zombie moan. Not even a fast-zombie screech. This was like someone being torn in half.

And then the first impact hit.

Something—or someone—slammed into the front of the building with a crunch and a spray of fake blood. One of the new players screamed as the front barricade gave way and something darted through the broken opening.

It wasn’t stumbling. It was sprinting.

“Upstairs!” Namjoon barked. “Now!” Jungkook grabbed Snake’s arm and hauled him back as one of the monsters—rotting flesh, twitchy limbs, face all wrong—threw itself at the nearest survivor. They weren’t like the others. These were different. Silent coordination. Screaming, yes—but like hunters calling to each other, not mindless noise.

Upstairs, the survivors scrambled. Jungkook kicked over a shelf to block the stairwell. It bought them seconds at best. And then another scream—closer, more guttural. One of the new players was down. He looked out the broken top-floor window.

There were five of them. All identical in horror.

Jungkook backed away from the window, breath caught in his throat. Below, the five nightmares prowled through the dark yard like wolves who had just learned how to hate. They didn’t move like zombies. They moved like something smarter.

And then came the curse: “FUCK,” one of the veteran players snapped, fumbling with the fake gun strapped to his shoulder. “What?” Namjoon asked, crouched behind a toppled cabinet. The veteran pointed sharply out the window. “They brought them again.”

“Them?” said a new player, confused and wide-eyed.

“Crawlers,” the vet spat like it was a slur. “They’re fast, they’re coordinated, and worst of all—they don’t go down like normal zombies. You can’t just push them or tag their arm. You have to fight them. Hard.” Even Namjoon’s brow furrowed at that. “I thought this was supposed to be a survival horror game. Not full-on combat.”

“Oh, it’s both, still LARP fighting only,” the vet said grimly. “But that’s the boss class.”

The "doctor" player popped up from the cellar stairwell, glasses askew, fully in character. “But if we catch one,” he said, voice buzzing with faux-manic glee, “I might be able to extract the virus. Create an antidote.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” he said, indignant. “That’s literally my quest line.”

Upstairs, they fortified the landing. One staircase. One hallway. If nothing came through, they were safe—for now. Official game rules meant no break-ins unless an Orga member approved it. Everyone relaxed slightly.

Until a scream ripped through the room.

The vet player stumbled back, swearing again. “Window! They’re coming in through the fucking window!” Two of the Crawlers were halfway inside—literally crawling through the second-story window frame, their movements contorted and snapping, their masks reflecting the dim LED lights with a shine that made everyone recoil.

“They climbed the goddamn drainpipe!” someone shouted.

The room exploded into chaos.

One of the Crawlers lunged for the doctor, who barely rolled out of the way. The second went for the vet, who fought back—but in the scuffle, he clocked the monster hard in the ribs.

“GAME STOP!” the veteran called, hands shooting up in the air. “STOP, STOP, STOP!”

Everyone froze mid-motion. The doctor, mid-laugh, cut off instantly. Namjoon swore and backed up, gun lowered. Jungkook was halfway through a lunge and immediately paused, breath caught in his throat. Garam was slumped against the wall, arms cradling his side, eyes shut tight.

“Garam?” someone asked, voice tense.

“I didn’t mean to hit that hard—shit, I’m sorry, man,” the veteran said quickly, rushing over but stopping short, hands out in apology. “I panicked. You were coming at me like a fucking demon.”

“I’m fine,” Garam said hoarsely, holding up a hand.

“No, for real—are you sure?” Jungkook stepped in now, crouching next to him. Looking beyond the horror of a costume. “Don’t push through if you’re actually hurt.” Garam drew in a breath, sharp and shaky, then slowly exhaled. “I’m okay. Winded. Just… give me a sec.”

Namjoon knelt beside them, offering his canteen. Garam took a sip, then leaned his head back, already laughing softly. “God, you guys are so soft now. Its cute.“ The veteran muttered, visibly shaken. “I’m really sorry. I got scared, man.”

Garam looked at him properly now. “It’s okay. Honest. You got a clean hit. No cracked ribs, I think. Just knocked the air outta me. Good reaction time.” He smiled—strained, but genuine. The group laughed lightly, nerves easing. The veteran still looked remorseful but nodded gratefully as Garam gave him a reassuring pat on the leg.

“Let’s keep going,” Garam said. “I want my death scene to be worth it.” The players regrouped fast. And the fight picked up again with renewed fury. One Crawler went down under coordinated fire from Namjoon and the vet. Another—Yuji—was tackled and “captured” by the doctor with wild delight. The remaining Crawlers hissed, shrieked, and clawed, but were picked off one by one.

And then there was you.

You’d gone for Namjoon—darting in from the shadows with a curved movement that made his skin crawl. You tackled him into the wall with a guttural cry. He shouted in shock, the breath knocked from him.

But just as you leaned in to “bite,” Jungkook moved like lightning. He grabbed the prop axe from the ground and turned you off Namjoon with a strike so fast it made everyone pause.

You froze.

You dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead in the game.

Unmoving.

Breathing hard, Jungkook stood over you. Startled for a moment. Had he hurt you? But the crawler didn’t groan or called for a stop. “Nice save,” Namjoon muttered, rubbing his side. The doctor was practically dancing in place. “Bring the bodies down! I’ll dissect them for a cure!”

Normally, a dead player would be tapped or, just sit up and ask where to go. But Jungkook was staring at you like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

He crouched beside you, prop axe still in hand, and leaned down to “double tap” for dramatic effect. But as he did, he whispered low: “Y/N…?” You gave the smallest nod.

His heart jumped.

He hadn’t been wrong.

You were here. You’d been one of them. One of the nightmares. The others were getting ready to drag the bodies into the cellar, the doctor already spinning in-character theories about viral extraction and neural mutation. The noise fell away for a moment when Jungkook leaned closer, hoodie brushing your side.

He cleared his throat. “Y/N… would you be part of the cellar scene?” You gave a tiny nod, keeping your body limp. “Can I move you?”

Again, you nodded—expecting the usual signal. Normally, the player in charge of corpse transport would tap the "dead" player twice on the shoulder, telling them to get up and walk to the next area. But instead of that, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He simply leaned down and scooped you up into his arms like it was second nature. Like you weighed nothing, in front of the entire group, Jungkook slipped his arms under you and carefully picked you up, cradling you against his chest.

Startled, you tensed—and your hands instinctively gripped the front of his hoodie. Tight. Jungkook paused the second he felt it. “You okay?” he whispered softly, head close to yours. You hesitated a second, then exhaled shakily and slowly relaxed. Your body went slack in his arms.

Jungkook felt it. Felt your trust settle into his chest like warmth. He held you tighter, more securely, and started moving down the hallway toward the stairs.

The doctor whooped. “To the lab!”

“Man, how are you touching that thing like it’s not disgusting?” one of the players called playfully. “Dude, it smells like rubber and old meat!” another joked. “Jungkook,” Namjoon called, eyeing him curiously, “you sure you wanna carry that thing?”

Jungkook didn’t even look back. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ve got her.”

“Think he likes corpses now,” a third laughed.

Jungkook ignored them all, only shifting you slightly in his arms so your head wouldn’t bump the stairwell wall. As he stepped onto the first stair, he heard it: a whisper, muffled under your latex mask. “Please don’t bump me against anything…” He smiled.

His grip tightened again, protective, steady. “Never,” he whispered back.

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The doctor’s “lab” in the cellar was cluttered and eerie, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. It smelled like fake blood and floor polish. He’d cleared a long table in the center for dramatic effect, and when Jungkook arrived, the doctor clapped gleefully.

“Put her here, yes, yes—right under the light!”

Jungkook didn’t just drop you off. He gently lowered you onto the table, hands bracing your back and shoulders until he was sure you were resting comfortably. The latex of your suit squeaked faintly as you settled.

The others filed in, dragging the other Crawlers. Garam gave Jungkook a thumbs-up before collapsing back into his dramatic corpse pose. The doctor hovered over you, monologuing in detail about virus strains, moral quandaries, and the possibility of a cure—“if only we can harvest enough tissue before the mutation completes!”

Half an hour passed before the doctor clapped his hands and declared, “That’s a wrap on dissection!”

People relaxed. It was an immersion break. But sometimes that was the only way to get a group of zombies out of a scene. Laughter bubbled up. Someone offered Garam a bottle of water. Another player grabbed a granola bar.

You sat up slowly—but before you could stand, Jungkook gently touched your arm. “Wait.” You blinked at him through the mask. Your body still wore the look of rot and infection. Only your eyes were visible—blackened around the edges with makeup, narrowed at him curiously.

He stared for a moment.

Then you reached up and peeled your mask back, the latex lifting with a soft hiss. Your face was flushed from the heat, and the black makeup had smudged slightly around your eyes. Your hair stuck to your forehead.

“Better?” you asked, voice hoarse but warm. Jungkook’s lips curled into the softest smile. He nodded. “I think…” He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I think it’s easier when you’re the danger.” You chuckled—tired and amused—and without thinking too hard, you leaned forward and gave him a hug. Arms around his shoulders. Quick. Sincere. Real.

He hugged you back before he even realized it.

Then you stepped away, slipping the mask back into place like a switch had flipped. The creature returned. Crawling death. Fear incarnate. The doctor gave a playful salute. “See you on the battlefield.”

With a blood-curdling scream, you launched yourself back into the night with the other Crawlers, skittering up the stairs like nightmares given shape. Namjoon leaned into Jungkook’s side as they watched you vanish around the corner. “You’re down bad.” he teased. Jungkook didn’t look away, eyes fixed on where you vanished.

“She hugged you coverd in latex, dude. Latex.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered cheeks flushing just a little. Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “And that’s not even the weirdest thing you’ve been into this week.” Jungkook’s voice dropped, quieter than before. “She is just cool…”

Namjoon blinked, “She let you carry her like a princess.” then clapped him on the shoulder, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You need to calm down before you propose in the basement, Romeo.”

Jungkook didn’t even hear him. He was still staring toward the stairwell. Waiting for the screams.

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Now, early morning had settled over the camp. Despite all their efforts to survive the night, the relentless game had even caught up to Jungkook and Namjoon. But even the strongest couldn’t escape unscathed.

Namjoon was the first to go down. It happened so fast, almost by pure chance. They had been trying to treat a wounded player nearby when a zombie slipped in unnoticed from a side corridor. Namjoon barely had time to react before the creature was on him.

Half an hour later, Jungkook went down too. He and Snake had gone to refill their water bottles when one of the Crawlers—not you— ambushed him suddenly, and he was taken down, collapsing hard to the ground.

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Now, around the breakfast table in the NSC lounge, the members tried to catch their breath and regroup. The early morning light was soft, the room cluttered with empty coffee cups and half-eaten granola bars. Yoongi sat back, arms crossed, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I couldn’t find Hoseok anywhere last night. He’s got to be the last living member out there, right?”

Taehyung smirked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes, hell bent on changing the topic. “You know, Y/N’s got a really nice trained body.” The others immediately turned to him, eyebrows raised. “How would you know that?” Jin asked, clearly curious.

Jungkook cut in quickly, voice low but firm, “Taehyung, maybe you should drop it.” Jimin gave Taehyung a pointed look, then glanced over at Jungkook with a slight warning. “Yeah, Tae, that’s not really something you should say out loud.”

But Taehyung just laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not lying. I actually saw her—in her underwear, earlier.” Jungkook’s jaw twitched involuntarily at that confession, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. Taehyung grinned wider, clearly enjoying the moment. “I was helping her get dressed after her break. You know, the suit’s tricky to put on alone.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but Jungkook’s expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement. Jin clapped his hands, eager to change the mood. “Hey Namjoon, why don’t you get zombified with us? We can go find Hoseok and scare the hell out of him.”

Namjoon grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Sounds like a plan.” He looked expectantly at Jungkook. Jungkook shook his head firmly, rubbing his tired eyes. “No way. I want to sleep for at least two hours before anything else. I’m wiped.”

Just then, the door creaked open and you walked in, still in your Crawler costume — the latex suit clinging tightly, eyes rimmed with smudged black makeup from sweat. You grabbed a banana and a granola bar from the counter, munching casually.

“Morning. Looks like you all had fun without me.”

Yoongi grinned slyly, waving a hand. “You have no idea. I’ve been having a blast scaring the other players. You should see their faces.” They shared stories, laughing about close calls and wild moments. You smiled, genuinely happy they’d had fun.

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You and Jungkook moved quietly up the creaking stairs together, the weight of the night’s chaos finally pressing down on both of you. The stale air clung to your skin, mixed with sweat and the grime of hours spent playing your part in the nightmare. You could already feel the tight neoprene suit clinging uncomfortably, suffocating you in every movement.

You placed your mask and gloves at the foot of your mattress, giving a small sigh of relief to finally be rid of them. The room still smelled faintly of latex, dust, and whatever old building materials had long since decayed here. Now came the tricky part—getting out of your suit. You reached behind your back, fingers fumbling for the zipper, but as expected, it was nearly impossible to grab at that angle.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Jungkook walking by, towel slung over one shoulder and his small toiletry bag in hand, clearly headed for the showers.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you called, turning your head toward him with a sheepish smile. “Can you help me with the zipper real quick?” He stopped mid-step, blinking. “Oh—uh… yeah, sure.” His voice cracked slightly, caught off guard, but he didn’t need to be asked twice.

You turned around fully, holding your hair out of the way so he could see the zipper running along the back of your suit. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your back as he grabbed the zipper tab. His touch was warm—surprisingly careful. The sound of the zipper sliding down seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet of the room.

As he pulled it lower, his eyes involuntarily dropped, catching a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your sweat-slicked back. Taehyung hadn’t lied—your body was strong, defined, glistening slightly from the hours of movement. Jungkook’s fingers lingered a moment longer than they had to, hovering near your spine before he cleared his throat and stepped back like he’d touched something sacred.

“There,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You’re good.”

You turned back to him with an easy smile. “Thanks, lifesaver.” He gave you a short nod, but didn’t meet your eyes. As you peeled the top of the suit down and started pulling it off your legs, Jungkook retreated into the bathroom, flushing hard even before he got to his cabin.

Inside, the showers were basic—four stalls with curtains, old tiles that had probably seen better days. Still, the hot water was a gift after hours in costume. Jungkook stepped into his stall, undressed and put his clothes on a hock and turned the knob, exhaling as the warm water hit his skin. But then he heard your voice from the stall just two over—cheerful and relaxed.

“So how did you die?” you asked through the running water.

“Huh?” he answered, caught off guard again to here your voice so close with his state of undress. “In the game,” you laughed. “Last I saw you, you were still human. What got you?”

“Oh. Uh… Namjoon went first, some zombie got him when we were trying to distract for a medic run. Then me and Snake went to refill water and one of your creepy little friends came crawling out of a hole and nailed me.” He chuckled. “I didn’t even see them coming. They were small.”

“That was probably Mira,” you replied, amused. “She’s got the smallest frame but is pure chaos in the dark. She lives for that kind of ambush.”

“She’s terrifying,” Jungkook admitted, grinning despite himself. You laughed, and he could hear the sound of you scrubbing your hair. “So you didn’t last long without me.”

“Are you saying I need you for survival?” he teased back, as he washed his own hair.

“I’m saying you should’ve let me kill you. I would’ve taken you out dramatically.”

Your banter echoed between the stalls, easy and natural—both of you shedding more than just the sweat and grime of the game in that moment. The intimacy wasn’t physical, but it was there, warm and unspoken.

After the shower, both of you dressed in sleepwear—loose, clean clothes that smelled faintly of soap. You stepped out first, toweling off your hair. Jungkook followed shortly after, ruffling his own damp hair into a messy puff. He was wearing simple sweatpants and a hoodie, but he still managed to look unfairly good in the dim light.

You returned to your mat with a small yawn, ready to collapse—and then frowned.

Your blankets were gone. You looked around once. Twice. Only your sleeping bag remained. “What the hell,” you muttered. “Did Pia take my blankets again?”

Jungkook glanced over, already halfway through pulling on his hood. “What’s wrong?”

“My blankets are missing,” you said flatly, rubbing your arms. “Again. That’s like, the third time during a break. I’m gonna freeze.” You grumbled under your breath, tugging your sleeping bag tighter around you as you curled inward, trying to trap any hint of warmth. It wasn’t working. The bag alone just wasn’t enough, not after hours of sweat and adrenaline that had now chilled on your skin.

Next to your mattress, Jungkook had already made himself comfortable, lying cocooned in his own sleeping bag, arms tucked under his head. He watched you silently for a moment, then sat up a little, reaching for the extra blanket that lay folded over his legs.

“Here,” he offered gently, holding it out to you. “Take this.” You looked up at him, surprised, and hesitated before shaking your head. “I’ll be fine,” you murmured, forcing a small smile. “Just need to fall asleep quickly, that’s all.”

Jungkook didn’t argue at first, but you could tell from his expression that he didn’t buy it. And honestly, neither did you. Not even a minute later, your body gave you away as a shiver rippled through you, followed by another. Jungkook sat up again with a sigh, clearly having reached his limit.

“Seriously—just take the blanket,” he said, a little firmer this time. You shook your head again, teeth almost chattering. “You need it too—if you give it to me, you’ll be cold.” Jungkook stared at you, frustration twitching in his brow, and then—without warning—he huffed loudly and tossed the blanket at you with a bit more force than necessary.

“Okay, then we’re both using it,” he muttered.

Before you could even react, he scooted over with a soft grunt, shifting from his mat to yours with a little “hup.” You blinked at him, startled, still lying on your back as he threw the blanket over both of you and pulled the edge down to tuck it around your sides.

“There,” he said, grumbling, but not unkindly. “Better?” You swallowed, your heart giving a strange little kick as you nodded slowly. “Yeah. Better.” Your voice came out quiet, meek even. “Thanks.”

You could still feel the cold—your limbs hadn’t quite caught up yet—but the difference was immediate. The blanket added a crucial barrier, but more than that, Jungkook's body was a furnace next to yours. You were lying close, shoulders nearly touching, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your hoodie like sunlight under a door.

Minutes passed in silence. You stayed perfectly still, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, hoping he’d fallen asleep—because the truth was, you were still cold. Less so than before, but it lingered. The kind of chill that settled into your bones. You hated the idea of waking him if he had managed to doze off.

But then, you heard it—another huff. A small, exasperated sigh that made it obvious he was still awake. “Are you seriously still cold?” he asked, voice low but clear in the darkness. You didn’t answer right away, unsure if you should lie or not. “I’m fine,” you whispered eventually. Jungkook shifted beside you, the sound of fabric rustling. “You’re shaking.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but the next second, you felt his arm slip across your waist, pulling you ever so slightly toward him. Not forceful. Just enough that your sides touched fully now, his chest against your shoulder. The heat from him was immediate, his hoodie warm against your arms.

“Okay?” he asked softly, this time with less exasperation—just concern. You hesitated, heart thudding, then nodded into the pillow. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Thank you.” He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a quieter sigh, this one sounding more like relief. His hand stayed at your side, resting lightly, and the closeness wasn’t awkward—it was grounding. Your shivering slowed, then stopped.

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew quiet again. The air had stilled. But the space between you and Jungkook was something different—small, warm, shared. You closed your eyes.

“Night,” Jungkook murmured, his voice just barely audible.

And for once, you were warm enough to whisper back, “Night.”

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You woke slowly, the edge of sleep still soft around your thoughts. Everything was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Sometime during your rest, your sleeping bag had worked itself open—or maybe Jungkook had helped, you weren’t sure—but now you lay wrapped in something better. Jungkook’s arm, solid and warm, lay snug around your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. His tattooed forearm rested across your middle, the ink just barely brushing your skin where your hoodie had ridden up. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and slow.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

Even with all the work still to come—players to scare, undead routes to reset, makeup touch-ups to manage—you couldn’t bring yourself to shift away. Not yet. Instead, you nuzzled back a little deeper against his chest, murmuring a quiet, contented, “Warm.”

A subtle ripple moved through Jungkook’s chest in response—a slight hitch of breath, then the unmistakable rumble of his voice, low and gravelly from sleep. “Morning,” he murmured, the sound wrapping around you like a second blanket.

His arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you more securely against him until the crumpled sleeping bags beneath you rustled. You felt the line of his body at your back, his warmth chasing away the last of the chill from your sleep. You smiled. “Morning.”

He stayed quiet for a moment longer before speaking again. “Did you sleep okay?” You hummed, nodding as you tipped your head gently back against him. “Yeah. I did. You?” There was a pause. And then, too honest to be casual, came his answer: “I did. Best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

The quiet that followed was thick and strange and sweet all at once. Your heart did an unhelpful little flutter as you stared at the wall. His voice had been quiet—like a secret—but it was the way he said it, the way it settled under your skin, that startled you.

Still tucked in his arms, you hesitated before slowly peeling yourself away, stretching your legs and arms with a small groan. “We should probably get up,” you muttered. Jungkook made a reluctant noise behind you, but eventually pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He blinked down at you, his voice still a little hoarse. “So… what horrors await us today?”

You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. Your eyes widened. “Shit. We overslept.” You turned to him, already scrambling to gather your things. “We were supposed to be up at least an hour ago to prep the player routes. Come on!”

Jungkook followed suit, grabbing his clothes and slipping them on with smooth, practiced motions. He grinned as he shoved his arm through a hoodie sleeve. “Guess I really did sleep well.”

“You better hope I can still get you into the zombie ranks,” you teased over your shoulder, pulling on your boots. “They might reject you for being too cuddly.”

“Hey,” he said, raising a brow as he followed you out into the hall. “That was survival cuddling.”

“Oh yeah?” you laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Absolutely. Basic warmth acquisition.” He bumped his shoulder against yours lightly, and the two of you headed down the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the sleepy silence of the building.

You both made your way to the kitchen, where the smell of instant coffee and oatmeal powder greeted you. Inside, Taehyung was leaning against the counter, his long limbs wrapped in a tattered bloodstained robe, clearly halfway into his zombie transformation (or out of it) already. Jimin sat at the table eating a banana, one eye shadowed with black makeup.

“Well, well,” Jimin drawled, spotting the two of you. “Look who finally decided to rise from the dead.” Taehyung grinned. “Didn’t know we had to go wake the lovebirds.” Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. You just raised a brow and headed to the table for the last granola bar. “You’re just mad we look better rested than you,” you quipped.

“Debatable,” Jimin muttered around a mouthful of banana. “So. We still got one survivor left—Hoseok. You two in?” Jungkook grinned. “Absolutely.” You leaned on the counter next to him, smirking. “He won’t know what hit him.”

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The day moved at a full sprint. The final night of the event loomed close—players were on edge, volunteers ran from one side of the forested game area to the other, and the undead roamed with renewed energy, determined to make the last full round of scares their best yet.

Jungkook, freshly zombiefied with a smear of fake blood on his cheek and a torn-up hoodie that somehow still looked good on him, had left with Jimin and Taehyung just after lunch. The three of them had dramatically limped into the woods, groaning and growling, arms outstretched as they slipped into character followed by on of there camera guys. You’d only had a second to wave at Jungkook before he disappeared behind the tree line, flashing you a boyish grin beneath all the gore.

You, meanwhile, were knee-deep in logistics. Between coordinating player movements, monitoring timelines, and fixing half a dozen costume or prop-related mishaps, your feet barely touched the ground. Still, through the organized chaos, you caught glimpses of the guys doing what they did best—causing a scene.

At one point, you spotted Jungkook chasing a trio of screaming players down a muddy path with Jimin crawling out of the bushes behind them. Later, you heard Taehyung howling like a banshee near the river checkpoint. It was impossible not to smile. They were having the time of their lives.

But by nightfall, with just a few hours left before the grand finale at 6pm tomorrow—and the afterparty that would follow—it was becoming clear that one thing was still unresolved. “Hoseok’s still MIA?” you asked one of the Orgas, brows raised as you checked your notes. “Completely vanished,” the guy replied, breathless from running equipment between checkpoints. “Jungkook swore he saw him near the cornfield trail, but then poof. Gone.”

“Okay, either he’s in deep stealth mode, or he’s sleeping in a tree,” you muttered.

Around 10 PM, drained but steady, you made your way back to the NSCs rooms. You were just about to climb the stairs toward the staff rooms when the door burst open and the rest of the crew poured in—Yoongi, Jin, and Namjoon among them.

“I’m done,” Yoongi declared, already pulling off his gloves. “Like, corpse-mode. Actual sleep tonight.”

“Same,” Jin said, groaning. “If Hoseok’s really vanished, I’ll haunt him tomorrow.”

You smiled tiredly. “I just came to change back into my crawler costume. I need to help with the tunnels. We’ve got a group going through in twenty minutes.” Taehyung immediately perked up, nearly tripping over his own boots as he took a step forward. “Want help changing again?” he asked, eyes bright and hand half-raised like an eager kid.

You hesitated, suddenly more flustered than you expected to be. Taehyung had already helped you into the suit earlier with no shame whatsoever. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate—it had just been functional.

Still... you’d kind of hoped someone else might offer this time.

You stumbled for a second, unsure how to phrase your answer, but you didn’t have to say anything. Wordlessly, Jungkook came up beside you and gently placed a hand on the small of your back. Without saying a thing, he guided you up the rest of the stairs.

Taehyung blinked after you both. “I was just—”

“She’s fine,” Jungkook said over his shoulder, calm but firm. “We’ll wait outside if she needs help.”

“Wait, we?” Taehyung started. But Jungkook turned, holding a hand out against Taehyung’s chest and calmly, but with that subtle steel in his tone, said again, “Wait. Outside.” Before Taehyung could protest again, Jungkook closed the door with a soft click, leaving you blinking inside the small room, alone and stunned.

That… was kind of adorable.

You got changed fast, tugging on the skin-tight crawler suit, grimy from hours of wear. With the bulk of it on, you opened the door a crack, needing just a bit of help with the zipper. The first thing you saw was Jungkook’s back—broad, inked arm crossed as he leaned against the railing, still arguing quietly with Taehyung about “giving people space.”

He must have sensed your presence because he turned at once, and the second your eyes met his, you grinned. Wordlessly, you turned around and held up your hair.

Without hesitation, Jungkook stepped into the room, his hands warm against your back as he reached for the zipper. His fingers brushed your skin lightly as he drew it up, not rushed, not clumsy. You could feel his breath near your neck, the subtle tension in his shoulders. His touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to—his fingertips barely grazing your lower back before he let go.

It wasn’t overt.

But it was enough for your heart to stutter. Was that on purpose? You didn’t dare turn around yet, just let your hair fall back down and murmured, “Thanks.” Behind you, Jungkook cleared his throat, voice quiet. “Anytime.” There was something intimate in the silence that followed, something thick and unspoken. You finally turned, meeting his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, but he was watching you—really watching you. Not with teasing or smugness like Taehyung, but something quieter. Something... careful.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

The moody, overcast sky hung low as your group of undead moved silently across the clearing, a grim swarm of crawling, shuffling figures. Those who hadn’t needed rest—the tireless, restless ones—had followed you and the other crawlers, forming the largest horde of the weekend so far. It was impressive. Terrifying. Beautiful.

Jungkook kept close to your side, his gait eerily fluid now that he’d embraced the undead role. His makeup—smudged and dripping as intended—made him look like he’d clawed his way from a shallow grave. It was hard to look at him and not feel a chill, even knowing it was all fake.

Your target loomed ahead: the same weather-worn house from yesterday. The survivors had taken the whole day reinforcing it, piling fake furniture against doors, jamming wood panels over the windows, and even reinforcing the crawlspaces and drainage. You had to admit—you were impressed.

No ordinary zombie was going to breach those defenses.

But you and the crawlers weren’t ordinary.

You circled to the back, scanning every possible entry point. The drain was blocked. The cellar sealed. Windows barricaded. But then you spotted it—an open skylight above the sunroom extension. Small, maybe two feet wide, but you could make it through.

You just needed a lift.

Turning to Jungkook, you lowered your voice to a whisper. “How strong are you?” He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—what?” You pointed toward the skylight. Jungkook followed your gaze, his expression morphing from confusion to surprise. “You want me to… hurl you up there?”

“If you think that’s too much, I can ask someone else,” you teased, your voice cool, deliberate. Jungkook's jaw set. “No way. I’ve got you.” He wouldn’t risk someone else making a mistake that could get you hurt. You grinned, already backing up to get a running start, moving in position as Jungkook did as well. “Alright then. Just don’t drop me.” He crouched, hands out in position. “You better jump like you mean it.”

The two of you moved like you’d practiced it for years. You dashed toward him, boots silent on the damp grass. At the right moment, you planted your feet into his hands. Jungkook grunted as he pushed upward with strength that surprised even you. The world tilted—sky, house, the sharp outline of the skylight racing toward you.

Fingertips caught the ledge. You gritted your teeth, swung a leg up, and wriggled through. It was tight—but you made it.

You dropped into the attic-like space below with a soft thud and a grin, heart pounding from the adrenaline. A second later, you peeked back through the skylight. Jungkook stood below, looking stunned. You whispered down, “I will never ask someone else for this shit ever again!” He gave a breathless laugh, already approached by the next crawler.

In the next few minutes, you helped pull up two more. One got through on their own, the other needed Jungkook’s full strength and a bit of a climb. From your high perch, you coordinated their positions through narrow crawlspaces and above ceiling beams. Inside the house, muffled voices from the survivors grew louder—unaware of the silent, slithering danger creeping above.

And then the screams began.

Chaos erupted inside.

One of the crawlers dropped from the attic into a bedroom and shrieked. Another lunged from the shadows of the hallway, forcing a survivor to tumble back and crash through a makeshift barricade. The rest of the horde—waiting like hungry wolves—poured through the newly opened path.

You grinned with satisfaction as the house devolved into beautiful, fake carnage.

By the time it was over, the “survivors” were either “dead” or fleeing into the woods with wildly flailing arms, laughing and screaming in equal parts. You climbed out through the front window, breathing heavy but beaming, makeup streaked with sweat again.

Jungkook waited by the tree line, breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “That was… insane.” You sauntered toward him, brushing a cobweb from your shoulder, the thrill still sparkling in your chest. “You mean brilliant,” you corrected, giving his shoulder a friendly nudge. “Couldn’t have done it without my undead catapult.”

Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were just—like—gone. I thought I overthrew you for a second.”

“Well, lucky for both of us,” you said, nudging him again, “I have excellent upper body strength.” He looked at you for a moment longer than he probably meant to, eyes tracing your face, your smirk, the fading makeup. There was something new in the way he was seeing you—somewhere between admiration and being completely, quietly floored.

“I’m seriously not sure if I should be impressed,” he murmured, “or mildly intimidated.” You raised a brow, amused. “Why not both?” Jungkook grinned—genuine, wide, and a little shy. “Yeah. Both works.”

And together, shoulder to shoulder, you wandered back toward camp, the last moans of the “dead” trailing off behind you.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

You had played through the night. One relentless wave after another, your massive horde had flushed the most of the remaining survivors out of every hideout they had pieced together over the weekend. Some screamed. Some laughed. Some fought back valiantly—but none of them lasted long. It had been glorious.

Jungkook had stuck by your side for most of it, shambling and snarling beside you as if he'd been part of your crew since day one. By now, he fully understood why you loved this—why Yoongi had defected to the undead team without hesitation. There was something cathartic about giving in to chaos, something addicting in being the fear rather than the prey.

But still… playing a survivor had made Jungkook feel more. Adrenaline. Hope. Loss. Victory. Desperation. And you. You, always right in the thick of it. There was something unforgettable about the way you'd looked at him, teasing and alive.

It was nearing 10 AM now. The fog was finally burning off the morning air. Everyone had dragged themselves back to base. Some were already sleeping in bunks or huddled in chairs. Others slumped over mugs of instant coffee. The ones that hadn’t been up all night, just came back from their zombification to pick up were you left of.

You had wandered into the break area for off-duty undead NSCs. There, without a word, you'd climbed onto the billiard table, peeled off your gloves and mask, and lay down flat on your back, arms draped across your stomach. Eyes closed. Still in costume. Still streaked with grime and fake blood. But utterly at peace.

And Jungkook couldn’t stop looking at you.

He wasn’t the only one. Taehyung leaned lazily against the wall next to Namjoon, watching you with a curious tilt of his head. “She’s knocked out cold?” Taehyung asked, though he already knew the answer. Namjoon smirked faintly. “Nah. Just recharging. Like a haunted Roomba.”

“Should I poke her?” Taehyung grinned, raising a finger.

“Do it and lose that finger,” Yoongi mumbled from his spot in a nearby armchair, eyes barely open. “She hasn’t slept properly since Thursday.” Jungkook smiled to himself at Yoongi’s comment. But then someone else entered the room. The last person Jungkook wanted to see.

Lukas.

The same guy who had all but tried to force himself on you as he arrived here on the first day, eager and overly familiar from the start. A former survivor who’d now joined the undead side like everyone else. And apparently still hadn’t taken the hint.

Lukas sauntered over to your resting spot, standing at the edge of the billiard table and launching into some one-sided conversation about how epic the finale last year had been and how this year would probably be even better, he’d totally bring better gear next year, and how “you and me should team up next time” and on and on.

You didn’t move much, didn’t open your eyes, but the subtle pinch of your brow was all Jungkook needed to see. You weren’t relaxed anymore. Jungkook set down the energy bar he’d been holding and stood up.

Namjoon noticed. “Oh?” he murmured, nudging Taehyung. Taehyung leaned closer. “Here we go.”

Jungkook ignored them both, grabbed a bottle of water and a bag of chips from the supply table, and made his way over to you. He stopped right beside Lukas, who faltered midsentence, startled by the sudden appearance of the younger man.

In slow, careful English, Jungkook said, “Make space, please.” You opened one eye in surprise.

Lukas blinked. Jungkook held the bottle out toward you. “Water. For you.”

You stared at him for a second, then slowly sat up to make room on the table, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks,” you said, genuinely touched. You hadn’t asked him for anything—but you also wouldn’t say no. Especially not if it meant Lukas stopped talking.

Jungkook climbed up next to you without hesitation, stretching out on the green felt beside you, propping his head on one arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t even subtle about it—he just was there. Close enough to feel the heat of him again. Like last night.

Lukas stood awkwardly at the edge of the table, clearly thrown. “Uh… well. I guess… I’ll see you later?”

You hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look at him. Lukas lingered for a second more, then mumbled something and left the room. Taehyung whistled low. “Oh damn.” Namjoon laughed under his breath. “That was smooth. Very nonchalant. Ten out of ten for execution.”

Yoongi cracked one eye open from his chair. “Is he lying next to her now?” Taehyung nodded. “Full-on pool table cuddling. He just stared that dude down in second language flirtation mode and won.” Yoongi closed his eye again. “About time.”

Jungkook ignored them, offering you the chips as well. You took one, still smiling. “Didn’t mean to steal your table,” he murmured. “You didn’t,” you said, voice soft and relaxed now. “You upgraded it.” His grin was small but pleased. You lay back down beside him, arms occasionally brushing as the room fell into a comfortable lull.

The room buzzed around you in muted tones—people talking in corners, the occasional thud of boots, a laugh carried on the tired air—but next to him, it felt like the eye of the storm. Warm, peaceful, grounded. You didn’t need words. Just the rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest next to yours and the shared quiet of mutual exhaustion. And this time, no one interrupted your peace.

That was, until Jimin appeared.

Without hesitation, he climbed up onto the billiard table with the agility of a cat and flopped across your legs like he belonged there. Which, apparently, he did. “Comfy,” Jimin murmured, his head pillowed on your thigh. “You’re crushing my soul,” you replied, flicking the back of his head affectionately. “Good. You weren’t using it.”

Jungkook snorted, as you muttered, “He always like this?”

“Worse when he’s had sugar.”

You all stayed like that until the walkie-talkie on your belt crackled and broke the spell. “HQ to zombie queen Sparkles. Everything’s in place. Megaphone announcement’s done. All survivors have been warned. Last stand is good to go.” Eriks voice offered.

You sighed, sitting up with an exaggerated groan. Jimin flopped onto the floor dramatically like you’d cast him off a cliff. Jungkook stretched beside you, rubbing a hand over his face and smearing the last of his undead face paint across his cheek. The three of you reluctantly peeled yourselves off the table and made your way to the final battlefield.

The terrain had been cleared. Flags were up. The megaphone had roared across the campgrounds announcing the final stand. The survivors, what few were left, had gathered and were bracing themselves behind makeshift defenses, guns ready, darts loaded.

You moved among your horde. Dead eyes. Snarling mouths. Fake blood drying on skin and clothes and fingernails. All of them buzzing with excitement and end-of-event adrenaline. Everyone was here.

Everyone… but Hoseok.

You were starting to worry, but then—

A scream. A scramble. And then, emerging from the woods, looking like he’d barely slept or eaten in a week, came Hoseok followed by a cameraman and hunted by two Zombies. Mud-streaked. Wide-eyed. Alive.

Barely.

Yoongi didn’t miss a beat—lunging from a bush with a banshee screech. Hoseok screamed. Like a horror movie final girl. Dropped to the ground, arms over his face, bracing for impact. Yoongi just cackled and stood over him. Namjoon helped Hoseok to his feet, who was still shaking like a leaf.

“How the hell—” Namjoon began, looking both amused and baffled, “—how are you still alive?” Hoseok blinked rapidly, eyes darting around at all the undead closing in now. “I… I did what she said,” he stammered, gesturing weakly toward you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What did I say?”

“Keep moving,” Hoseok replied. “Don’t stay too long in any one group. Hide when it’s quiet. I—” He swallowed. “I spent the night in a tree.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Taehyung let out a bark of laughter. “You feral squirrel! You slept in a tree?”

“I panicked, okay!” Hoseok shouted, hands in the air. The final stand didn’t last long after that. You and your horde overwhelmed the last defenders like a slow-moving tidal wave of moans, shrieks, and Nerf darts. The end came gloriously, with dramatic deaths and heroic sacrifice.

And then—it was over.

Cheers erupted. Everyone collapsed on the grass. Some in laughter, some in total exhaustion. Hugs were exchanged. Final photos were taken. The event was officially declared a success.

Which meant only one thing: the after party.

What began as a mad dash turned into a full-blown war in the dorms. Everyone rushed after you as they saw you make a run for the room and then to the limited bathroom stalls. You, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Yoongi ended up in a four-way standoff in the hallway outside the bathrooms, all equally caked in grime and fake blood.

“There’s four showers!” you said, already tugging at the zipper of your jacket. “We can do this. We can be civil.”

“We’re never civil,” Yoongi muttered, eyeing the doors like he was going to sprint at the first handle that turned. “I vote Taehyung showers last,” Jungkook said, pointing at Taehyung’s face. “You literally have glitter glued to your cheek.”

“It’s part of my character,” Taehyung retorted. “I was a vampire zombie warlord, thank you very much.”

“I call stall three,” Jimin shouted as he skidded in, already half out of costume. “And if anyone touches my conditioner, I will bite.” You laughed, giving up the illusion of control. “We’re all feral.” But you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Especially not the way Jungkook’s eyes kept drifting toward you, even now—mud-streaked, tired, and grinning like a man who had just found something worth crawling through dirt and fake gore to keep seeing.

From your group of eight, you, Jimin, Jungkook, and—surprisingly—Namjoon had won the great shower battle and secured first dibs on the stalls. Victory had never felt so warm and sudsy.

But that victory came with a price: the walk of shame.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, hair still dripping and skin flushed from hot water and scrubbing off layers of fake gore, you had to walk barefoot from the shared bathroom back into your room—with them. Not your usual mix of female friends and old LARP buddies, but instead a full suite of K-pop idols with unfair cheekbones and far too many curious eyes.

You opened the door and stepped inside, water-slicked and entirely underdressed. Yoongi whistled, long and low.

Taehyung? Didn’t even pretend to be subtle. His eyes dragged over you like it was part of a performance piece. Jungkook, bless him, nearly dropped the hoodie he was folding and spluttered, “You—you forgot to grab clothes?”

You shrugged, casual as could be, striding across the room to your duffel bag. “Didn’t forget. Just didn’t want to lose my spot in the shower queue.” This wasn’t your first post-bathroom towel walk. But you had to admit, it was a lot easier around your usual chaos crew. You were used to that. You weren’t used to standing in a towel while the nation’s heartthrobs stared at you like you were a comet they weren’t supposed to look directly at.

You bent down, rifled through your things, and grabbed your black underwear and—

—pulled out your party outfit.

Jimin, still towel-drying his hair, froze. “You’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” As you wiggled into your panties, trying not to lose your dignity and keeping the towel in place, Jungkook caught Taehyung shifting on his bed and very pointedly moved to block his view. With Jungkook’s back turned to you like a protective wall, you quickly slipped on the rest of your clothes and zipped up the front of your fuzzy red panda onesie.

You were warm, soft, and immediately happier. Taehyung laughed, incredulous. “A red panda? For a party?” You grinned, cheeks flushed but triumphant. “All the Orga are wearing onesies tonight. And this one’s warm. And comfy. And now—” you spread your arms with mock pride “—I am fluffy.” Jimin ran over like a heat-seeking missile and threw his arms around you. “Confirmed. Very fluffy.”

Jungkook, finally looking at you in full red-panda glory, let out a soft laugh, and the last of the embarrassment in his expression faded into something gentler. He didn’t say it out loud, but the look in his eyes clearly read: adorable.

By the time the group of you arrived at the after-party, the hall had already transformed. Music was pumping, string lights strung between beams. People were dancing, drinking, lounging on couches—some still in costume, some freshly scrubbed clean like you, and others halfway in between.

You headed toward the bar, where Lea was already pouring drinks with practiced speed and familiar chaos, dressed in a beautiful dragon onesie.

“Beer?” she asked, without needing to be prompted.

“You know it.” You turned to Jungkook, who was already pulling out his wallet with that polite determination he always showed when trying to do something nice. “I’ll get hers too,” he said to Lea. You chuckled and lightly pushed his hand down. “No need, golden boy.”

“Huh?”

You leaned in, voice pitched over the music. “It’s my event, remember? My name’s on the staff list. I drink for free.” His eyes went wide. “Wait—you organizers drink for free?”

“Perks of power,” you said, and with a wink, handed him a beer instead—on your tab. Jungkook stared at it like it might explode in his hand. “You got me a drink?”

“Don’t look so shocked. You helped me catapult into a house full of screaming survivors, I figured I owed you one.” He took it with both hands like it was sacred. And then he blushed.

Hard.

Taehyung, passing behind him with two colorful drinks and glitter again clinging to his jaw, gave you a knowing smirk. “Careful. Jungkook might fall harder than that survivor who tripped into the fog machine earlier.” You raised your beer to your lips and shrugged, grinning. “I don’t mind a little drama.” And beside you, Jungkook drank, trying not to smile too hard—and failing.

The party had a warm chaos to it, the kind that made the exhaustion of the last few days dissolve into beer foam and basslines.

Somewhere during the first hour, a regular player—Mads, one of the older guys who had survived every single event you ran—took over Erik’s place at the grill. Erik, grateful, passed off the tongs with mock ceremony and rejoined the rest of the organizer crew.

That meant, for once, all of you (except poor Lea, glued to the bar like a bartender in some Viking saga) could give your traditional end-of-event speech.

So there you were: standing on the makeshift podium in your red panda onesie, Erik beside you in his lemur suit (complete with a striped tail and hauntingly round eyes), Pia in an inflatable frog getup, and four more of your crew in various animal-shaped fleeces. You each held beers, shouted into the mic, and barely kept a straight face.

“Thank you for not dying too early!” Erik called out, the lemur ears wobbling as he waved his beer in salute. “Thank you for dying dramatically!” Pia added. “And remember,” you said, holding your mic aloft with one paw-gloved hand, “when in doubt—scream louder.”

Your crew’s unofficial anthem blared from the speakers. And with that, the dance floor was officially open.

Players whooped. Some already half-drunk stumbled forward. Others started clapping, and the lights dimmed enough to encourage even the shy ones. Your crew, still in onesies, immediately launched into the most chaotic, uncoordinated, off-beat dancing the LARP world had ever seen.

You waved your arms like a raver raccoon on energy drinks. Pia was hopping. Erik did something disturbingly close to twerking with his lemur tail. It was a mess. Jungkook watched from the sidelines, drink in hand, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—not to laugh. “What… are they doing?” he asked quietly, in disbelief. “They’re dancing,” Namjoon said around a mouthful of chips. “I think.”

“No one taught them rhythm?” Taehyung asked, grinning. Yoongi chuckled. “Who needs rhythm when you’ve got that much conviction?” Jungkook took another sip of his beer, gaze lingering on you, red panda tail bouncing as you did a spin that nearly knocked over Pia. It was stupid. It was adorable.

But then his jaw tensed.

Because there, half-shadowed near the back of the hall, stood Lukas—again—watching you with a kind of focus that rubbed Jungkook the wrong way.

He stiffened.

Yoongi noticed immediately. “What’s up, lover boy?” Jungkook blinked, caught. “You’re staring at that guy staring at her,” Jimin chimed, leaning into Jungkook’s side like a nosy little devil. “You gonna do something or keep clutching that beer like it’s gonna kiss her for you?”

“He’s just… watching her. Again.” Jungkook’s tone was too neutral to fool them. Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “So you watch her, but when someone else does it, it’s creepy?”

“Yeah, because he didn’t get her hint. Not the first day, not earlier. He doesn’t even know her.” Jimin tilted his head. “And you do?” Jungkook opened his mouth—then closed it. “I know enough.”

“Then go talk to her,” Yoongi said simply. “It’s not that easy.” Jungkook looked away, jaw tight. “She’s… different. This isn’t some club. We’re in the woods. This whole thing’s temporary. What am I supposed to give her? A one-night stand in a barrack at the ass-end of nowhere?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment. Then: “Why are you deciding for her?”

Jungkook blinked.

“If that’s all she wants,” Jimin added, “fine. Go for it and stop looking at her like a lovesick puppy. But what if she wants more?”

“I’m an idol,” Jungkook said quietly. “Schedules. Tours. Cameras. Chaos. I don’t even know where I’ll be next month. How do you fit something real into that?”

Yoongi leaned on the table next to him. “First of, this doesn’t look real to me,” and with that Yoongi pointed back at you and your friends now all twerking… in a circle… rubbing your butts together? “Second, maybe you don’t. Maybe she fits you into her life.”

That thought lingered, heavy and hopeful. Jungkook stared into the crowd, finding you again—laughing now as you leaned on the bar next to Lea, talking with some of the remaining players. One girl clasped your hand and said something earnest. Another guy raised his drink and said, “Best LARP I’ve ever done.”

You looked genuinely happy. Genuinely in your element. Jungkook felt his chest tighten. But before he could take a step—before he could even turn around—

There was a commotion.

All heads turned. Glass clinked. Music faltered for a second. Jungkook shoved his drink into Yoongi’s hand and moved. He didn’t hear Yoongi call after him. He was already in motion, eyes locked on you, on Lukas, on the way your shoulders tensed and your voice cut through the music like glass.

“Let me GO!”

Lukas had you by the arm—tight. His face was flushed, not just with drink but something rawer. Jungkook’s pulse surged. By the time he got to you, Erik and two other guys were already there, trying to pry Lukas off. You weren’t crying, but your face was pale, and the way you leaned back, straining against Lukas’ grip, made Jungkook’s stomach twist. Your body was tight with fury.

Jungkook didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He just stepped forward and gripped Lukas’s wrist—not his shoulder, not his chest, but right at the tendon and bone where Lukas was holding you. His grip was precise. Firm. Final. His other hand found your waist. Gentle. Protective. Steadying.

“Let go,” Jungkook said—low, dangerous, and razor-sharp. Lukas jolted at the tone, but his grip stayed locked on your arm. “I just wanted to talk—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you snapped, voice ringing out above the crowd. “Not now. Not ever.” Lukas faltered, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that in front of everyone—as if his entitlement had never once been challenged. His hand stayed where it was, fingers tight around your skin.

Jungkook’s fingers pressed harder on Lukas’s wrist, just enough to make the point clearer. But you weren’t done. Your eyes blazed as your spine straightened. “If you don’t let me go in the next five seconds,” you said, voice shaking with rage, “I swear to god I will break your nose.” Jungkook could feel the rage vibrating through you—radiating off your body like a storm about to burst. He wasn’t sure if you were bluffing or if you were about to swing.

Honestly? He wasn’t sure if he should stop you if you swung.

But Lukas still didn’t let go. His pride puffed up like a balloon on the verge of popping. He looked around, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. Of how many people weren’t stepping in to defend him—but you. Cornered, humiliated, he snapped. His voice turned sharp and bitter as he sneered at Jungkook, eyes flicking to the hand still resting protectively on your waist.

“What, a ching chong like you thinks he can just show up here and take my girl?”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, vile, and so incredibly wrong. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He’d been called worse before—more vile, more venomous. He’d learned, long ago, to let it pass over him like cold wind. But here? In a place like this, surrounded by paint-stained props and foam swords and people just trying to have a good time? It surprised him. How casual the cruelty was.

And it surprised him even more—how fast you moved.

Your fists clenched, words hissed. “What did you just say?” Everything about that sentence—the racism, the possessiveness, the delusion—made your blood boil. And you lunged.

And Jungkook caught you. Barely.

His arms snapped around your waist like instinct. His fingers curled tight, grounding you as your momentum dragged both of you forward a step. He was strong, but you were all rage, and it took everything in him to anchor you still. Erik and his friends surged forward again, grabbing Lukas and dragging him off you.

You thrashed once in his hold, fists curled, jaw clenched. “Let me go,” you growled, low and lethal. “I’ll break his fucking jaw for that—I swear to God—" Every inch of you wanted to throw your fist into Lukas’s face. And you would’ve—if Jungkook didn’t hold you.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed against your temple, voice still calm, still quiet—but laced with something tight and simmering underneath. “He’s not worth it. Not your hands. Not your energy. He’s not worth you.”

But you were shaking with more than rage now—humiliation, helplessness, the aftershock of being touched like that, spoken to like that, in front of everyone. If not for Jungkook holding you tight, grounding you, you might’ve done it. You wanted to.

Lukas shouted something incoherent as Erik and his friends dragged him away, kicking and protesting. “This is bullshit! I didn’t even do anything—!” As they dragged Lukas toward the gate, shouting and protests growing quieter, you stood trembling—but trying to take slow and controlled breaths. Your hands shook as they fisted in Jungkook’s hoodie. Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

You weren’t scared. Not with Jungkook behind you, Erik standing guard, and half the event ready to rip Lukas apart. But you had been handled. In public. Dragged like you didn’t matter.

And that... stayed with you.

Jungkook’s grip loosened just slightly, but he didn’t let go. You didn’t either.

He glanced down, brows tight with worry. His hands were steady. But his pulse wasn’t. He could feel the fury in you—righteous, volcanic—and for a second, something deep inside him marveled. At how fast you’d defended him. He wasn’t proud that it had happened—wasn’t proud of being reduced to a slur in front of strangers. But he was proud of you.

Proud he’d had to catch you mid-swing because you’d chosen to step in—for him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” you muttered automatically. But you weren’t. Your arm was red—angrily so—and your fingers, curled into his hoodie shaky. That told him all he needed to know. You weren’t fine. And the way the red panda fluff of your onesie caught in the light only made it more noticeable. Jungkook followed your line of sight, then looked down at you again, brows pinched.

“Can I see?” he asked gently, nodding toward your arm. You hesitated—just for a second—then gave a short nod. He let go of you slowly. You turned to face him as he carefully reached for your wrist. His fingertips brushed the discolored skin—hot, raised, aching.

You hissed through your teeth before you could stop it. He pulled back instantly. “Okay,” he said softly, like talking to a cornered animal. “You’re gonna need ice. And space.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

But your voice was strained, and your hand trembled again—this time against the chest of his hoodie, where you were still holding on.

You weren’t fine. You were furious. And humiliated.

Jungkook didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. You were standing there—shaking, unsure, your arm throbbing now that the adrenaline had started to burn out of your bloodstream. You felt the ache settling in, the way your fingers trembled at your side, the warmth of Jungkook’s presence suddenly too close and not close enough.

Embarrassment burned hotter than the bruise.

You couldn’t look at him. Not really. Not after lunging like that. Not after being manhandled in front of half your own damn crew. Behind Jungkook, Jimin and Yoongi stood nearby. They hadn’t interfered but had clearly been ready to jump in if things had escalated. Jimin’s jaw was set, eyes still flinty and sharp with anger on your behalf. Yoongi, meanwhile, had that unreadable look—cool, assessing, but not uncaring.

Then Yoongi tilted his head, dry humor flickering in his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he said, glancing at your clenched fist. “Jungkook should’ve let you throw that punch.” That broke the tension like glass underfoot. You blinked up, startled. So did Jungkook.

A small laugh escaped you—wry and strained, but real. Jungkook huffed a soft sound. “Don’t encourage her,” he said, though his mouth twitched. “She was serious.”

Yoongi just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Exactly. When was the last time a pretty lady was ready to throw a punch for you?” that forced a chuckle out of you and Jungkook.Seconds later, Taehyung arrived with long strides and no smile in sight. His usual easy warmth was replaced by something clipped and focused as he held out a bottle of water to you.

“Erik’s walking him out,” he reported, eyes flicking to Jungkook, then back to you. “I called our security. He’s handled.” He paused. “Jungkook, you might want to press charges.” You nodded before Jungkook could answer, your fingers brushing his. Even that soft contact was shaky. Your grip was weak around a water bottle, and it took you more strength than normal to unscrew the cap. Your mouth was dry, but swallowing felt harder.

Jungkook’s voice was calm but resolute. “I’m not pressing charges.” That made your head snap toward him, brows pinched. He met your gaze. “It’ll only drag the event into it. Headlines, attention… you don’t need that.” The quiet that followed wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t peace. It was the stillness of something raw, exposed.

You nodded slowly, but you felt small. Shrinking. The ember of humiliation sat low in your chest—tight and awful. Being grabbed like that—dismissed like that—had settled in your bones. Your voice was smaller than you intended. “I think I’m gonna sit down for a second.”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. “Come on.” He placed a hand lightly on your back, steering you gently toward a quieter corner behind the bar. You weren’t sure how you got there—just that he never left your side. You could still feel the aftershocks in your hands. The tremble wouldn’t stop.

Lea saw you coming and immediately crossed the bar with urgency. She passed Jungkook a folded towel packed with ice, eyes widening at the redness blooming across your arm. “Thanks,” you murmured, pressing the bundle to your skin.

You sank onto the bench like your knees had finally given out. Jungkook crouched in front of you, eyes locked on your face. His brows furrowed—not with frustration, but with a quiet, watchful worry. He waited until your gaze finally lifted to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, throat thick. “For… ruining the mood.”

“You didn’t,” Jungkook said immediately, voice low, unwavering. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” But still, the weight of it sat heavy in your chest—like you’d broken something sacred by needing help.

“Yeah, no offense,” Jimin chimed in gently from somewhere just behind Jungkook, “but the mood was already kinda dead when you guys started that weird circle twerk thing.” You blinked. Then snorted. Taehyung pulled another bench over, slouching onto it with theatrical despair. “Was that meant to be dancing? Because I think my eyes need therapy.”

Yoongi gave a low chuckle from behind a cup of water someone had handed him. “Honestly, I think I preferred the screaming zombies.” The laughter this time was softer, but it curled through your chest like something healing.

The boys were trying to lighten the air, you realized. Trying to give you a minute to feel normal again. And you realized—this was what safety felt like. Jungkook didn’t smile, though. Not really. He huffed, looking down with a rueful smile, then leaned in a little closer, voice quiet and serious. “Honestly? Would’ve been nice to watch Lukas get dropped flat. Especially by you.”

Yoongi gave a quiet snort of agreement, and Jimin let out a low, appreciative, “Damn.” Then Jungkook looked back up at you, head tilting. “And you came in swinging for my honor. That was… sweet.” Your stomach dropped. You groaned, burying your face in one hand. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“What?” Jungkook grinned, teasing. “It was kinda romantic.”

“I hate this,” you mumbled into your hand, burning. “I should’ve just bitten him.”

“You were aiming,” Yoongi commented. “I saw that jaw clench.” Jimin leaned in, mock-serious. “Next time, lead with the knee.” Taehyung, blinked. “I miss five minutes of drama and apparently it turned into Mortal Kombat?” That finally earned a real laugh from you—soft and sore-throated but genuine.

You looked down at Jungkook—still crouched in front of you like you might fall over again if he wasn’t anchoring you. He looked up, eyes dark and gentle. “You sure you’re okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded once. “…Getting there.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything to that. But the look in his eyes said enough.

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Part 2

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Nowhere to Run- Steel and Starlight

(Jungkook x Reader | Sci-Fi | Action | Enemies to Lovers | Slow Burn | Survival)

A skilled mechanic finds themselves entangled with Jungkook, a dangerously efficient fighter who was meant to be nothing more than cargo. As they navigate threats, their uneasy alliance is tested in ways neither expected. But as they face impossible choices, the question remains—who is truly in control here?

Masterlist

Steel and Starlight

Wordcount: ~1100

Jungkook didn’t leave.

Even when the ship was patched up, even when the next station was within reach, he stayed.

You weren’t sure what to make of it.

He avoided Namjoon, barely spoke to Jisoo, and only interacted with Hoseok when absolutely necessary. But with you…

That was a different story.

It started with little things.

Like how he never strayed too far when you were working on repairs. How he always managed to be in the same room as you, even when he had no reason to be.

And then there were the looks.

He thought you didn’t notice, but you did.

The way his violet eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he watched you move through the ship, like he was memorizing every step.

It was infuriating.

Because you still didn’t trust him.

And worse?

You were starting to want to.

The breaking point came two days later.

The Stellar Hound had been running smoothly for the first time in weeks. The new parts were holding up, the ship was faster, more responsive. You had gone over every system, reinforced the weak spots, and ensured that even if something did go wrong, you had an escape plan.

It should have been a moment to breathe.

Instead, it was when everything went to hell.

The alarm blared.

Hoseok swore, hands flying over the controls. "Shit! We’ve got incoming!"

Your stomach dropped. "Pirates?"

Namjoon’s face was pale, his hands clenched. "No." His voice was deadly calm. "Bounty hunters."

Your blood ran cold.

They weren’t after you.

They were after Jungkook.

And judging by the way his expression hardened, he already knew it.

“Docking clamp engaged,” Taehyung’s voice cut through the tension. "They’re trying to board."

Jisoo was already moving, loading her rifle. "Then let’s welcome them properly."

Everything after that was chaos.

The ship shook as the clamps latched on, and the moment the airlocks were breached, the fight began.

Blaster fire erupted through the halls. You barely had time to react, diving behind cover as a volley of shots ricocheted past you. The air was thick with smoke, the acrid scent of scorched metal filling your lungs.

Your ears rang. Your heart pounded.

You didn’t have time to think—only to move.

Dodge. Fire. Reload.

The bounty hunters were fast, but you were faster—at least when it came to the ship. You knew every inch of it, every weak spot, every angle that could give you an advantage.

Namjoon fought like a man possessed, moving through them with brutal efficiency. Jisoo took out targets before they even knew where she was. Taehyung had set up a secondary defense, locking down the engine room.

But then—

A hunter slipped past.

And he was headed straight for Jungkook.

Your heart stopped.

Your stomach twisted.

Jungkook had his back turned, taking down another bounty hunter. He didn’t see the attacker moving in behind him—didn’t see the gun aimed directly at his head.

Except...

You knew Jungkook wasn’t just any fighter.

He was built for this.

Everything about him—the way he moved, the way he fought—was too calculated, too precise. It wasn’t just training. It was instinct.

He was made for war.

But even warriors had blind spots.

And that was why you moved.

Not toward Jungkook.

Toward the ship controls.

Your hands flew over the panel, overriding the manual lighting system. The moment the sequence was complete, you hit the switch.

The ship plunged into total darkness. Jungkook s name leaving your lips softly – a warning.

A beat of silence.

Then—emergency lights.

Blood-red shadows flickered across the corridor, bathing everything in deep crimson.

The bounty hunter cursed, momentarily disoriented by the shift in lighting.

Jungkook wasn’t.

He moved.

Fast.

Faster than any human should.

One second, he was still. The next, he was behind the bounty hunter.

The man didn’t even get the chance to turn.

Jungkook’s hand snapped around his wrist, twisting it at a brutal angle. A sharp, wet crack echoed through the corridor.

The bounty hunter screamed.

It didn’t last.

Jungkook grabbed him by the collar and drove him forward—straight into the metal wall. The impact was sickening. The man slumped, unconscious before he even hit the floor.

Jungkook barely spared him a glance.

Then—just as quickly as it started—it was over.

Jungkook straightened from the last body, rolling his shoulders like he’d just finished a warm-up. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

And then his dark eyes snapped to you.

You stood there, panting, gripping the control panel so hard your knuckles had gone white.

And for the first time, Jungkook wasn’t smirking. For the first time, he looked serious.

But not in the way you expected.

Jungkook wasn’t afraid of the bounty hunters. Or even death.

He looked afraid of you.

Not from what you’d done, not because you’d turned off the lights, not even because you had helped him win the fight.

It was something deeper than that.

It was understanding.

It was the fact that you had set it up.

Of what you’d just done.

For him.

Of what it meant.

For someone like him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, Jungkook stepped forward, his movement purposeful.

You didn’t move.

He tilted his head, voice low. “You planned that.”

Not a question.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, your fingers flexed against the panel, but you held your ground. “And?”

Something flickered in his expression.

The corner of his lips quirked up. Then—amusement.

Dark, sharp amusement. The kind that sent a shiver down your spine.

“And I think I like the way you think, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped.

You knew you should step back. Say something sharp, keep your walls up. But for some reason, under the blood-red emergency lights, with adrenaline still pounding in your veins, you didn’t.

Instead, you watched as Jungkook closed the distance, only stopping when he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached past you—his arm brushing against yours as he pressed something into the control panel.

The ship hummed back to life.

The emergency lights flickered off, normal power restored.

The tension in the air didn’t disappear.

If anything, it grew heavier.

Jungkook turned to you, his eyes locking onto yours. His voice was softer this time, but no less dangerous.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

Taglist: @dachshunddame@hecatesdescendant@chaeisrichnow@canarystwin@mar-lo-pap@notyourfriendooo@bjoriis

[sweetvoidstuff]

Undead, Undressed, Unexpected I Part 2

Jungkook x Reader I Slowburn (sort of) I zombie larp au I smut with feelings I friends to lovers vibes I soft but messy I table trauma I kinda domestic kinda feral I camping chaos I emotional intimacy

Summary: A LARP weekend takes an unexpected turn when BTS wants to film there Vlog there. Or: “I don’t know what’s weirder,” Yoongi muttered, sipping the beer you’d tossed at him. “That this is happening or that you’re all so prepared for it.”

Word Count: 50K (both Parts)

Part 1

Masterlist

A/N: Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me… so I’ll be posting Part 1 and Part 2 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.

I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!

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You looked down at Jungkook—still crouched in front of you like you might fall over again if he wasn’t anchoring you. He looked up, eyes dark and gentle. “You sure you’re okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded once. “…Getting there.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything to that. But the look in his eyes said enough.

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You weren’t behind the bar for long. Not because you wanted to leave—but because Lea kicked you out. It started with a clatter. Taehyung had just dropped his third bottle, this one narrowly missing a stack of mismatched cups, when Lea’s voice sliced through the hum of chatter and music like a blade:

“Out. All of you. Before someone loses an eye!”

There was a beat of silence—then chaos. “Aww, come on!” Jimin whined. “I was practicing, practicing!” Taehyung insisted, holding up two bottles like he hadn’t just tried to juggle them. “But he was about to juggle fire!” Erik called dramatically from somewhere to the left, clearly not helping.

“No fire! No juggling! No!” Lea barked, pointing at the exit flap behind the bar like a drill sergeant. Groans followed—loud, theatrical, and entirely unrepentant. But within seconds, your little group was herded out, blinking into the soft glow of hanging string lights and the fading warmth of evening.

The air outside was balmy, thick with laughter, music, and the scent of grilled food. The lights above you swung gently in the breeze like little suns, and for the first time in an hour, things felt… lighter.

More like your event again.

You mingled slowly, Jungkook staying within arm’s reach, his presence a quiet but constant tether. The others came and went—Taehyung veered off to inspect the DIY tattoo booth someone had set up (god help him), Yoongi ended up in a very serious conversation with someone about amplifier wattage, and Jimin wandered between groups like a glowing social butterfly. Namjoon returned from wherever he’d vanished with two skewers in hand and a fresh drink tucked into his elbow, nodding at you both like a satisfied dad.

People smiled at you as you passed—some hesitated, maybe unsure of what to say, but those who did mention the Lukas incident kept it light. Encouraging. One woman gave you a thumbs up before immediately turning to Jungkook and patting his shoulder with a grin. “Good grip,” she said approvingly. “Otherwise, we’d be wiping Lukas off the floor.”

Another, a tall, bearded man named Markus, clapped Jungkook on the back so hard it made him take a step and blink. “Man, you cost me fifty bucks!” Jungkook looked confused. “Huh?”

You laughed, already translating under your breath. “He said he bet fifty on me decking Lukas.” Jungkook’s eyebrows rose. “Wait—really?”

“He was confident,” you said with mock smugness. “Honestly, you might’ve ruined there highlight of his week.” Markus nodded solemnly, arms crossed. Jungkook’s ears went pink. “Sorry?”

“Don’t apologize,” Markus grinned. “But if you’re gonna keep her from throwing hands, at least teach her how to throw you next time.” You burst out laughing, and Jungkook ducked his head, laughing sheepishly along with you—even if some of the fast slang slipped past him. Namjoon helpfully leaned in and translated the more idiomatic parts, which just made Jungkook groan louder.

By the time plates were passed around, drinks topped off, and the laughter mellowed into a steady hum, the members had naturally rotated in and out of your orbit. Yoongi stayed for a while, then drifted to one group drinking whisky. Jimin disappeared with Erik into the throng to scout the crowd. Taehyung came and went—at one point returning with temporary tattoos all over his forearms and no explanation.

Only Jungkook didn’t leave your side.

He didn’t hover, didn’t smother—but he didn’t drift far either. He handed you a cup of punch when your hands were empty, gave you space when someone needed your attention, and made sure you always had a buffer when the crowd got a little too close. Like he was tuned to your wavelength—moving with you, not around you.

And then Lea reappeared—finally free from behind the bar. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. You saw her coming with a look in her eyes that screamed get ready, and before you could even form a protest, she had you by the wrist.

“Oh no—”

“Oh yes,” she grinned, tugging.

“But my arm—”

“You’ve still got one good one, don’t you?” With a half-hearted groan, you let her drag you forward. You turned back toward Jungkook as Lea marched you toward the dancing crowd. He was laughing—clearly delighted—and offered only a cheerful shrug and a lazy, “Don’t worry. I’ll catch you if she starts breakdancing.” You flipped him off over your shoulder with your non-injured hand.

Taehyung whistled low from somewhere by the speakers. “This is either going to be amazing—or historic.”

“Why not both?” Jimin chimed in. As the music swelled and Lea started dancing beside you, you finally let yourself ease back into the rhythm of the evening. You were sore, yes—tired, bruised, and still reeling from earlier—but the energy of the night had shifted.

It was yours again.

Jungkook stood just beyond the crowd, beside Jimin and Taehyung, his drink long forgotten in his hand. The music pulsed low and steady through the warm night air, wrapped in the haze of string lights and voices, but his attention was fixed on only one part of it—the middle of the dance floor, where you and Lea had claimed the open space like you owned it.

And maybe you did.

At first, it had been pure chaos—exactly what he'd come to expect from you. No rhythm, no structure, no rules. Just movement. You and the other organizers seemed to launch into dancing deliberately offbeat, ignoring every cue the music threw at you, limbs flailing in exaggerated mockery, dragging laughter from the crowd.

But then, like the flick of a switch—something shifted.

The beat changed, and so did you.

You settled into the rhythm with the kind of casual precision that came from knowing your body and not caring if anyone watched. You spun fluidly, your hand catching Lea’s for a short, graceful twirl that made the crowd cheer, and Jungkook blinked.

You were… actually good. Not showy. Not rehearsed. But you were a good dancer.

The kind of dancing that felt like fun had been stitched into your muscles. “Wow,” Jimin muttered, clearly impressed. “She can move.”

“Should we start placing bets again?” Taehyung added, watching with a smirk. “I give it twenty seconds before she breaks the ice with that knee-slide thing she does.” Jungkook didn’t answer.

He was still watching you. His chest felt tight—he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way you laughed, head thrown back as Lea tried to spin you again and failed miserably. Or the way your movements had none of the self-consciousness so many people showed when they knew eyes were on them.

There was something magnetic about it. Something warm and freeing and so unlike the world he normally lived in.

For just a second, Jungkook wanted nothing more than to walk into that crowd, take your hand, and spin you the way you deserved to be spun. He could do it—he’d danced a thousand times before. It would’ve taken no effort. But it wasn’t that simple. “Damn,” Taehyung muttered beside him, side-eyeing the soft smile forming on Jungkook’s face. “You’re doing that thing.” Jungkook blinked. “What thing?”

“That dreamy thing,” Jimin supplied, grinning. “The one where your eyes go all glassy and I start checking if you’re falling in love or just watching a cat video.” Jungkook gave them both a look, but it was half-hearted at best. “I’m not jumping in there,” he said, voice even. “Too many phones. Too many eyes.” He wasn’t wrong. The area around the dance floor was thick with laughter and movement, but here and there were flickers of phones in hands—some recording, some taking pictures. It was honestly a miracle that nothing had started trending already.

“Kind of wild no one’s noticed yet,” Jimin agreed. “Maybe the WiFi sucks.”

“Could be the signal,” Taehyung added. “We are kind of off-grid out here.” Taehyung leaned in, voice low but sly. “If you really want to, Jimin and I can go in with you. If photos pop up later, it’ll just look like the three of us messing around on the dance floor. No one’s gonna think you’re making a move.” Jungkook didn’t answer right away.

Jimin raised a brow, amused. “Or you could just keep standing here, admiring the view.” Taehyung grinned. “You do that a lot.” Jungkook turned to protest—but the moment he did, Taehyung smirked. “Jungkook,” he said innocently, “you’re blushing.”

That made Jungkook snap his head away, ears instantly flushing a shade of red that was unmistakable even in the low light. “I’m not,” he mumbled, eyes narrowed—mostly at himself. Because yeah, he did. But not in the way they were implying. He wasn’t just staring.

He was… caught.

He looked again. You and Lea were still laughing, still moving easily together, the crowd around you growing more confident with each beat of the music. And maybe it was the warm lights strung across the space, or the fact that your earlier stiffness had completely melted away, but for a moment you looked like sunlight had taken human shape.

Jungkook took a slow breath.

He wanted to join you. Really wanted to. Not just to dance, but to be the one who made you throw your head back like that in laughter. To be the one who got to spin you like you were the only person on the floor.

So he stood, caught between the pull of wanting and the weight of reality, until Jimin casually pulled out his phone and shot off a quick message. “To Namjoon,” he said when Jungkook glanced over. “We’re getting everyone out there. If it’s chaos, it’s cover.” Taehyung clapped Jungkook on the back. “Come on. We’ll get close, keep it low-key. You don’t even have to dance with her.”

“Unless you want to,” Jimin added with a not-so-innocent smile. Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Not this time. Because the truth was written all over his face—soft in the corners of his mouth, burning quiet under his skin as he let himself be nudged, just a step closer.

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It hadn’t taken long. One by one, the rest of BTS had filtered onto the dance floor until all seven of them were there, folded effortlessly into the crowd. Jin threw an arm around your shoulder, a skewer of grilled something in his other hand, swaying to the beat like it was his own personal concert. The bass thrummed in your chest. Lights glittered overhead. And everything—your arm, Lukas, the humiliation—faded into the background.

Then the music shifted, sharp and playful, and without anyone saying a word, a dance battle of sorts began to unfold.

You didn’t know who started it—probably Jimin, judging by the ridiculous body roll he threw out—but soon Hoseok jumped in with an exaggerated wave and Taehyung followed, dragging Lea with him. The five of you formed a loose circle in the middle, challenging and cheering each other on, laughter ringing out every time someone did something particularly absurd or unexpectedly smooth.

But even in the chaos of the music, the motion, and the people, you noticed one thing clearly: Jungkook wasn’t joining.

He was there—close, just at the edge of the circle—but he didn’t step in. Not once. And every time you glanced his way, he was already looking at you. Not in a creepy way. Not even in a smoldering, flirty kind of way. Just watching. Focused. Like he was memorizing the way you moved when you were happy.

Your chest gave a tiny squeeze at the thought, but before you could overthink it, Erik came storming into the circle, determined to show off what he claimed were his “peak college breakdance skills.” What followed was a chaotic mess of elbows, questionable footwork, and a spin so wild it nearly knocked you over.

You stumbled back laughing, hand to your chest, and landed squarely beside Jungkook. He blinked at the sudden proximity. “You having fun?” you asked, catching your breath and smiling up at him. He looked a little startled to be addressed so directly, but nodded, quickly. “Yeah.” You squinted at him, cocking your head like you didn’t believe it for a second. “You don’t look like it.”

That hit home more than you meant it to.

Jungkook shifted, visibly flustered. Because he was having fun—sort of. But not in the way he wanted. Not standing on the sidelines watching everyone else dance with you. Not holding back because of the fear of photos or speculation. If he could’ve, he’d already be in the middle of it, spinning you like he’d imagined, drawing laughter out of you like a magician pulling scarves from a sleeve.

But before he could explain any of that—before he could give you some stupidly careful version of the truth—you reached out and gently tugged at the hem of his hoodie.

Not hard. Just enough to get his attention.

“Come on, Mr. Dancer,” you teased, your eyes glinting. “Show us your moves.” For a second, Jungkook froze. And then—slowly—his smile cracked through. Soft. Sheepish. Full of all the warmth he’d been holding back. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and a little breathless.

And then he stepped forward. Jungkook barely had time to step into the rhythm with you before his hyungs erupted into a chorus of over-the-top cheers. “Let’s go, golden maknae!” Jimin whooped, clapping above his head like it was a stadium concert.

Taehyung let out an operatic “Oooohhh!” and dramatically fanned himself. Even Yoongi, who had dragged a barstool right into the middle of the dance floor like some mafia boss at a cabaret, lifted his drink lazily and smirked. “Took you long enough.”

The atmosphere was loose, joyful, chaotic—in the best way. And Jungkook? He relaxed. Really relaxed. He moved with you in that way only he could: smooth and unforced, never trying to outshine, just syncing with your energy like it was second nature.

He didn’t touch you directly—he was careful—but every now and then, his hand brushed yours, or his shoulder bumped lightly against yours as you circled each other to the beat. The touches lingered just a second too long to be casual, and every time, you met his eyes with a grin that felt like fire and sunlight combined.

He returned each one like it was the only answer he knew.

The music jumped, and another loud “WOOOO!” exploded behind you—Jimin and Taehyung again, now mid-body roll, clearly trying to outdo each other. Hoseok booed them for lack of originality and busted out a ridiculous robot, which made the entire circle dissolve into laughter.

And that’s when it happened. Markus.

Longtime con attendee. Six-foot-something, bearded, and currently sprinting into the dance hall in nothing but briefs, socks, and sheer commitment to the bit—carrying a giggling girl bridal style like he was rescuing her from a burning castle.

“Princess delivery!” he bellowed, spinning once on one foot before darting straight into the center of the crowd. The music didn’t stop. The crowd just split to make room. But the BTS members stood frozen for a second, eyes wide as if they'd just watched someone launch a streaker at the Super Bowl.

Jungkook blinked. Jin made a strangled noise. Jimin looked like he needed someone to reboot him. You, on the other hand, calmly glanced at your phone for the time. “Huh,” you muttered. “Later than usual.”

Jungkook stared at you, bewildered. “Wait—what?” You shrugged, sipping from your beer. “Honestly, I was starting to think this year might be the exception.”

“You mean… this happens often?” Namjoon asked cautiously, raising a brow.

You nodded. “Every year. Every. Single. Afterparty. Someone decides clothes are optional and just—” you gestured vaguely toward Markus and his princess, “—goes full chaos.” Lea, dancing nearby, overheard and nearly tripped laughing. “Did you just—? Oh my god, I thought I was the only one keeping score.”

You grinned. “Didn’t you get carried around by that trader cosplayer in just your underwear during last year’s party?” She threw a hand over her heart, mock-scandalized. “That dude was beautiful and I have no regrets.” Namjoon was already wheezing into his drink, clearly the only one who caught the full gist without translation. But it didn’t take long for the implication to sink in for the others.

“Wait,” Jimin said, eyes darting between you and Markus, “they just get naked? Like… actually naked?” You tried to keep a straight face but failed. “Not always fully. We do have rules. But yeah. It’s like clockwork. And don’t even get me started on the drinking games.” Jimin looked genuinely stunned. “And they keep drinking?”

“They escalate the drinking,” you corrected, lifting a hand as if to bless what was about to unfold. “The games are about to start. Mark my words—someone’s gonna end up trying to convince the fire pit to let them sleep in it.”

Jungkook leaned in slightly, eyes wide, voice pitched low in mock awe. “What kind of event is this?”

“The fun kind,” you replied, nudging him with a wink.

Lea threw an arm around Taehyung’s shoulder and raised her drink like a declaration. “Welcome to post-apocalypse party culture, boys. Clothes optional, drinks mandatory, dignity negotiable.”

And with that, the music rose again—faster, wilder—and the crowd surged into motion.

Jungkook glanced back at you, eyes bright with laughter and something softer beneath it. The night, it seemed, was just getting started, and with a crowed like this… the fear of him and the members making it was shrinking. It sounded unlikely of someone posting while there nearly naked people running around.

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It hadn’t taken long, the members had spotted at least three more guys sprinting through the venue in nothing but their briefs—varying levels of fitness and confidence on full display—and even one girl who twirled dramatically in a sequined bra and rainbow-striped socks. No one batted an eye. It was strange, wild, and oddly freeing.

The music throbbed through the floor, people moved like waves, and somewhere between a body roll competition and someone juggling glow sticks, Erik nearly toppled into a table, causing a small pause and collective gasp. You’d managed to guide him toward a chair before retreating to the bar, where Lea was now fully in bartender mode again—handing out drinks and tossing witty comments with every pour. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath and chatting casually, enjoying the warm buzz of it all.

That’s when David came barreling into the room.

“I GOT ONE—NO, TWO!” he shouted, eyes scanning the crowd like a wolf on the hunt.

Your face froze. Then your eyes widened. Without hesitation, you shoved your half-finished beer into the nearest open hands—Yoongi blinked as he suddenly found himself holding it—and turned on your heel toward Jungkook, who stood closest to you.

Without a word of warning, you launched yourself at him.

“Wha—?!” Jungkook caught you with a startled grunt, your arms wrapping around his neck like a koala clinging for survival. He instinctively braced, his hands finding your waist to steady you, and despite the surprise, he laughed—clearly used to being climbed by his more dramatic hyungs.

Behind you, David groaned loudly in defeat just reaching you. “Oh, come on!”

Lea, having anticipated this, had already leapt onto a nearby beer crate like a nimble cat escaping a flood. She grinned from her new perch, triumphant. David changed targets immediately and darted toward her instead, only to be denied again.

“You can’t stay up there all night!” he called out in frustration, hands on his hips.

Lea and you locked eyes, both smirking.

“Watch us,” you said in perfect sync, your voice muffled slightly from where your face was half-buried in Jungkook’s hoodie. The rest of the members stared, utterly baffled.

Namjoon stepped forward, brows furrowed, lips parting as he tried to follow the sudden whirlwind of fast-paced English between you and David. The rest of the members looked completely lost, heads ping-ponging between speakers like they were watching a match they didn’t know the rules of.

Namjoon, however, caught it. His eyes lit with recognition, a disbelieving smile forming as he processed what you just said. “Okay… What just happened?” he asked in English, just to be sure.

You wiggled slightly in Jungkook’s hold, arms still clinging to his neck, and grinned sheepishly like a stubborn koala. David looked at Namjoon, explaining “It’s called Orga Tag. All the event organizers are fair game till midnight. Anyone who catches and lifts one like a bride gets a discount on next year’s tickets. But if an Orga gets off the ground—like Lea standing on that crate or, well... her clinging to the dude—they’re safe.”

David, still trying to corner Lea, shouted, “Basically the floor is lava for the Orga.” Namjoon laughed in disbelief. “You guys are insane.”

Taehyung leaned in, clearly baffled. “Hyung, what’s happening?” Jungkook glanced over his shoulder at Namjoon too, confused but still dutifully holding you steady. “Yeah, explain. Why is she stuck to me like glue?” Namjoon switched to Korean, grinning as he translated everything: “Okay, so apparently there's this game going on called ‘Orga Tag.’ All the event organizers are now targets—if someone catches and lifts one like a bride before midnight, they win a discount for next year.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Seriously?” Namjoon continued, “But! If the Orga manages to get off the ground—like standing on something, or someone—they’re considered safe. Like… she’s using Jungkook as a human tree right now.” The group burst into mixed reactions: shock, laughter, and awe.

Jungkook blinked, still holding you. “So, you’re using me as a safe zone?” “Yup,” you said unapologetically. “You’re warm, tall, and surprisingly sturdy. Perfect perch.” He laughed—a real, breathy, shaking his head at your chaos laugh. “You’re seriously going to stay like this?” You gave a tired little nod, arms still looped tightly around his neck. “As long as I can. Or as you let me,”

But the truth was: your arms were already aching, your core burning from the cling. Jungkook seemed to realize it, because he adjusted his stance slightly and hooked his arms under your legs, hoisting you higher with effortless strength.

“Here,” he murmured, shifting you onto his back like a piggyback ride, “This’ll last longer.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and rested your chin on his shoulder, completely unbothered by the fact that you were now being paraded around the dance floor like a very smug backpack.

“I don’t know what’s weirder,” Yoongi muttered, sipping the beer you’d tossed at him. “That this is happening or that you’re all so prepared for it.” Namjoon just shook his head, half-laughing. “This might be the most chaotic party we’ve ever been to.”

“And the best,” Taehyung added gleefully, already eyeing the crates as if considering joining the chaos. Jimin looked delighted. “Wait, so if someone picks you up—” he pointed at Lea, who was now standing on two beer crates for extra height, “—they win?”

“She’s safe for now,” you confirmed. “But if she comes down…and someone grabs her bridal style…”

“Game on.”  Taehyung clapped excitedly. “I love this.” Jungkook just looked back at you over his shoulder, eyes warm with amusement. “You owe me. My back’s doing charity work now.” You grinned. “You’re enjoying this.” He smirked. “Little bit.”, but didn’t complain. In fact, he adjusted his grip and gave you a little bounce—earning a surprised laugh from you that made his heart flip.

Somewhere behind you, another cheer went up as someone caught a different Orga bridal style and took a victory lap. The night was getting wilder by the minute. Still perched securely on Jungkook’s back, you stretched out an arm with dramatic grabby hands toward Yoongi. “My beer, please,” you called, voice light but commanding. Yoongi laughed, clearly entertained. “You’re not even trying to get down.”

“I’m in survival mode,” you replied with mock seriousness. “Hand it over, civilian.” Amused, Yoongi held the drink just out of reach. “You gonna come get it?” You huffed. “Sir, I am currently a limited-function human. My entire movement radius depends on Jungkook.” Jungkook turned his head slightly at that, grinning. “You say that like I’m a mech suit.”

“I wish you came with a cup holder.”

As if summoned by pure chaos, Erik appeared—shuffling into view on the far end of the hall, balancing precariously on two empty tomato soup cans. He used them like stilts, moving one in front of the other, hopping forward with exaggerated care. It was a slow and wobbly approach, and behind him, two guests stalked him like hyenas, clearly waiting for him to fail and hit the ground so they could tag him.

The entire room slowed to watch.

The flickering fairy lights caught the glint of his ridiculous lemur-tail onesie dragging dangerously behind him like a tripping hazard. At least twice, he nearly bit it. But Erik was undeterred. When he finally made it to where you and Jungkook stood, he planted both cans firmly down, took a proud breath, and looked up at you.

“Smooth,” he said, voice flat but approving. You raised your hand again like a queen granting audience. “Knighted.” Erik smirked and turned to Lea, who stood elevated and safe on her beer crate behind the bar. “Can I get another drink before these scavengers pounce?”

“I’ll trade you one for a crate,” she bartered, smirking. Jin blinked rapidly, completely baffled. “What is happening?” Namjoon gave him a look and muttered, “Don’t think about it too hard.” Taehyung, however, was delighted watching the chaos. “We need to try this,” he said, eyes wide as he leaned over to Jimin. “Next Challenge content. I’m serious.”

Behind you, another cheer erupted as Pia, dressed in her frosh-themed onesie, was tackled into a beanbag with a dramatic thump. Before she could scramble away, someone swooped in and lifted her bridal-style, parading her triumphantly through the dance floor to the soundtrack of raucous laughter and applause. You turned just in time to see it happen, laughing, but your attention was quickly pulled back to the boy whose back you were piggybacking on.

Jungkook had crouched a little to keep your weight steady, his arms slung securely beneath your thighs, his palms resting warm and firm on the inner curve where thigh met hip. Your legs were locked tightly around his waist, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, giving him full control of your balance.

You hadn’t expected how… close it would feel. The softness of your onesie meant there was barely any barrier between his fingers and your skin, and the heat of his hands bled through the fabric like it wasn’t there at all.

You stilled for a second as you felt it—his fingertips beginning to move.

Not a shift in grip. Not an absentminded adjustment. Tiny, gentle shapes. Circles. Lines. Rhythmic patterns traced so carefully into the curve of your thigh it was like he was speaking in some quiet language only your skin could hear.

And god, if your legs weren’t locked around his hips in self-preservation, you might’ve melted right off him. Your pulse jumped embarrassingly fast. The shapes weren’t suggestive or bold—just intimate, achingly soft in a way that caught you completely off guard.

You leaned forward a bit, chin resting on his shoulder, hair brushing lightly against the side of his neck. You didn’t say anything—couldn’t, really—but the tiny shift in closeness was answer enough.

He felt it. You were sure he did. Because the second your body pressed a little tighter against his back, Jungkook let out the faintest exhale, his fingers pausing only briefly before continuing their subtle trail, emboldened, slightly more confident now.

It was nothing. It was everything. It was subtle. No one else would notice.

The dance floor kept spinning, lights flashing, people laughing, drinks passed and spilled—but it all blurred to static in the background.  You smiled, the curve of your cheek pressed to the warm line of his neck, hiding the way your whole body was humming. And Jungkook smiled too—just enough that only someone holding onto him this closely would notice.

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Someone from the crowd near the doors waved you down—a group of your fellow “crawlers,” the regular post-event mischief crew, already gathering outside for the traditional cool-down drink. You straightened slightly on Jungkook’s back, craning to see who was calling for you, but the second you moved, his grip automatically adjusted, fingers flexing gently into your thighs like muscle memory.

You looked down at him, considering. He’d carried you like this for a while now—granted, you were the one who had leapt onto him like a caffeine-fueled koala—but still. Jungkook hadn’t complained much… until a few minutes ago, when he’d mock-whined to Taehyung that you were “getting heavy,” grinning so wide you knew he was only doing it to rile you up while the others laughed.

Still, maybe it was time to get off before your smug backpack status became an actual burden.

“Hey! You coming or what?” It was Garam, standing just outside with a few other familiar figures silhouetted in the spill of warm light. “Crawler drink time!”

You lifted your head, squinting toward him. A tradition as old as your post-event chaos itself: the final drink with the crawler crew, your late-night cooldown ritual of bad ideas, worse alcohol, and inside jokes whispered until sunrise. But before you could answer, Garam narrowed his eyes, catching sight of you still on Jungkooks back.

“You’re still in the Orga tag?” he called, sounding more amused than surprised.

You glanced at the clock—just under an hour to go. And though the game wasn’t as wild outside the dance hall, technically, yeah… you were still "fair game" if your feet touched the ground.

You hesitated.

Jungkook had already carried you around longer than anyone had a right to. His grip was steady, warm, and you could still feel the faint traces of the little shapes he’d been drawing on your thighs earlier. But asking him to take you outside, into the cool air and across camp? That felt like asking too much. You’d gotten greedy. Maybe it was time to cut your losses.

Your arms shifted like you might dismount, and that’s when Garam smirked and spread his arms wide. “I can carry you if you want, you know. Knight in neon armor and all that.” You looked at him, genuinely considering it—his teasing was good-natured, his offer real. Garam had carried far drunker friends with less reason.

You gave an exaggerated sigh, shifting like you were ready to dismount. “I mean… he did say I was getting heavy,” you said, mock-pouting, “Maybe I should give your spine a break before it cracks under the pressure of my onesie greatness.”

But before you could slip off, Jungkook surprised you with a firm, low: “No.”

You blinked and looked down at Jungkook. His gaze was locked forward towards Garam, but his arms tightened subtly under your thighs. “What?”

“I said no,” Jungkook repeated, like he hadn’t even considered there was an option. “You’re not getting down.” Your brow furrowed, half in amusement. “What if you’re tired? You did say I was getting heavy.”

“I lied.” He looked up at you then, his expression earnest and just a little smug. “You’re not heavy. I just didn’t want to admit I got comfortable.”  You blinked, caught somewhere between a laugh and a flutter. “So… I’m comfy now?” He gave the smallest grin. “Yup. And I already adjusted. I’m not letting you down,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

You smirked. “Pretty sure this counts as kidnapping.”

“Yup,” Jungkook said again, completely unbothered. “Voluntary. No refunds.”

“Damn,” Garam chuckled, watching the exchange. “Guess that’s a no on me being your steed of honor.” You shrugged dramatically. “I got claimed. It happens.”

“Well then,” Garam said, spinning on his heel toward the doors, “hurry up, lovebirds. The crawler drink waits for no one.” That caught Yoongi’s attention, who’d been casually sipping a beer from the sidelines, perked up at that. “What’s a crawler drink?” You looked back at him, grinning. “Come and find out. It’s chaotic, weird, and always too much alcohol.”

“Sold,” Yoongi said with a shrug, already falling into step.

And just like that, the group began to head toward the doors, the night air spilling in cool and sharp against the lingering heat of the dance floor.

Jungkook adjusted your weight slightly and began walking without another word, arms snug beneath your thighs and hands still comfortably braced against your legs. Once in a while, you felt the soft brush of his fingertips again—more gentle shapes, more quiet touches. And each one sent a little buzz down your spine. He carried you easily, like he was perfectly content to play your getaway ride until midnight or longer.

You could’ve asked Garam to carry you. You probably should’ve. But the truth was?

You didn’t want to. Not when this felt so impossibly good. And with his warmth at your chest and the echo of Garam’s laughter around you, you couldn’t help thinking that maybe being a smug backpack wasn’t such a bad deal after all.

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The fire pit flickered low but steady, a smaller ring of warmth nestled just off the main square near the NSC area—far enough from the bigger crowd to feel like your own little world. This was your crawler crew’s turf. You’d all ended more events around this fire than you could count, with stiff limbs, sore feet, smoke in your hair, and laughter hoarse in your throats.

Around the flames were familiar faces: Alex with his arm slung lazily around a half-empty bottle, David reenacting some dramatic fall with Mira’s snorts of disbelief in the background, Yuji poking at the fire with a branch far too long, and Garam, legs crossed like a camp sage, already grinning as you and Jungkook arrived. Molly was here too, one of the survivor game champions from earlier, sipping something in a mismatched mug. She gave Jungkook a salute as you approached, eyes twinkling.

“Still riding high, huh?” Alex called when he saw you. “You know the game ended like forever ago for most other Orgas, right?”

“She and Lea are holding on. Still in the tag,” Mira added with a gleeful shake of her head. “Unreal. You’re like the smug queen of the chaos realm.”

You gave a mock-regal wave from your perch on Jungkook’s back. “One must maintain their dignity. Or, y’know, cling to it.”

There were cheers and laughter at that, and someone passed you a drink—something fruity and cold, served in one of the reusable event cups. You accepted it with a grateful hum, but before you could even raise it to your lips, Mira turned to Jungkook, offering him one too.

“Here, since you’ve become part of our roaming monument to endurance. Sorry for, uh, killing you earlier,” she added with a snicker. “In game. Not like, literally.”

Jungkook smiled, shifting you slightly to keep balance. “No hard feelings. It’s all part of the game.” He made to take the cup but hesitated. With you on his back, both arms locked under your thighs for support, he had no real way to grab it.

“Oh—here, I got it,” you offered quickly, taking the drink from Mira and carefully maneuvering it.

It took a moment of delicate adjustment—your legs tightened instinctively around Jungkook’s waist, and you leaned forward a bit to brace the cup in front of him without tipping it. The closeness made your heart flutter. Jungkook, still as stone beneath you, bent his head slightly and took a slow sip from the edge of the cup you held.

It was like something out of a bizarrely sweet battle couple ritual. You couldn’t help but giggle as he pulled away, miraculously without spilling a drop. “Look at that coordination,” David muttered. “God-tier level.”

“Genuinely impressed,” Yoongi said, just arriving with his own drink in hand. His eyes were on you both, an amused arch to his brow. “You two have achieved perfect symbiosis.”

“Only took half the night,” you laughed, offering Jungkook a second sip before taking one yourself. Yoongi took a seat nearby, warming his hands by the fire. “I like this crew. There’s a good kind of madness here.” You glanced around. The crawler drink had officially begun. Cups clinked, laughter bubbled, and even if you weren’t sure what time it was, you could feel the countdown to midnight hanging in the air.

Across the pit, Erik was being gently heckled by Molly after tripping over the lemur tail of his onesie—his infamous downfall. He’d fallen off his makeshift tomato soup can stilts in spectacular fashion, making him the latest Orga to lose the tag game.

That left only two players standing: Lea and you.

Now that only Lea and you were left in the game and midnight was drawing near, things had taken a sharper edge. The participants—buzzed on drinks and competitive energy—had gotten bold. Lea’s situation had grown steadily more precarious. Earlier, she’d stood confidently on three crates stacked like a podium, but her support had slowly vanished—literally. One by one, people had snuck off with the extras, whittling her down to just one unsteady square of safety. One wrong step, and she was fair game.

You, on the other hand? You had Jungkook.

Mobility. Height. A reliable, unfair advantage in the shape of one very determined man who carried you like it was a job he was honored to hold. And maybe he was. His hands were steady on your thighs, fingers loose but sure, and his body moved with an ease that made it feel like he’d done this kind of thing a hundred times.

But you felt the shift in the air. That charged hum of people scheming.

You were mid-laugh, chatting with Daniel and Garam by the side of the smaller fire pit when a group of three new faces slipped into your circle by the smaller fire pit. They weren’t from your crawler crew, but you vaguely recognized them from earlier chaos—faces painted, shirts rumpled, limbs carrying the unmistakable energy of people who had been chasing others around for hours and were very committed to finishing strong.

They zeroed in on you immediately.

Or more precisely, on Jungkook.

“Okay,” the one in the middle announced dramatically, pointing at you like he was declaring a public service. “This is illegal. You can’t just be carried around like a prize. Get down, woman!”

You snorted. “Make me!”

“She said it!” one of them shouted gleefully. “She said the words! That’s permission!” You grinned and waved sarcastically from Jungkook’s back. “Hell no. I’m very comfortable up here, thanks.”

“Oh, come on, man,” another said with a grin, walking a half-circle around you two, like circling a jungle gym. “You’ve had her on your back for what, hours? Just get down,” stepping forward with dramatic flair. “We’ll go easy on you. Promise.”

“Easy?” you echoed. “You lot look like a pack of gremlins.”

“Flattered,” one said, bowing with mock grace. Daniel, sipping from a cup nearby, called out, “You three couldn’t catch her if she was duct-taped to a crate.”

“Ouch,” one of them clutched his chest. “Okay, now we have to catch her.”

“Group effort,” someone else nodded. “Classic three-man lift-and-yank maneuver.”

You were laughing, but as they started creeping closer with all the subtlety of toddlers playing tag, you felt a shift—their energy wasn’t threatening, just very committed. Determined in that chaotic, tipsy kind of way. And they weren’t about to give up just because you were several inches out of reach.

Worried they might actually lunge and grab you like a game of human whack-a-mole, you quickly shifted your arms, sliding them out from around Jungkook’s neck. If they did manage to yank you down, you didn’t want to accidentally strangle him on your way out.

You leaned down slowly, close enough that your lips nearly brushed the shell of Jungkook’s ear. He didn’t expect it—his breath caught slightly as your voice slipped through, soft but urgent.

“Let me down, Jungkook… or run.”

The hair on the back of his neck rose. His shoulders straightened under you. “Run?” he asked, grip on your thighs tightened just a little—like he was instinctively bracing. “Run,” you confirmed, eyeing the way two of them were definitely circling behind him now.

“Alright,” Jungkook muttered with a grin. “Hold on.”

One of them lunged—

And then you were moving—flying—as Jungkook bolted through the crowd with a sudden burst of speed. You heard shrieks and laughter behind you as your pursuers scrambled to give chase, but Jungkook was too fast.

“Cowards!” one yelled through laughter. “Get back here!”

“Stop cheating! She’s a human power-up!”

He weaved through the crowd like he had a built-in radar for gaps in human traffic, laughter shaking his back under your arms. The crowd parted in patches, some cheering, others just trying not to spill their drinks.

“YOU CAN’T STAY UP THERE FOREVER!” someone called.

“WATCH ME!” you shouted back, wheezing with laughter.

“You better marry her at this point!” someone shouted from the sidelines as you zoomed past.

The crowd parted for you like it was all part of the show, clapping and whooping as Jungkook darted past people and fire pits, his arms still firm on your legs, like he’d absolutely signed up for this. Your laughter rang against his ear, and he was grinning too wide to say anything as he carried you deeper into the chaos.

Someone shouted, “GO JUNGKOOK!” probably Hoseok like it was a horse race.  Mira’s voice joined the chorus, loud and proud: “Longest carry of the night, folks! Give it up for our human Uber!”  You nearly fell off laughing.

When Jungkook finally slowed down near the edge of the Game Area, hidden from view by smoke and shadows, he let out a deep exhale, still smiling. He bent slightly at the waist, one hand braced against his knee with you still clinging to his back. His breath came out in steady puffs, warm against the cooling night air.

“You good?” he asked, voice a little breathless but still laced with that easy amusement that hadn’t left him all night. You snorted, hugging his shoulders. “No notes. Perfect getaway. Five stars. Would ride again.” He let out a soft laugh, but didn’t move to let you down. The shadows here were quieter, distant from the buzz and cheering still echoing around the central game zone.

After a beat, you said, “Hey—want to rest for a second? You can set me down here if you need. No one’s watching.” But Jungkook shook his head. “Nah. I’m not risking it.” You blinked. “You think someone’s actually gonna sprint out here and snatch me at the last second?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, a mischievous little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t think it. I know it. That crew looked unhinged.”

You laughed. “Jungkook. You could just end the game right now. Snatch me yourself. Drop me and win.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he replied easily, adjusting his grip on your thighs. “Besides, this is actually kind of fun.”

He shifted again, bending forward a little more so your torso slid over his back at a more comfortable angle. Your arms naturally slipped around his shoulders again, anchoring yourself loosely. It wasn’t the most graceful pose, but it felt oddly cozy. He even hummed softly, like this worked better for his back, and you grinned into the fabric of his hoodie.

“I’m not heavy, am I?” you teased. “You? Nah,” he said, then grunted softly. “Your stubbornness, though? That’s got some weight.” You smacked his shoulder lightly and both of you laughed.

Then, over the low hum of voices and music in the distance, Erik’s voice rang out in the night air:

“Ladies, gents, cryptids, and crawler scum—TAG GAME IS OFFICIALLY OVER! It’s midnight—let’s hear it for our surviving organizer!” A wave of applause and playful groans rolled through the group.”

You twisted instinctively, trying to get a view of the campfire area in the distance—but Jungkook straightened at the announcement, lifting you upright on his back with an exaggerated dramatic movement like a knight hoisting a victory flag.

You laughed in delight, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie to hold steady. “Okay, now you can let me down. Victory achieved, Sir Jeon.” But Jungkook just grinned. “What, after all that? And walk in like a regular person? That’s a terrible entrance.” You wheezed, half from laughter, half from disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.” You let your forehead drop against his shoulder, face hidden in the curve of his neck, your breath warm where it met his skin. “Completely ridiculous.”

“Only slightly,” he said, turning to walk back toward the others—your weight still on his back, your laughter shared with his under the stars and smoke.

 “And the only, surviving un-snatchified until the final second of this ridiculous game… still stuck on the back of her noble steed—” Erik paused for dramatic effect, spinning toward you with a grandiose gesture as you and Jungkook were in sight again. “—is Y/N The Orga Who Could Not Be Caught!”

There were whoops and claps, even a makeshift drumroll on the side of a crate. Erik tossed a pair of vouchers toward the participants who had managed to catch an Orga member. Your crawler crew cheered you on with half-sincere bows, and Yoongi raised his cup from where he lounged by the fire. “Not bad. Guess the strategy of doing absolutely nothing but freeloading on Jungkook paid off.”

“I’d argue she perfected it,” Taehyung added, strolling into the ring of firelight like he hadn’t vanished hours ago to chase some side mission. “Honestly, the confidence of riding someone around like a smug little queen while the world burned around you? Inspiring.” You sniffled loudly, wiping fake tears from your cheeks. “You guys don’t get it. I’ve forgotten how to walk. My legs are purely decorative at this point.”

Mira nearly spat her drink out laughing. Jungkook chuckled too, his body shaking with it beneath you. “You’re ridiculous.” You turned just enough to scowl over his shoulder. “You’re laughing now, but who’s been hauling my dead weight around like a sack of overly caffeinated potatoes?” Laughter rippled around the circle. Jungkook’s shoulders shook with a low laugh too, and you felt the vibration echo through your chest where you leaned against him.

“You’re seriously still comfortable up there?” Yoongi asked, quirking a brow. You shrugged, cheek still resting near the curve of Jungkook’s neck. “Hey, I stayed in the game. Can’t argue with results.” Taehyung looked at you with mischief in his eyes but his voice light. “You gonna come down sometime tonight or…?”

“Okay, okay…” You groaned like it physically hurt you to say the words. “I’ll get down. Let the people rejoice.” That got a round of sarcastic applause and exaggerated goodbyes from your crew, as if you were retiring from the throne. Even Yoongi muttered something like, “Tragic, truly,” under his breath.

But before you slid off, before you gave up the steady warmth of Jungkook’s back and the strong pressure of his hands beneath your thighs, you hesitated. because the truth was, now that it was over, now that you had to leave the steady warmth of his back and the familiar grip of his hands on your thighs, you didn’t want to. A flicker of nerves passed through you.

You hadn’t dared to do anything bold while clinging to him. But now that you had to go? You didn’t want to miss your chance. You’d wanted to do something—anything—to see if the light touches he kept giving you had meant something. And now, as you leaned forward, your breath caught.

You let your head fall toward the curve of his neck, grumbling loud enough for it to sound like irritation, but quiet enough that no one could hear the shift in your voice. Then, barely grazing the soft skin just where his neck and hoodie meet, your lips brushed there—quick, featherlight, not a kiss exactly, but not not either.

Your breath fanned against his skin. Jungkook went utterly still beneath you. Then, his fingers at your thighs curled just slightly—just enough to tell you he noticed, just enough to make your breath catch.

And then, wordless, he bent his knees to help you slide off his back, and your feet touched the ground with an awkward wobble. You winced. “Ugh. I hate being short again.”

Jungkook rolled his shoulders back, cracking his neck like he needed to physically shake something off. But his eyes found yours immediately. And something in his gaze—hot, unwavering—made the air around you thrum. The teasing was gone. His eyes were dark with something else. Something sharper. Fiercer.

You opened your mouth to make another joke—anything to break the tension—but stopped. Because you couldn’t tell if he was mad at you. His stare burned, like he was holding himself back from saying something that would crack the surface.

But he wasn’t angry.

Oh no. Jungkook was thinking.

He was thinking about the way your lips had touched his skin like a secret. The breathy way you’d exhaled against him. And more than anything, he was thinking about how fast he could get his hands back on you, about what he would’ve done if you’d dared to do that earlier—when he had you all to himself, legs wrapped around his waist, his hands already at your skin.

If you’d done that while he was still carrying you… he might not have stopped walking. Might have just kept going. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere dark.

But now?

Now he had to figure out how to get you alone again.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

As you and Jungkook stood between your friends at the main gathering, Markus came over first—grinning wide, cheeks flushed from the firelight and maybe a beer or two.

“Hey, untagged champ!” he said, giving you a congratulatory fist bump. “Didn’t think anyone could actually win this thing without getting snatched. But damn—you pulled it off.”

“Technically, Jungkook pulled it off,” you said with a sheepish smile, thumbing back at him. Markus laughed. “True. But hey, teamwork, right?”

Before you could reply, Namjoon approached with his usual laid-back energy, but there was amusement playing in his eyes. He gave you a nod and patted Jungkook’s shoulder. “Nice to see some actual strategy.” Behind him, Taehyung and Hoseok rolled up like a storm front—smirking and already mid-tease.

“Jungkook, the way you ran—” Hoseok clutched his chest, dramatically stumbling back. “Like a soldier carrying a wounded comrade.”

“I’ve never seen your legs move that fast,” Taehyung added. “Did she promise you snacks or something?”

“She is kinda snack-shaped,” Hoseok said with a wink toward you, making you groan and cover your face. Jungkook didn’t laugh. Not really. He smiled a little, but his gaze never drifted from you. He barely acknowledged the teasing, even as the others laughed around him. His jaw was set, and his eyes—still trained on you—were unreadable, something burning just under the surface.

You felt your stomach flip. Yep. Okay. You definitely overstepped.

Your little breathy not-kiss to his neck—it had been a last second decision. Stupid. But the way he looked at you now made it clear that something had shifted. And not necessarily in a fun, flirty way. At least… you didn’t think so.

“I’m, uh, gonna run to the bathroom,” you said, backing away slightly, forcing a smile. “Finally. First time since the game started.” It wasn’t a lie. But it also wasn’t not an excuse to put a little distance between you and the man you may or may not have semi-offended with not-accidental neck contact.

You felt his eyes on you as you turned, burning a line between your shoulder blades the entire way to the portable toilets near the edge of the camp. The line of vision didn't leave until the buildings finally blocked it.

Once inside, you sighed. Loudly. And then immediately groaned again when you remembered the onesie situation. Peeling the whole thing off was a pain. You muttered to yourself the entire time, caught somewhere between embarrassment, residual adrenaline, and the kind of dizzy thrill that came with being close to someone like Jungkook. And maybe, maybe doing something slightly too bold.

After you were done, you stayed put for a moment longer. The idea of slipping away entirely crossed your mind—not because you wanted to avoid the group, but because you weren’t sure if you could keep your cool around Jungkook after everything. What if he said something? What if he didn’t?

You cracked open the door slowly, peering out at the firelit crowd beyond. And that’s when a very familiar pair of arms slung themselves across your shoulders. “Where have you been?” Jimin whined against your ear. “You and Jungkookie are hitting it off, huh?”

You blinked, surprised, as he leaned into you—definitely tipsy, his cheeks a bit pink and his words loose around the edges. “What?” you said, laughing lightly, unsure how to react. “He looked like he was on some noble quest to save a damsel—only with more swearing and snacks.” You laughed, a real one, breath easing out of your chest. “I’m pretty sure I was the one saving myself.”

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Jimin tapped your shoulder with the back of his hand. “He had this look on his face. You know the one.” You arched a brow. “I really don’t.” Jimin grinned lazily. “That ‘I’m-pretending-this-is-a-game-but-I-would-tackle-a-bear-for-you’ look. You’ve got him acting weird. In a good way.” You didn’t know what to say to that. You could only offer a soft, awkward chuckle and look anywhere but back toward the fire—where you knew Jungkook was probably still watching you.

Jimin hummed and squeezed your shoulders once more. “Anyway, I approve. You’re cute. He’s cute. And if this was a romcom, this is where I’d wink and tell you not to mess it up.” You gave a short laugh, trying not to show how much his words rattled around in your chest. “Thanks for the pressure,” you said dryly.

Jimin only giggled and wandered off toward the drinks table again, leaving you blinking in his wake. What he didn’t know was that you’d probably already messed it up as you leaned in closer than necessary. That you were smitten with his friend. That your lips had brushed the warm skin at the curve of Jungkook’s neck. That your breath had fluttered there on purpose, just for a moment.

Only Jungkook had felt it.

Only he had gone completely still when it happened.

You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve as the familiar chaos of the night reclaimed its rhythm. Now that you were back on the ground and the tag game was officially over, the after-midnight lull began to settle in. People came over to congratulate you—laughing, chatting, offering quick hugs and goodbyes. Some were already heading home, planning to drive through the night or nap in their cars before leaving at dawn. Many of them you wouldn’t see again until next year’s event.

You nodded along, smiled when you should, but your mind was only half-present. Your eyes kept drifting—flickering toward the area, where Jungkook still stood. Or rather, where he waited. His gaze, though not openly hostile, had a fire to it. Focused. Controlled. And very pointed in your direction.

So instead of moving back toward him, you stayed where the conversations flowed and laughter bubbled, letting the crowd act as a buffer. Out here, you could breathe. Out here, his stare didn’t burn quite so hot.

But of course, he found you.

“Hey,” Jungkook said, voice casual—but his presence anything but—as he appeared beside you. “You free for a second?” You nearly choked on your own breath. “Y-Yeah,” you coughed, straightening. “Totally. Yes.”

He didn’t explain. Just nodded and motioned with a tilt of his head for you to follow him. And you did—like a cartoon character with nerves tangled in knots, your steps a little too fast, a little too clumsy, heart thudding like a drumline.

He led you back toward the edge of the woods, where one of the game area cabins sat half-hidden in the trees. The same cabin he’d practically launched you into earlier in the game. Now quiet, dimly lit by a few lanterns strung along the path, the space felt… different. Quieter. More private. A little too private.

Your brain buzzed with every horror trope you’d ever written or read. Okay. So maybe the setting I helped design for fun and chaos now feels mildly haunted. That’s fine. Totally fine.

Jungkook stopped just inside the doorway, turning to face you fully. And the look on his face—

Like you’d scorched him. Like he didn’t know whether to throttle you or pull you in. In a panic, you blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Sorry!”

He blinked. “What?”

You flailed, trying to backpedal. “For… um. The thing. The neck thing. It wasn’t, like, a kiss-kiss, I mean—it kind of was, I guess—but not really, and I’m sorry if it pissed you off. I swear I won’t get that close again. I’ll just—” You held up your hands like you were under arrest. “—stay way over here.”

Jungkook stared at you for one long second, then—

He laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but one that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Warm and rough around the edges, like it had caught even him by surprise. Your mouth opened slightly, stunned. Laughing was… good? Right? Better than scowling? Better than being ignored?

“You thought I was angry?” he asked, eyes sparkling with something unreadable. “You looked angry!” you said defensively, even as your voice tilted up an octave. “I wasn’t angry,” he said, his smile lingering, but sharper now. “I was thinking about how to get you alone.”

Your throat went dry. “To murder me?”

He chuckled again. “No.” and added quietly. “How I’d get you to do it again,” Your heart launched itself somewhere near your ears. “Do what again?” He took a step closer—just one—but it changed everything. You had to tilt your chin slightly to keep looking at him. Your breath caught.

“The kiss,” he said, voice low. “On my neck.” You tried to swallow, but your throat was dust. “Um… you… want me to… kiss… kiss your neck again?” Jungkook’s tongue briefly touched his lip, making his lip ring gleam. “That could be a start.”

And this close—this very deliberately close—you didn’t miss the subtle shift in his stance, the way his hand twitched at his side like it wanted to reach for you but was holding back, waiting. Testing.

You didn’t know what possessed you—but something bold and reckless inside you stirred. You murmured, “Okay. But I’m not climbing on your back this time,” his quiet, stunned laugh was the only warning you got.

“Deal,” he said, voice husky. And this time, he leaned in.

His fingers brushed along your jaw, a barely-there touch that made your breath stutter in your chest. With a slow, steady motion, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb gently grazing your skin as he tilted your head up toward him. The world narrowed to the heat in his palm and the intensity in his gaze as he leaned in, closing the final inches between you.

The first kiss was barely a whisper—a short, soft press of his lips against yours. But it knocked the air from your lungs. Like your heart, which had been jittering in every direction all night, finally remembered its rhythm and settled into place.

The second kiss came quickly after. Bolder. Deeper.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders without thinking, grounding yourself as his mouth moved against yours. When his lips parted slightly and lingered—waiting—you opened for him, and he kissed you with more intention. Still gentle, still careful not to overwhelm, but with a growing urgency that mirrored the fire pooling low in your belly.

As you kissed him back—matching his pace, giving just as much as you received—his other hand slipped around your waist, pulling you closer. His thumb swept slowly along the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.

The kiss turned intense fast—too fast, maybe, but you didn’t want it to slow down. You felt it in your knees, in the ache in your chest, in the soft noise that escaped you when you let go of everything and simply let yourself want him.

A low curse rumbled from Jungkook’s throat as he pulled back just slightly, eyes dark and locked on your mouth. The sound of your breathy, surprised little mewl had clearly undone something in him. He looked like he was trying not to lose control right there.

And then—he chuckled.

Just a small one. A soft, amused sound in the quiet space between your bodies. You blinked, flushed with confusion and a creeping edge of embarrassment. “...Why are you laughing?”

Jungkook shook his head, eyes raking over you in a way that wasn’t mocking, but reverent. He took a breath like he couldn’t believe you were real, like you’d just knocked something loose in him that he hadn’t planned on giving away tonight. “You’re just—” His gaze softened, lips curling into a grin that made your stomach flip. “You’re lovely.”

You scoffed, huffing as you looked away—your cheeks warming to nuclear levels. “Yeah, okay. Lovely. Sure. Says the guy who looks like he was born in a Calvin Klein ad. I’m standing here in a wrinkled onesie and messy hair. Super model vibes.” He didn’t respond right away.

Just watched you for a moment longer, then reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“No,” he murmured, stepping closer again. “Just… you. And that’s better than anything I’m used to.” And damn him for saying it like he meant it. Because you believed him. Even as you rolled your eyes and tried to play it off, a small, stunned smile was already forming at the corner of your lips.

Jungkook leaned back in just enough to meet your eyes—searching, almost like he was waiting for a reason to stop. But you didn’t give him one. So he kissed you again—more deliberate this time. Slower, deeper. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that hadn’t been there before, or maybe had simply been buried under layers of teasing and restraint.

There was none of that now.

This wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise. It was a question and a declaration and a need.

Your fingers slipped into his hair before you even realized it, and the moment you gave a gentle tug, a low groan broke from his chest—ragged and raw and real. It made your stomach clench, your breath catch, your knees weaken just a little more.

He kissed you again, lips parting as his hand returned to your waist, grounding you like he was afraid you’d vanish. Then—he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breath warm on your face.

“Is there…” His voice was husky, edged with hesitation, the words catching like they were heavier than he meant them to be. “Is there anywhere… we could go?” He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes dropped, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly as though he feared you’d pull away.

He wasn’t asking crudely. Not like some desperate guy trying to hook up at a party.

He was asking you—you—because he wanted more than just the rush of the kiss, more than this electric moment suspended in the quiet aftermath of the day. He wanted you, if you wanted him. But he was trying to be careful, to be respectful—even when his body was anything but calm.

And yeah, he knew this wasn’t exactly the best place. A LARP event in the woods wasn’t designed for privacy. He wasn’t about to drag you into one of the shared rooms where someone could walk in, or the parking area where headlights might flash at any second.

And the half-abandoned cabin behind you, with its broken windows and faint mildew smell? Fun for the LARP but not for this. That wasn’t where he wanted to see you come apart for him for the first time.

But still—he couldn’t help it.

The tension in his jaw, the flicker of nerves in his voice, the way he touched you like he was holding back from touching more—it was all written plainly in him. If you’d let him… God, he’d spend every night after this one making it worth your while. Not rushed. Not chaotic. Not borrowed or secret. Just you and him, all the time in the world.

He finally looked up—his eyes meeting yours.

There was heat there, yes. But also hope. And a gentleness that made your chest ache. And somehow, in that unspoken silence between you, he managed to say it all:

If this isn’t what you want, I’ll step back. But if it is… tell me where to go. Tell me how you want me. I’ll follow.

You could still feel the shape of his last kiss on your lips. And now—he was offering so much more.

Your fingers trembled slightly where they touched him—half nerves, half anticipation—as you struggled to find the right words. You licked your lips hastily, heart pounding in your chest, and gave a small, awkward nod.

Then, fumbling slightly, you reached for his hand—still warm from holding your waist—and curled your fingers around it. He followed without hesitation, falling into step beside you with a quiet kind of urgency, his grip on your hand firm but reverent.

You led him through the cool night, weaving between buildings with practiced ease, heading back toward the main part of the asylum grounds. Not through the front—no, you knew better than that. You took a side entrance, one rarely used, your eyes scanning in all directions to make sure no one saw you slip inside. The last thing you wanted was an audience.

You glanced over your shoulder, checking to see if Jungkook was still with you—like you needed reassurance he hadn’t suddenly changed his mind. But every time you looked back, he took it as an invitation to steal a kiss—soft, fleeting touches of lips against yours or the back of your hand. Each one sent a jolt through you, and you found yourself smiling like an idiot, giddy in a way you couldn’t remember feeling before.

Eventually, you guided him to the upper floors, through a locked door you’d used all weekend for gear storage. A room tucked away—out of sight, out of mind—filled with leftover props, costume bins, and boxes stacked in half-organized chaos. But in the middle of it all stood a sturdy old table, scratched by time and paint-stained from past builds. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t ideal. But it was clean—clean enough—and private.

You turned to face Jungkook, your hand still in his. “Would this… work?”

But you barely finished the sentence before he answered with his mouth. His lips crashed into yours—not rough, not impatient, but full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. The wanting. The waiting. The restraint finally snapping loose.

He swept you up easily, like your weight meant nothing to him, and in a single, fluid motion, set you down on the edge of the table. His hands bracketed your hips, and he stepped between your legs, looking up at you with a spark behind his eyes that made your breath hitch.

His gaze raked over you, drinking you in—not just your body, but your expression, your flushed cheeks, your parted lips. Like he couldn’t believe you were really here, wanting him just the same.

He pressed his forehead against yours for a beat, his breath hot as it mingled with yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint. “I will.” But you didn’t. You only tightened your legs around him.

And Jungkook—his smile was pure reverence before he leaned in again and kissed you like he already knew you wouldn't regret a single second.

The room was quiet except for your shallow breaths and the soft rustle of fabric as your fingers reached for the buttons of your onesie. One by one, they popped open, the fabric loosening around you like petals falling away. Jungkook’s eyes followed every motion, reverent, lips parted slightly as if memorizing you in stages.

When you shrugged the upper half down, he stepped in without needing direction—his warm hands brushing along your shoulders, helping ease the sleeves down your arms. The onesie bunched at your waist, and now, seated in front of him in just your bra and panties, your skin prickled with the electric heat of his gaze.

Your fingers found the hem of his hoodie, tugging softly. Jungkook helped, arms lifting as you peeled the hoodie over his head, revealing smooth skin stretched over muscle, shadows and lines sculpted like he was drawn by hand. Your hands skimmed across his chest, over his ribs, down the slope of his waist.

"Okay," you murmured, a little breathless, eyes tracing his torso like it was a map, "with a body like this? I would absolutely climb you again. Just give the word." Jungkook let out a low, shy laugh, glancing away for a second as a blush crept over his cheeks—endearing and disarming in contrast to his powerful frame. His gaze returned to yours, and it was soft but full of heat.

“Maybe later,” he said with a grin that made your stomach flip. “Right now… it’s my turn.”

He gently nudged your hips, guiding you back a little until the edge of the table met your lower legs. Then he helped tug the rest of the onesie down and away, the cotton slipping off your legs as he moved you into place. You lay back slowly, the cool air kissing your skin, warm only where his hands had touched.

Jungkook’s fingers lingered at your hips, brushing across your waist before he leaned over you. His belt came undone with a quiet click, but your attention was on the way he kissed you—first low on your stomach, a soft press of lips just above your navel. Then higher, at the space between your ribs, the curve of your breast, the hollow of your collarbone.

His mouth trailed a path up your body like it was sacred. The way he handled you—with care, with focus—felt like something more than just want. You threaded your fingers through his hair as he kissed the side of your neck again, slower this time. The spot where it all started. You felt his smile against your skin, and it made you smile too—shaky, caught somewhere between nerves and pure, unfiltered desire.

This wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy or wild. It was… intentional.

And as his hands roamed your body and yours followed the dips and lines of his, it felt like something you’d remember long after the night was over.

Jungkook’s hands moved up your sides with a reverence that made you shiver, gliding slowly over the curve of your ribs. His touch was warm and confident—deliberate in its patience. When his fingers slipped beneath your back, his knuckles pressed lightly into your spine, and with a practiced motion, the clasp of your bra gave way. You felt it slacken, your breath catching as he peeled it away with care.

Above you, Jungkook was a vision of focused control. He held himself up easily with just the strength in his thighs, his abs taut, the line of his muscles sharp beneath his half-unzipped jeans. The band of his Calvin Kleins peeked out, the bold white letters against black teasingly visible. He looked like sin made flesh, and he was looking only at you.

Your bra joined the growing pile of your clothes, though it fell unnoticed as his hands returned—palming over your breasts, thumbs brushing delicately across your skin as his lips traced a line from the swell of your chest down to your stomach. A breathy sound escaped you, and you reached for his wrist instinctively, grounding yourself.

His mouth reached your navel, and just as you tilted your head back with a low sigh, your eyes fluttered open just in time to see it—him slipping your panties into the back pocket of his jeans with a devilish subtlety. You blinked, stunned for a beat, and then let out a breathless laugh. “Wait—are you stealing my panties?”

Jungkook grinned against your stomach, his teeth grazing your skin before he pulled back just enough to look at you fully, mischief shining in his dark eyes.

“Not exactly,” he said, voice low and amused. He sat back slightly, one hand smoothing over your thigh while the other adjusted the pocket with exaggerated care. “I just don’t want them getting dirty. As much as it pains me…” His gaze dragged slowly over your body, lingering, lingering, “You will need them again later.”

The absurd practicality of the comment hit you at the same time as the implication, and you laughed again, warmth flooding your chest. It was disarming—how Jungkook could be so intensely focused on you, so hungry and attentive, yet still be considerate in the smallest, strangest way.

Your fingers traced up his forearm as you looked at him, lips curving softly. “Well,” you murmured, heartbeat still dancing, “that’s actually… kind of thoughtful.” Jungkook leaned down again, brushing his nose against yours, lips ghosting over your cheek before settling by your ear. “Don’t get used to it,” he whispered playfully, “I’m mostly selfish.”

But his hands never stopped moving, and you were already forgetting how to breathe. And then he kissed you again—slow, deep, claiming. He was exploring the soft give of your skin as he coaxed your legs apart with slow, insistent pressure. His touch was confident but not rushed, and your breath hitched as the cool air touched your newly exposed skin.

He knelt between your legs, his gaze dropping, eyes dark and focused as he took you in. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smirk, but close—when he saw just how ready you already were for him.

“You look like you’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured, voice husky, more praise than question. His knuckles brushed down the sensitive inside of your thigh, the faintest drag of skin on skin. Every nerve there lit up as he traced the line slowly, purposefully, until he reached the aching heat between your legs. He paused—infuriatingly close but not touching where you needed him most.

You whimpered softly, the sound slipping from your lips before you could bite it back. “Jungkook…” you whispered, hips twitching. “No teasing. Please.”

He hummed, tilting his head like he was truly considering your plea. “No teasing?” he echoed, voice maddeningly calm. “That’s funny… I seem to remember someone whispering in my ear, kissing my neck—” his eyes flicked up to meet yours, gleaming with mock innocence, “—and having fun like they weren’t driving me insane all night.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but your breath was stolen as one of his fingers finally pressed into you, sliding in with deliberate slowness. Your body clenched around him, your head tipping back with a low, broken sound. “Oh, fuck,” you gasped, your fingers curling ion the table beneath you.

Jungkook’s eyes never left your face. He watched your reaction intently, like he wanted to memorize the exact moment your walls fluttered around him, when the first wave of pleasure made your thighs tremble.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice lower now, raw with want. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

He curled the finger just slightly inside you, and your breath hitched again.

“You’re so warm,” he said, almost reverently, leaning in to press a kiss to your inner thigh. “So fucking tight.” You moaned, eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze again, and in it, you saw that hunger—unapologetic, consuming. And all of it was for you.

“F–fuck,” you cursed, barely recognizing your own voice—raw, breathless, wrecked. Your body arched instinctively into his hand, your legs trembling with the intensity of it all. You couldn’t take much more. Not like this. Not with him teasing you with maddening patience that felt like sweet torture.

“Jungkook,” you whimpered, the sound desperate and unfiltered. “Need you. Now.” His eyes shot up to meet yours instantly—dark, wide, startled—and for a heartbeat, he stilled.

He hadn’t even come close to prepping you the way he normally would. You were still so tight around just one of his fingers, fluttering with every slow stroke he gave you, and he knew it. But you looked at him like you’d lose your mind if he didn’t do something. Right now.

“I can’t,” he said gently, his voice low, strained from restraint. “Not yet. You barely fit around my finger, Y/N. I don’t want to hurt you.” The words were sweet—so careful, so maddeningly considerate—and you groaned, frustrated and aching, cursing not just the need pooling inside you but Jungkook’s infuriating tenderness.

You threw your hands over your face, hiding your expression. Embarrassed. Flushed. Every word that came to mind sounded obscene and unthinkable, but you needed him so badly your body ached from it. You wanted to scream that you didn’t care if it hurt. That maybe you wanted it to. That the stretch, the pressure—him—was exactly what you craved.

But then his other hand, the one not gently working between your thighs, found yours. He pulled your hands away from your face slowly, insistently, until your eyes were forced to meet his again. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough but soft, “don’t hide from me.” You bit your lip hard, chest rising with uneven breaths. You couldn’t form words. Not yet.

“I want to take care of you,” Jungkook said, dragging his finger out of you slowly before pushing it back in, a second one now joining. You gasped, your hips jerking as the stretch bloomed into something sharp and perfect. “Let me do this right.”

You whimpered, the sound cracked and desperate, slipping past your lips before you could hold it back. “You do it right,” you managed to whisper, your breath hitching against the warm air between you. “That’s the problem.”

Your back arched helplessly as Jungkook’s fingers shifted just right, stroking a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back, a moan catching in your throat.

“I… I can’t do sweet right now,” you gasped, barely able to speak through the haze of need pulsing through every nerve ending. “Not when I feel like I’m going to come if you don’t—”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. The muscle ticked beneath his skin as he fought to stay composed, but you could see it—the fire barely caged behind his eyes. His fingers sank deeper, curling slow and deliberate as he drew another trembling cry from your throat. Still, he didn’t look away from you. Not for a second.

“That’s what you want?” he murmured, voice roughened by restraint. His lips brushed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “And here I was…” He let out a low breath, then glanced around, a crooked, almost incredulous smile twitching at his lips. “Here I was, thinking that aside from screwing you on this table, I’d take my sweet time with you. Lay you out properly. Make you feel worshipped.”

Your entire body trembled beneath him.

“You can,” you breathed. “You can. Just—just not right now. Later. Please.” Jungkook’s smile darkened, the heat in his gaze intensifying. A dangerous little chuckle slipped from his throat as he leaned in close, lips grazing your jaw as he spoke. “So you’ll let me do everything to you later?” he murmured, voice silk over steel.

You nodded so quickly your head spun. You would have promised him anything. Sold your soul if he’d asked for it in that moment—so long as he gave you what you needed now.

“Okay.” That one word dropped between you like a match to dry kindling.

In one swift, practiced motion, Jungkook pulled his fingers from your soaked core, standing just long enough to shove his briefs down and reach for the wallet tossed near the edge of the table. You barely registered the sound of foil tearing before he rolled the condom down over himself with a hiss between his teeth. His cock was flushed, heavy, perfectly thick, and you stared as he returned to you, muscles flexing, control hanging by a thread.

He leaned over you, both arms braced on either side of your body, and captured your mouth in a searing kiss—hungry, demanding, nothing like the slow sweetness he’d held back with before.

“You asked for it,” he said roughly against your lips, his voice barely more than a growl. Then, pausing, his forehead pressed to yours, he softened—just enough. One hand slid to your cheek, the other still curled around himself as he nudged at your entrance.

“But you have to tell me,” he said, eyes locked on yours, his expression suddenly serious again. “If it’s too much… I stop. Say it, and I stop.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering, breath caught in your lungs—but you nodded, grounding yourself in the warmth of his hand, in the weight of his gaze, in how much he was holding back for you.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’ll tell you. But I want you, Jungkook. Now.” And with that—guided by your voice, your eyes, your need—he began to press inside.

God, the fit was tight.

Even with all the buildup, the stretch of his fingers, nothing could have fully prepared you for the way Jungkook filled you. Inch by inch, your body strained to take him, and it felt like with every breath, he stole a little more of your sanity.

Halfway in, you couldn’t breathe. Not really. Not with the way he leaned over you, mouth at your throat, kissing your neck like he was trying to soothe the fire he’d started.

“Jungkook,” you gasped, your voice barely there, “slow—slow down.”

He immediately stilled, his lips stilling where they’d been grazing under your jaw, a low hum leaving him in acknowledgment. His dark eyes flicked up to meet yours. Your legs trembled where they were spread open for him, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, barely holding on.

“Need a second?” he asked softly, brushing your hair back from your face with one hand, his other still steadying himself at your hip. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “Y/N… I’m not even halfway in.”

You licked your lips, chest heaving. The pressure, the stretch, the promise of more—it had your head spinning. But even through the ache, your body craved him. The heat and fullness of him. You needed all of him. “Just—help me,” you murmured, reaching up, arms curling around his shoulders for leverage. “My leg. I can’t—just need—”

For a second Jungkook blinked at you, confused—until he felt your knee moving up his side, pushing, searching for the right angle. Then, catching on, he shifted with practiced strength, gripping under your thigh and pulling your leg up—hooking it over his shoulder with ease.

“Like this?” he asked, voice husky, heat flaring in his eyes as he looked down at you. Stretching yourself for him. Your mouth parted, and you nodded helplessly, breath stuttering. “Yes. Yes—please.” Your other leg fell open just a little more, a subtle, instinctive invitation—and Jungkook pressed forward again.

This time neither of you could hide it—the sounds that tore from your throats as he slid deeper, as the change in angle opened you up even more for him. The stretch was so intense you thought for a moment you might break in half. But it was perfect. Maddeningly snug. The kind of pressure that stole the air from your lungs but left you clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you from floating out of your own body.

Jungkook groaned, a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck,” he bit out, his head bowing, forehead pressing to your shoulder as he gripped your hip like a man holding himself back from the edge. “You’re so—tight, shit.”

He stilled—not entirely for your sake (though the way your body was trembling beneath him didn’t go unnoticed), but because he needed the moment. If he moved now, if he let go even a little, he’d lose it. You’d unravel—maybe both of you would.

You were wrapped around him so perfectly, pulsing and hot and slick. The condom did its job, but fuck if he didn’t hate it in that moment. The fit was so good he cursed it. The thought of how much better it would feel without the barrier, skin to skin, had his control fraying at the edges.

Below him, you looked absolutely wrecked in the most beautiful way. Eyes glazed, lips parted, sweat dewing your temples. The stretch bordered on unbearable—but not in a way you wanted to stop. Not even close. It was that perfect, exquisite kind of pressure that made you feel every inch of him, every beat of your own pulse echoing in your core.

“Jungkook…” you breathed, your voice soft but desperate, “Move.”

Your fingers threaded into the damp strands at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, not demanding—just grounding him. Drawing his focus back from the brink. From his own thoughts, from the restraint burning in his blood.

He nodded, breath ragged. With a low groan, he slowly drew back, and the drag of him inside you made your entire body clench in protest. Your walls fluttered, resisting the loss, clutching at him like he belonged there—and he did.

He paused with just the head of him still seated inside you, adjusting the leg that still hung over his shoulder, one hand gripping the meat of your thigh as he straightened just slightly. His gaze dropped to take you in.

“Not sweet… right?” he asked, voice low and sharp, already knowing the answer. You tried to nod—tried to shake your head, to say something—but your brain never had the chance to catch up. Because in the very next moment, Jungkook snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect stroke that knocked the breath out of your lungs.

Your back arched off the table, a choked sound breaking from your throat as the world spun off its axis. He gave you no time to recover—no warning, no space to think. Just another sharp, deep thrust. Then another. And another.

Each stroke was fast and purposeful, the impact of his hips against your thighs echoing through the room. The rhythm was relentless, and the stretch that had felt so overwhelming seconds ago now lit you up from the inside out, nerves strung so tight it was like every thrust sparked lightning under your skin.

You couldn’t remember your name. Couldn’t remember what planet you were on. Couldn’t feel anything except him.

Jungkook’s breath was hot against your throat, his mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses up your neck, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he groaned—low and raw. His hand gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, the other still cradling your thigh over his shoulder, keeping you open for him.

The table beneath you rocked and squeaked beneath the force of him, its old legs whining in protest—but you barely registered it. All you knew was Jungkook’s weight over you, the drag of his cock inside you, the heat building so fast it felt like it might split you apart.

“Fuck, you feel—” he didn’t finish. Just cursed, head dropping to your shoulder as he panted harshly against your skin. “You take me so well.” Your fingers clutched at his back, desperate, your moans louder now, tangled with the rhythm of the table and the slap of skin on skin. You tilted your hips instinctively, chasing the friction, the pressure.

“Jungkook—” you gasped, almost incoherent now.

“I know,” he groaned. “I know, jagi. Just—hold on. I’ve got you.”

And god, he did.

He did—he had you, with every thrust forward, every hard pull back. His rhythm never faltered, hips slamming into yours with purpose, with hunger. The table beneath you creaked beneath the weight of it all, but neither of you cared. Everything had narrowed down to this: the heat between your bodies, the burn of friction, the wild cadence of your breath against his.

Jungkook leaned back just slightly, eyes dragging down your body as if he couldn't help himself. His gaze was heavy, starved. He needed to see you—needed to witness exactly what he was doing to you.

Your hand had slipped from his neck, fingers drifting down his sculpted torso, the pads of them tracing his slick skin, lingering at the edge of the sharp line of his V. You let your nails scratch lightly over the muscle there, drawing a deep grunt from him. The other hand lifted to your chest, kneading one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between your fingers for the added sensation. You wanted more—needed more, and you took it.

Jungkook's eyes darkened, his pace picking up as his gaze locked on the movement of your hands. You were touching yourself while he was buried deep inside you, and he looked like he might lose his mind over it. His hips snapped faster, deeper, so relentlessly good that your toes curled and your mouth opened in a silent cry.

The coil inside you was pulled tight, burning and bright, dangerously close to snapping.

Your head tilted, lips parted, words tumbling out half-formed. “Kiss me—Jungkook, please.” Your voice cracked, choked on a gasp as he hit just the right spot again. You were so close—so desperately close—and you needed him to ground you, to anchor you, or you’d fly apart.

And Jungkook, wrecked and wild and breathless, gave in instantly.

He braced one hand behind your head, cradling it, fingers tangling in your hair. Then he surged forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was nothing short of desperate. All tongue and teeth and hot, panting breath. It was messy and perfect, a raw clash of need and affection that made your chest ache and your body tense beneath him.

His other hand slid under your thigh, pulling your leg tighter against him, giving him just enough leverage to grind in deeper—so deep you swore you saw stars. His name broke from you in a shattered moan against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily.

Your fingers clutched at his back again, nails digging in. You were unraveling. And so was he.

“Fuck, Y/N—” he gasped against your lips. “You're so fucking perfect.”

And then he snapped his hips one more time—just right—and that was it.

The coil inside you detonated, blinding white heat exploding behind your eyes as your body clenched tight around him. Your vision went hazy, your thighs shook, and a sob of pleasure tore from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you with devastating force.

Jungkook groaned—growled—low and primal at the way your body reacted to him, his control slipping with every second you pulsed and fluttered around him.

And he wasn’t far behind.

Jungkook filled the condom with a deep, drawn-out groan, hips jerking slightly as his release hit him hard. His entire body tensed above yours, shuddering through the aftershocks, his breath stuttering against your skin. For a second, the world seemed to vanish, reduced to stars behind your eyes and the pounding in your chest.

Still buried deep inside you, Jungkook slumped forward, his body trembling as he tried to catch his breath. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, and you felt the soft flick of his tongue—a gentle, lazy kitten-lick against your damp skin as he came down from the high. His lips lingered there, warm and open, murmuring something unintelligible and breathless as his hand continued to cradle your head like it was the most precious thing in the room.

And then he looked at you again, eyes dark and molten but softened now, his smile slow, completely wrecked. His hand moved from your thigh to gently ease your leg down from his shoulder, his touch careful, as if he was afraid you’d break. But you didn’t move much—your legs stayed parted, relaxed, your body still open to him, trembling faintly beneath his.

Neither of you spoke. You were both too spent, too dazed, the air thick with the shared weight of what had just happened.

Then—

SQUEAK.

There was a small creak under your combined weight. The table shifted.

And a second later—

CRASH.

The table’s legs gave out with a sudden, explosive crack, splintering beneath you as if the poor thing had finally decided it had had enough. The two of you dropped a full foot toward the ground, landing with a heavy thud and a very undignified squeak from you as your hands flailed for balance.

Only Jungkook’s grip in your hair—still instinctively protective—kept your head from bouncing against the edge of the broken table.

You lay there stunned, flat on your back with Jungkook still inside you, his body draped over yours. For a moment, there was only silence, wide eyes, and stunned breaths. Then, both of you groaned in unison—more from the shock than any pain—and when your gazes finally locked again, you couldn’t help it.

You snorted.

Jungkook blinked… and then barked out a surprised laugh, his whole body shaking as his forehead fell to your shoulder. The sound of his laughter vibrated against you, and when you started giggling too, your walls pulsed unintentionally around him.

His breath caught. “Ah—fuck—Y/N,” he wheezed between laughs, half-amused and half-mortified. “Are you trying to kill me?” You were still laughing, helplessly, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “You broke the table, you fix it.”

He groaned as your laugh made your body tighten around him again. “You’re squeezing me, Y/N… Christ.”

“Not my fault,” you managed to say, still grinning up at him like a fool. “That was your idea of ‘not sweet,’ huh? Making me literally fall for you?”

He chuckled again, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he lifted his head slightly. “I was trying to be respectful… until you begged for it.” He nipped you playfully, then kissed the spot. “I was gonna be slow. Romantic. Whisper poetry or some shit.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling even harder. “That was before you decided to rail me on a piece of antic furniture, Jungkook.” He groaned again, head dropping with a laugh into the crook of your neck. “Okay, okay. Fair. But for the record, I totally warned you.”

You nudged him lightly with your thigh, grinning through the afterglow. “You also said you’d take your time… after.” That made Jungkook pause, his eyes flicking down to your face, then slowly lifting his head with a grin blooming across his flushed features. His hair was a mess, sweat still clinging to his brow, but he looked completely undone in the best way—sated, sparkling, and still just a little wild.

“Oh, I did,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion and amusement. He glanced down at the shattered remains of the table beneath you. “Just… maybe not on this table again.” That was it. You both cracked up again, laughter filling the small room, echoing over the snapped legs of the table beneath you. It groaned as you shifted, like it had a final complaint left to give.

Jungkook stayed inside you for just a moment longer, his hand still gently cradling your head, his nose brushing your cheek as the laughter faded into something softer. Eventually, he exhaled through his nose and slowly—reluctantly—slipped out of you.

He handled the condom with care, knotting it deftly before slipping it back into the foil and tucking it into his pocket without fanfare. No way was he leaving it lying around for someone to discover later. Not even by accident.

By the time he looked back, you were trying to sit up, legs trembling slightly. Jungkook noticed immediately and reached for you, helping you upright with one hand on your waist. His other arm slid behind your back for support as he stood, then gently guided you onto unsteady legs. You tried to take a step but swayed—and he was already there to catch you.

“Jesus,” you laughed weakly, leaning into him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice proud and half-apologetic. “Sorry about that. Kind of went feral on you.” You opened your mouth to quip back but he was already moving, bending briefly to retrieve something from his pants pocket—your panties. Neatly folded.

He held them out to you with a small, sheepish grin. “Here.” You blinked, touched by the sweetness. “You really put them in your pocket?”

“I didn’t want them to get dirty.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “So yeah.” Your heart twisted a little. Even post-wrecked and smug, Jungkook was gentle.

You braced your hands on his shoulders for balance, lifting one foot as he crouched slightly to help you step into them. His touch was steady, careful. As he guided the fabric up your legs, he pressed a soft kiss to your bare hip before standing fully again and helping you pull them the rest of the way up.

Once dressed again—him already back in his pants, you tugging your onesie halfway up—you both stood there, quiet for a moment. The only sounds were your combined breathing and the hum of the distant hallway.

Jungkook looked at you. His eyes were softer now, the edge of lust dulled into something warmer. There was tired delight painted across his features—the same kind you felt buzzing through your bones. He gave you a lazy, crooked smile.

“Bed?” he asked, voice low, hopeful. You nodded immediately, but before either of you could move, his eyes drifted past your shoulder. To the table. The ruined, broken, irreparably screwed table. Jungkook blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… what about that?”

You turned to look at it, then shrugged and chuckled. “...I don’t know what you mean. That’s how it looked when we got here.” He gave you an incredulous look. “That’s what you want to roll with?”

You grinned cheekily. “Well, unless you want to go out there and tell the others you fucked me through a table.” His ears turned visibly pink. His lips twitched like he wanted to protest, but instead he gave you an exaggerated groan, stepping in and pulling you flush against him. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you there, pressing his lips to your temple.

“Jesus, woman,” he muttered against your skin. You smiled into his chest, feeling the soft thump of his heart under your palm. And then you both stumbled—hand in hand, weak-kneed and laughing—back into the hall, on your way to the shared rooms. The table could wait. The rest of the world could wait.

For tonight, all that mattered was you and Jungkook.

Back in the sleeping area, the soft hush of night had settled. Dim, shared warmth lingered in the air, lit only by the faint glow of a dying lantern by the entrance. Several silhouettes were already tucked in—Jin, Hoseok, and Yoongi, each bundled in their sleeping bags, their slow, even breaths giving away that they’d long since drifted off.

You and Jungkook stepped carefully around the maze of mats and bags, your bodies still sore and slow from what had just happened. Every creak of the floor felt like a warning to be quiet. The two of you shared a glance—eyes wide, trying not to laugh—as you tiptoed over to your own setup.

You eased into your sleeping bag as silently as possible, wiggling in with a tiny sigh. You were still warm from earlier, but you felt the cool bite of the air without him immediately beside you.

Not that you had to wait long.

Jungkook didn’t even glance at his own mattress. He grabbed his sleeping bag and shuffled right over to you, dragging his extra blanket with him like a determined shadow. His knees nudged yours under the covers before his whole body slipped in beside you, a quiet rustle of fabric and breath the only sign of his arrival.

In the darkness, you turned to find him already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, hair a little messy from the friction of clothes and movement. You smiled—couldn’t help it—and shifted, making more space.

He didn’t waste a second. Jungkook immediately pressed up against you, pulling the extra blanket over both of you before wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you as close as physically possible. The other hand gently adjusted the fabric at your shoulder, tucking you in more securely.

His body was a furnace. Solid, strong, grounding. The kind of warmth that made you melt from the inside out. “Mm,” he hummed, voice barely above a whisper, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “That’s better.”

You reached under the blanket, hand resting just over his heart, feeling its steady thrum beneath your palm. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The silence wrapped around the two of you like another layer of protection, soft and sacred.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, a deep breath drawing in your scent, as if to tether himself to you.

And in that moment, tangled together on a too-thin mattress, the air still thick with the remnants of heat and laughter, you couldn’t imagine a more perfect place to fall asleep.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

You drifted awake slowly, drawn out of sleep not by any alarm or sharp sound, but the soft hum of voices nearby. Low and murmured, playful but hushed—the kind of tone used by people trying not to wake anyone, but not really succeeding.

“…So is this where he sleeps now?” Taehyung’s voice, unmistakably smug, reached your ears first. He wasn’t even trying to hide the grin in his voice. “You traded party games for a new sleeping arrangement?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. You felt him shift slightly next to you, breath catching in his chest, still half-asleep himself. “I’m not saying anything to this,” he replied, voice rough with sleep. “just leave it.”

That earned a muffled snort—probably from Jimin.

“Well then?” Namjoon chimed in, his voice laced with curiosity and warmth. “Is this, like…a thing now? Are you guys a thing? Or did you just… you know.”

You could practically hear the raised eyebrows and wiggled fingers behind that you know.

Jungkook didn’t answer. You could feel the silence settle in his body before you heard it. The tension. The way his arm curled a little tighter around your waist, the way his chest paused under your cheek. You didn’t need to look at him to know he was uncomfortable—caught between not knowing what to say and clearly not wanting to make a big deal out of it either. You hadn’t talked about that yet. There hadn’t really been time—or space—for defining lines and labels. There had only been heat and hands and breathless yeses.

And you weren’t sure how you felt about it yet either.

The teasing didn’t stop. Jimin chimed in too, not unkind, but relentless in the way only close friends can be. Their light heckling continued, half-laughs and whispered teasing, and it might’ve been funny if it didn’t make Jungkook so uncomfortable. You could feel the shift in him.

And that did it.

You groaned sharply into the blanket and cracked your eyes open, sleep and irritation fogging your brain in equal measure.

The room went still.

They froze like guilty kids caught by the teacher.

Jungkook tensed again, instinctively bracing as if you might snap at him, but you didn’t. You pressed a half-conscious kiss to his jaw, slow and warm, and felt him freeze, then unravel just slightly at the edges.

Still leaning into his chest, you lifted your head just enough to glare past him—past the safety of his body and toward the hyungs huddled in their sleeping bags, all three of them suddenly very quiet.

Your voice cut the room like a thread pulled taut.

“If you have to know,” you muttered, sharp and flat, “I like Jungkook. We fucked. We’ll figure out the rest later. So unless you want to hear more details—shut up and let us sleep.”

Silence.

You dropped your head back against Jungkook’s chest and let your eyes fall shut again. His arms tightened around you, solid and warm, and his breath shuddered against your crown—half-laugh, half-disbelief.

“…Damn,” Taehyung whispered eventually. A strained chuckle from Namjoon.

“Okay,” Jimin murmured, “she’s scary. But I respect it.”

You sighed as Jungkook kissed the top of your head, his smile hidden in your hair. He was still flushed, a little stunned, but now it was threaded with something softer. Calmer. But you could feel his heartbeat under your palm, fast and uneven. Maybe matching yours.

“Jesus,” he muttered into your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.” You hummed, a sleepy smirk pulling at your mouth. “Only them if they keep talking.”

He kissed your hair again—gentler this time. Thoughtful. Then, barely above a whisper, like he only wanted you to hear it: “…When is later?”

It was quiet, almost hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask. Like the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit. Your heart gave a small, careful thud.

You shifted just enough to glance up at him, his eyes barely visible in the low morning light, and whispered back, “After breakfast?”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile—something softer, more relieved. He let out a breath that ghosted against your temple. “Good,” he whispered back. “Because I like you too.”

You swallowed, throat tight for no good reason. A small breath left you as your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt at his ribs. Not for balance. Just to hold onto him. Jungkook responded by pulling you in closer, his arm a secure weight around your waist, anchoring you to him. And for a long, quiet moment, neither of you moved.

The morning still hummed softly around you. The world felt like it could wait. Because here, tangled in warmth and something unspoken, you weren’t in a rush.

Later could come when it did.

You had this. You had him.

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[sweetvoidstuff]

WIP and a cozy weekend

Again 💜

Just working on another Jungkook x Reader werewolf dystopian AU (yes, again) and, naturally, my idea spiraled. Not sure yet if it’ll be a slow burn or if I’ll “hurry” it along a little. But that’s beside the point.

It’s a long weekend for me, so if anyone wants to talk, I’d love to chat while working on my WIP! Ask me anything — writing, BTS, werewolves, dystopian chaos, or whatever else <3

[sweetvoidstuff]

Undead, Undressed, Unexpected I Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Slowburn (sort of) I zombie larp au I smut with feelings I friends to lovers vibes I soft but messy I table trauma I kinda domestic kinda feral I camping chaos I emotional intimacy

Summary: A LARP weekend takes an unexpected turn when BTS wants to film there Vlog there. Or: “I don’t know what’s weirder,” Yoongi muttered, sipping the beer you’d tossed at him. “That this is happening or that you’re all so prepared for it.”

Word Count: 50K (both Parts)

Masterlist

Part 2

A/N: Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me… so I’ll be posting Part 1 and Part 2 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Just a quick note on formatting: Bold text is used for dialogue spoken in Korean. Italic text represents internal thoughts or feelings. Normal text is used for dialogue spoken in English.

I hope this helps make things easier to follow while reading. Thanks so much for giving my story a chance!

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You had always thought your inbox was a place of controlled chaos—occasional partnership requests, a flood of player questions, shipping delays on makeup foam, and the usual budget arguments with your logistics friend, Pia. But the chaos started earlier than usual that day—with a phone call from Lea, the friend who usually handled the LARP's shared email account.

“Hey,” she said casually, “some Korean entertainment company emailed us? Something about a possible collab for the next event?” You nearly dropped your lunch.

“Wait—what Korean company?”

“I don’t know, Big-something. Big…Hit? BigPunch? I forwarded it to you.”

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “BigHit? Are you serious?”

Lea made a confused noise. “Yeah, is that a big deal? I just thought it was, like, a local talent agency or something. They didn’t say much. You okay? You sound like you’re gonna combust.” You didn’t answer right away because your brain was rebooting.

“They’re—Lea, they manage BTS. Like, the BTS. Global. World tour. Grammy-stage BTS.”

There was a pause on her end. “...Oh. Uh. Is that the one with the guy who did a thing with Charlie Puth? Or is that the ramen guy?” You laughed, a choked, borderline hysterical sound. “Yes. No. Sort of. I’ll check the email. Just—thank you.”

“Anytime,” she replied, bemused. “I guess let me know if the ramen guy’s showing up.” You hung up with shaking hands and sprinted for your laptop, yanking it open so fast the battery nearly popped out.

And there it was.

FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Collaboration Inquiry – Upcoming LARP Project

You stared at it for a solid minute, blinking hard, rereading the signature and domain. You even copied the email into a group chat with your seven friends titled “Project Zombie Apocalypse 202X” with the caption:

"Tell me I’m hallucinating."

You didn’t.

Over the next few weeks, the back-and-forth with BigHit solidified something real and turned into a full-blown project folder on your desktop—contracts, security forms, scheduling proposals, and endless discussions about what was feasible and what wasn’t.

They were interested in sending one of their groups for a LARP experience to include in their “challenge vlog” series. They loved your concept: four days in a remote woodland complex turned survival horror sim, where around 250 participants would play out a fictional zombie outbreak in real-time. Minimum power except for medical posts and staff centers. No phone service. Just radios, bloodied props, a kitchen, and pure adrenaline.

At first, your team didn’t take it seriously.

“Some Korean band wants to vlog here?” Pia had said during your first group Zoom call. “Okay, sure. Do they know our kitchen runs on two electric hot plates and prayers?”

“They know,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “I told them in the first reply. I made it very clear that we’re... rustic.”

“They probably think we’re some scenic wilderness experience,” Erik muttered. “Wait ‘til they see our ‘bedding options.’”

“It’s not just some band,” you shot back. “It’s BigHit. That’s... that’s massive. This is actual, career-changing visibility. Even if they send a small or new band.” That caught everyone’s attention, but the tone shifted from surprise to skepticism quickly.

“Okay, but do we want that kind of visibility?” Lea asked. “We built this to be immersive, chaotic fun. Not something where we have to worry about stepping on a celebrity’s shoe.”

“It would mean a lot more work,” Pia added cautiously. “Like...a lot. Extra infrastructure, coordination, liability coverage. Probably hiring more crew down the line. And taxes—Jesus, we’ll have to register it differently. No more fun hobby exemption. We’ll need to go full business mode.” You felt a cold knot in your gut. She wasn’t wrong.

“But it also means we could finally get paid properly,” you said, more softly now. “Like... not just break even. We could maybe even fund the next LARP without crowdfunding. Or get better props. Maybe even hire full-time help. This could be our way out of ‘barely-making-it.’” That silenced them. For a moment.

“Only if we survive it first,” Erik muttered. “And if it doesn’t kill the vibe.”

In the end it was decided, you would give it a try.

You found yourself writing emails late into the night, negotiating with BigHit’s reps while triple-checking your spreadsheets for costs. At one point, you were balancing on a stepladder fixing a hanging light while on the phone with your accountant friend, trying to figure out how to legally declare sudden international income.

BigHit wanted privacy, but also good footage. They wanted realism, but no actual injuries. You had to promise fast response plans, prep multilingual safety briefings, and accommodate a small filming crew without giving the players any clue who was coming.

It was exhausting, overwhelming, and a logistical headache—but when BigHit confirmed the collaboration and wired the down payment, you stared at the numbers in your bank account for a full minute in shock.

This wasn’t just a cool opportunity. This could be the thing that made your dream sustainable.

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It was the day before the event—the day you’d circled in red on every planning calendar and spreadsheet. You and one of the BigHit staff had agreed: the band would arrive a full day early for privacy, filming, and a crash course in zombie apocalypse survival.

You were their primary contact for the duration. The only one on your team fluent in Korean and English, which meant every question, every request, every last-minute panic would come straight to you.

The old asylum grounds you rented every year sat deep in the woods, surrounded by rusted fences, gravel paths, and fog-thick silence. It looked exactly as eerie and perfect as ever—half horror movie set, half forgotten relic. Soon, over two hundred players would fight to survive a fictional outbreak here. The zombies (your tireless NSC crew) would sleep in a locked-off wing of the asylum, like always. The uppermost floor—off-limits to players—was reserved for the organizing staff. You’d already transformed it with air mattresses, fairy lights, warm blankets, and the half-desperate charm of veteran event runners.

Whoever BigHit sent would be staying there too. In the same room as you.

For privacy. And for emergencies. And not to interfere with the other Orga or the plot.

The Orga floor had its own bathrooms—tiny, ancient, and a little creepy—but it was better than the alternative: the heavily trafficked bathrooms down near the NSC quarters, split by gender but used by dozens. The kitchen was also down near the NSC zone, which meant any idol who wanted a snack might have to wade through latex-coated zombie crew at 2 a.m. That’s why you had your personal stash of snacks on hand.

You’d explained all of this to BigHit in a painfully detailed PDF. They had agreed. You still weren’t sure if they fully understood what they were walking into.

You had just finished breakfast—instant coffee and a lukewarm breakfast wrap—and were lounging outside in a creaky camping chair, soaking in your last hour of relative calm before the storm. Erik was beside you, sorting through printed liability waivers and contracts for the players arriving tomorrow to sign.

“I still don’t get why they want to film here,” he muttered, flipping a page. “Like, no offense to our haunted horror dreamscape, but... this isn’t luxury content.” You shrugged, sipping from your dented thermos. “Maybe they want something gritty. Or real. Or ironic. I dunno. Maybe they just like zombies.”

He smirked. “Sure. Maybe one of them has a secret undead kink.” You opened your mouth to sass him back—then stopped cold. Three sleek black SUVs rolled down the gravel path toward the asylum gates. Silent, shiny, and entirely out of place.

Erik raised a brow. “...Oh shit.”

You stood so fast your chair fell backward into the dirt. You swore your heart stopped. The first door opened. Jeon Jungkook stepped out of the first SUV like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Casual in black cargo pants, a harness vest, and a hoodie, he looked like he’d walked straight off a dystopian movie poster. His eyes flicked over the asylum grounds with quiet curiosity.

Behind him came Taehyung, laughing at something Jin said as he followed. Taehyung wore a long coat and combat boots like it was fashion week.

Yoongi had earbuds in, head down, expression unreadable. Jimin waved cheerfully, his hair fluffing in the breeze. Namjoon caught your eye and nodded—calm, respectful, already reading the vibe. And Hoseok, last out, stretched and turned his face toward the fog like he was trying to feel the mood in the air.

They were all here. All of BTS.

In your forest. At your LARP. At your chaos-riddled, mud-streaked, budget-scraping zombie survival event.

Erik leaned closer, whispering, “So uh… I guess it’s not the ramen guy after all.” You couldn’t answer. Your brain had short-circuited.

And the real chaos hadn’t even started yet.

You took a deep breath, forced your legs to move, and tried your best to walk over professionally, even though the inside of your chest felt like a popcorn machine of nerves. All seven members of BTS stood together, flanked by three guys from the filming crew—compact gear bags slung over shoulders, cameras padded in protective foam, one of them already eyeing angles like he was mapping a cinematic plan in real-time.

You greeted them in Korean, voice steady even as your palms sweated.

"Welcome to Outbreak Protocol. I’m Y/N, I’ll be your main contact before and during the event." Namjoon smiled, surprised but happy you spoke Korean, his voice warm. "We’ve heard a lot about the project. Sounds pretty intense." Jungkook’s eyes drifted past you to the rusted fences and fog-cloaked trees. "This place looks like a horror movie set."

You grinned like he’d handed you an Oscar. "Perfect. Because tomorrow, you’re all survivors."

You shifted into logistics mode before your brain could spiral. You pointed toward the makeshift parking area. "You can park over there. We’ve got the legal documents all ready—Erik will help you with those." The filming crew gave polite nods and peeled off toward the cars. Erik waved and waited near the porch, clipboard in hand.

You turned back to the members. "Would you like the grand tour first, or do you want to settle in upstairs and look around later?" The group exchanged glances, some rolling their shoulders to shake off travel fatigue. Jin was already shifting his backpack into a more comfortable position. Jungkook flexed one hand to crack his knuckles.

“We’ll drop our stuff off first,” Namjoon said. “But we’re definitely doing the tour after.” You nodded. “Follow me then.”

As you led the way toward the heavy front doors and up the creaking staircase, you caught a few quiet murmurs of interest from behind—Yoongi commenting on the paint-peeling walls, Jimin quietly admiring the fog that still clung to the edges of the broken windows.

A strange thump echoed from the lower hallway, something shifting in the NSC quarters. Probably a dropped bin or one of the staff testing props. Hoseok jumped. You couldn’t help your grin as you looked back. “First scare of the weekend goes to you, I guess.”

He laughed, embarrassed but entertained. “Is it always like this?”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” you teased. Just as you reached the upper floor, Lea passed by holding a coil of LED fairy lights and two rolls of duct tape under her arm. She paused, nodded politely to the group, then looked at you and held out a radio.

“For you,” she said. “Orga team check-ins start now.” You took the radio and clipped it to your belt, clicking the button twice before speaking: “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Guests incoming.” There was a long pause, then Erik’s voice crackled through, dramatic and low: “Copy that, Sparkles. Hostiles confirmed. Prepare for contact.”

Taehyung laughed aloud, almost tripping on the last step. “Wait—did you say Sparkles?” You looked over your shoulder with a wink. “I did.”

“Is that your code name?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

You grinned wider. “Just because.”

Taehyung snorted. “That’s not a reason.”

“That’s exactly the point.” He grinned at you like you were a riddle he wanted to solve. You opened the door to the upper dorm hallway, leading them past the first room on the left. “This one here,” you said, pausing with your hand on the frame, “is the organizers-only room. Our private space, mostly for sensitive documents, extra gear, and collapsing in secret when the caffeine wears off.”

You continued walking and stopped at the next room, opening it fully this time. “This one,” you gestured them in, “is where you’ll stay. It’s a shared space. Sorry, no luxury suites here.” Inside, air mattresses had already been inflated and neatly spaced out. Each was made with sleeping bags, throw blankets, and a small labeled bag of towels and toiletries. Fairy lights flickered lazily along the upper edge of the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of mint tea, dust and fresh laundry.

“We had to compromise,” you explained. “This room has somewhat heating, and it’s closer to the emergency exit in case of… well, any kind of problem. Plus, it’s more private than the downstairs dorms. The bathroom’s through there—shared, though. Welcome to the apocalypse.” Jin raised an eyebrow, inspecting the setup. “Charming.”

“I did warn your manager about the rustic conditions,” you said with a small shrug. “It’s better than some green rooms we’ve had,” Yoongi mumbled, setting down his backpack. Namjoon gave you a grateful nod. “This’ll do. Thanks for being upfront about everything.”

You returned the nod with a smile, then turned to gesture down the hallway. “This floor is the staff area. Off-limits to players, which means you’ll have some privacy here when needed. Once the game starts, though—”

You turned back toward them, your smile shifting into something more mischievous.

“—you’re all survivors. No exceptions. Survivors can’t come up here—not even to sleep. You’ll have to make do with what you find out there and work with other players to get a place to rest. And trust me,” your voice dropped to a playful threat, “I run the NSC , the zombie side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.”

Taehyung looked half-terrified, half-thrilled. Jungkook grinned like someone had just challenged him to a fight. Yoongi raised a hand immediately. “Can I just be a zombie from the start and skip the sleep deprivation part?”

You laughed. “Yes, absolutely. You can request to switch roles if you want. It’s a game—not actual torture. If anyone gets too exhausted, just tell me. You can and should rest. This is meant to be immersive fun, not military training.” He nodded in approval, clearly filing away that option.

As they set their bags down, Jimin drifted toward one of the mattresses—clean, thick blankets folded neatly, some big fluffy pillows, a water bottle placed in the middle like a hotel mint. It looked more like an actual bed. He tilted his head and asked: “Who gets the fancy bed?”

You followed his gaze and smirked. “That one’s mine.” A beat. Then a chorus of mock groans followed. “Of course it is,” Jin muttered. “I respect the flex,” Jungkook said, dropping his bag onto the floor next to a less-decorated mattress.

But then something in the air shifted—a glance shared between a few of them. Some of the members looked uncertain, shifting slightly in place. Hoseok scratched the back of his neck. Taehyung was unusually quiet. Finally, it was Yoongi who broke the silence. “Wait, so… we’re all sleeping in here with you?”

You blinked, nodding. “Yeah. Didn’t they tell you? This was the agreement with your staff—one room for all of you and me, so I’m close in case of an emergency and you don’t have to look for me. This is the safest and most direct setup.”

Namjoon cleared his throat, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Right. They did tell us that. We just didn’t know about you and logistics, exactly…”

You tilted your head, eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. “What about me and logistics?” There was a beat of silence. Namjoon sighed and rubbed at his temple. “This might sound awkward, but… you know, sleeping in the same room. You are a woman and might be in, uh, sleeping clothes. Or… yeah.”

You blinked. Jungkook suddenly found the floor intensely interesting. His ears flushed red. You stared for a second longer, and then laughed—just once, not mocking, but surprised. “Oh. I mean—sure. I get it. Thanks for saying something.”

Then your tone shifted into something firmer but still friendly. You looked at each of them in turn. “This could turn into a cultural, or language misfire so bear with me I will be direct... Let me ask you this: do any of you intend to do anything to me—without my consent?” The effect was instant. A few of them looked scandalized. Jimin’s eyes widened like a deer in headlights. Hoseok choked on a breath. Jungkook’s ears turned even redder.

Namjoon stepped forward, hands raised slightly. “No. Absolutely not. Never.” You nodded once, satisfied. “Then, I don’t see a problem. I’m not here to be uncomfortable—I’m here to make sure this whole thing doesn’t fall apart. And at night it can get really cold. So no way for short shorts. I’ll probably pass out in leggings and a hoodie, and you’ll be too tired to care.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Yoongi let out a single low chuckle. “That… actually makes me feel better.”

“Same,” Jin muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called out so politely and so brutally in the same sentence.”

You grinned. “Good. Now that that’s settled—pick your mattress. Tomorrow, you're all getting hunted by the undead.” Jungkook finally looked up, still red around the ears, but with the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile.

Taehyung slung his bag onto the far corner mattress. “I want the spot closest to the door in case I have to run from you.” You gasped in mock offense, hand to your chest. “Run from me? Please, I’m the safest person here—unless you insult my campfire coffee. Then it’s over for you.” Taehyung grinned wide, eyes crinkling. “Noted. No coffee jokes.”

“Exactly,” you said with a wink. “Respect the bean or face the consequences.” The others chuckled, and you caught a flicker of movement from the corner of your eye. Jungkook, who had just set his bag   on a mattress near the edge of the room, paused. His gaze flicked from Taehyung to you—lingering for half a beat longer than necessary. Without a word, he picked his bag back up, walked past a few other mattresses, and set it down on the one right next to yours.

You noticed—of course you did—but didn’t say anything. You just glanced down at where he was now crouched, adjusting the pillow like it needed perfect alignment. “Strategic placement?” you asked lightly, not looking directly at him.

Jungkook glanced up through his lashes, a crooked smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just figured I’d want to be near the person who controls the zombie apocalypse.”

“Oh, smart,” you replied, lips twitching into a sly grin. “Stick close to the Game Master. That’s either genius or cheating.” He looked like he might respond, but Jimin threw himself backward onto his chosen mattress with a groan, breaking the moment.

Taehyung leaned toward you and whispered loud enough for only the closest to hear, “I still think you’re secretly a final boss.” You gave him a dangerous smile. “You’re not ready for my final form.” Jungkook coughed—just once—and looked back down at his bag like it had suddenly become fascinating.

You raised your walkie again, clicking it twice. “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Base camp secured. Survivors setting up now.” Erik’s voice crackled through after a second. “HQ copies. Keep ‘em alive, Sparkles.”

“Can’t promise that,” you muttered, already mentally ticking off the next steps on your checklist.

“Why Sparkles again?” Taehyung asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. You winked. “Because it makes people underestimate me.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted.”

You smiled at them all as you backed toward the door. “Once you’re settled, come find me downstairs. We’ll start the tour, walk through the storyline, and then go over the filming schedule. If you have time, I’d like to give you a short survival orientation too.”

Jungkook perked up. “Like… a zombie boot camp?” You smirked, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “Exactly. Think of it as your apocalypse training montage.”

His mouth parted like he was about to say something else, but just then, the walkie crackled at your hip. “Sparkles, this is HQ. Got a delivery truck trying to get through the west gate—paperwork’s a mess.” You sighed and clicked your radio. “On it.”

Turning back to the room, you gave the guys a quick wave. “Duty calls. I’ll see you all in a bit.” With that, you slipped out the door, your boots soft against the scuffed linoleum.

Jungkook watched you go, his brow furrowed slightly. You were cool. Open. Friendly in a way that wasn’t fake or overly impressed. You didn’t act like they were some otherworldly beings descended from the sky. You were just… normal. Confident. You had a job to do, a passion you clearly lived and breathed—and somehow, you still kept it together even when seven global superstars walked out of three SUVs.

And now you were gone before he got to ask what role you usually played. Or how long you’d been running events. Or what made you pick zombies of all things. He frowned at the floor. How had Taehyung managed to flirt so much with you already?

His grumbling thoughts were cut off when Hobi dramatically fell backward onto a mattress and groaned, face squishing into the pillow.

“Ugh. I’m already regretting this. You know they’re gonna put me through hell tomorrow.” Yoongi, setting his phone to charge beside his mattress, didn’t even look up. “You can die early and join the dark side. I plan to. I already feel like a corpse.”

“Can I be a fast zombie?” Taehyung asked. “I want to be dramatic.”

“You are always dramatic,” Jin replied, tossing him a rolled-up blanket. Namjoon glanced around at the mattresses and raised an eyebrow at Jungkook. “You moved your stuff?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, just mumbled something about lighting and space. Not about the way you’d smiled at Taehyung, or how you’d winked during that “respect the bean” comment. Jimin sprawled across two mattresses and groaned, “I’m not ready to fight for food in the woods.”

“Don’t worry,” Namjoon replied dryly. “If we lose you, I’ll eat your snacks first.” The room filled with laughter as the group continued settling in. They unpacked bags, laid out blankets, and immediately began comparing the modest comforts of their temporary setup to your very clearly upgraded, fairy-light-lit corner of the room.

“Yo,” Jimin said, poking Jungkook’s side. “She really has the best bed.”

“I saw,” Jungkook murmured, glancing again at the door you’d disappeared through.

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When they came back down to find you, they didn’t expect the sight they walked into. You were hunched forward, arms wrapped around one side of a massive wooden euro pallet—one of three—that you and Erik were hauling toward the large toolshed near the edge of the gravel lot. From the looks of it, you weren’t on your first trip and dangerously close to snapping your spine in half.

“Wait—are they lifting pallets?” Jin blinked.

“Damn,” Taehyung murmured. “She’s gonna pop something.” Before you could straighten or even notice them fully, Jungkook was already moving. He practically jogged ahead of the group, brushing past Jimin, who huffed, “There he goes.”

You saw motion and started, “It’s fine, I—”

But it was too late. Jungkook was already there, nudging you gently out of the way with the side of his shoulder, his brows furrowed in focus. He slipped in opposite Erik, bent down, and lifted the side you’d been hauling with practiced ease.

“Where to?” he asked. You blinked, slightly thrown off. “Uh—behind the shed. Along the wall. They’re barricade props.” Jungkook nodded without another word and followed Erik, muscles shifting under his sleeves, tattoos dancing as he hoisted the pallet like it weighed nothing.

“Helpful,” Jimin chuckled behind you, watching your expression. “He’s just bad at saying it out loud.”

“I noticed,” you said with a small smile, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks.” A few minutes later, Erik came back, Jungkook trailing behind him and brushing dirt off his hands. You made sure to stop him with a light tap to the arm.

“Hey,” you said, looking him in the eye. “Seriously—thanks. That was a lot.” He gave a small, sheepish grin. “It’s no problem.” And with that, you launched into what you’d promised earlier—the grand tour.

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You led them through the central facilities first, starting with the compact, camp-style kitchen.

“This is where the NSC—Non-Survivor Characters, but also the makeup team and staff—get food. Basic stuff. We’ll prep three times a day but no five-course meals, sorry.” You gave them a mock apologetic shrug. Jin raised a hand. “Will there be snacks?”

“No promises,” you teased.

The next stop was the makeup rooms, where several folding chairs, makeup kits, and prosthetic materials lined the walls. “Here’s where we zombify people. If you die in-game, you’ll come here, get turned, and be sent back out with directions. Sometimes as slow walkers, sometimes fast. Sometimes… something weirder.”

Jimin leaned in. “Something weirder?”

You just smiled. “You’ll see.”

Then came the outdoor terrain. You walked them past several adjacent cabins and storage sheds. “These are part of the playable zones. All of them are open unless marked otherwise. We have hidden clue points, some locked areas, and a couple jumpscares set up, but you’ll get used to it.”

You led them toward the forest edge, indicating with hand signals where the terrain began and ended. “The game area ends about five hundred meters that way. Beyond that? Too steep, too muddy, or just plain dangerous. Avoid it.” Yoongi eyed the tree line. “How will we know?”

“I’ll point it out tomorrow again before game start, but we’ve also put up orange tape and warning markers. You’ll know.” Back near the edge of the game field, you turned to face them all again and reached into your backpack. You pulled out a bright, eye-searing pink warning vest and held it up dramatically.

“This is your holy relic,” you said, grinning. “If you see me wearing this during the game, it means I’m in staff mode. You can approach me for help, questions, breaks, water, whatever. I’ll avoid interfering unless it’s an emergency. But my every word is law.”

“And if you’re not wearing it?” Namjoon asked. “Then I’m playing as a survivor or NSC. You’ll find me out there, somewhere, scrounging for food and dodging zombies like the rest of you. However—if you get uncomfortable or need out of a situation for any reason, say the phrase, ‘That has a nice sparkle to it.’ Or something similar.”

Taehyung snorted. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” you said. “It’s a safe phrase. The game can get intense. If I hear it or any other Orga for that matter, we’ll pull you from the scene immediately—no questions, no breaking character.”

“That’s actually smart,” Namjoon admitted.

Jungkook stepped in closer, curiosity in his voice. “So if you’re out there as a survivor… are you playing to win?” You raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You think there's winning at the literal end of the world?”

He blinked, taken off guard for a second, but you didn’t give him time to recover. You smiled—but didn’t tell him how you really liked to play the game. Instead, you slipped into a mock arrogance that fit too easily. “I’ll be scavenging, bartering… probably stealing. So stay alert.”

“I will,” Jungkook said, mouth curling in a slow grin. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.” You smirked, gaze flicking up and down him. “That goes both ways.” Taehyung slung an arm over Jungkook’s shoulder, all mischief. “She’s got bite, huh?”

You didn’t miss a beat, voice sweet but edged with a grin. “Some zombies every year actually do. But me?” You flashed your signature mocking smile. “I only bite if you ask nicely.”

Jungkook’s head turned toward you too fast—eyes narrowing with a spark of surprised amusement, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or lean in closer. Taehyung burst out cackling. Even Yoongi gave a low whistle under his breath.

Jungkook shook Taehyung’s arm off with a grumble and stepped just a touch closer to you, adjusting his hoodie like he needed something to do with his hands.

“So,” he asked, tone a bit lower, “what’s your tip for surviving the first night?” You tilted your head, studying him. For a moment, you actually thought about it. Then you answered, quietly but clearly, “Stay moving. And don’t just trust any survivor. If they kill you, they’ll loot your shit.” His brows furrowed slightly.

You added, “So yeah… best tip? Stay quiet. And stay off the main road.” Jungkook looked at you like he was filing away every word. “Noted,” he said softly.

After you had finished explaining how to fake fight and how “death” in the game would work—that the moment they "died," you'd pull them aside to explain how to play as a zombie and give them their undead assignment—they were all quiet for a second. Attentive. Processing.

Especially Jungkook. His gaze didn’t leave you. “And… you designed all this? The rules, the props, all of it?” You gave a small, casual shrug. “With my friends, yeah. A lot of long nights. A lot of coffee.” There was something about the way he looked at you that caught you off guard. Not the usual idol poker-face. He looked… impressed. And maybe a little something else—like he was trying to figure out you, not just the game.

“It’s… impressive,” Jungkook said, voice quieter than the others. “Kinda crazy. In a good way.” You opened your mouth, unsure whether to say thank you or make a joke—but all that came was a laugh, slightly flustered. You turned away before you could smile too obviously.

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Later that evening, the guys were off filming some of their vlog content—lots of running through the woods, fake dramatic reactions, and over-the-top “lost in the apocalypse” monologues. You gave them full freedom for the rest of the day to capture whatever material they wanted. You had work to do anyway: final checks on game mechanics, syncing walkie-talkie channels, triple-confirming the food schedule, and helping your team scatter props in the right zones.

You only got pulled in once—when Jin called over to you with a shout about “something moody.” Yoongi was standing next to him, holding up a camera and trying to catch the golden-hour light streaking between the trees. “Do you have something… cinematic?”

You pulled off your bag, unzipped one of the side pouches, and without missing a beat, produced a smoke grenade—sleek, matte black, like something out of a spy movie. Jin’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Wait, what?”

Yoongi blinked. “You just have that in your bag?”  You gave a sweet smile. “Always keep one for emergencies.” Hoseok, already half-suspicious about the creepy makeup room earlier, took a cautious step back. “What kind of emergencies need smoke grenades?!” You didn’t answer—just gave him a devilish grin.

Jimin cracked up. “She’s totally evil.” Taehyung beamed, clearly delighted. “That’s exactly the vibe. I love it.” Jungkook didn’t laugh immediately—he was watching you again. But then a soft chuckle escaped him, and he looked down like he hadn’t meant to smile that wide. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

You shot him a wink. “Naw, too fun.”

He laughed properly then—low and surprised—and you had to turn back to your work fast before anyone saw the grin tugging at your lips.

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You had just come from the shower, wrapped up in your oversized hoodie—your LARP team’s logo printed proudly on the back—and a pair of leggings that still clung to you with faint humidity. Your hair was damp and pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, a quiet testimony to how fast you’d gotten ready after a long day.

You found an empty camping chair near the bonfire and immediately sank into it, curling around a warm mug of tea or maybe mulled juice—whatever had been available. The scent of grilled vegetables, meat, and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air. Laughter bubbled from you as Pia leaned over to mutter something only meant for your ears, and you nearly choked on your drink in response.

Not far away, Jungkook emerged from the trees with the rest of the BTS members, the last golden slivers of twilight painting their silhouettes as they returned from filming. He spotted you immediately.

You looked different now. Not in a dramatic way—just… softer. Cozy. The sharp, efficient energy you’d carried during the tour and safety briefing had melted into something warm and content. It was the first time today he saw you truly at rest. You noticed them coming in and lifted your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” you called, voice already lazy with bonfire comfort. “Food’s self-serve. We grilled ahead for the evening. I made two kinds of pasta salad, Lea did her cucumber-dill thing, and Erik has clearly declared war on every sausage in the region.”

They laughed, and Namjoon gave a thankful little bow as he made his way toward the tables. “It smells amazing.”

“All the stuff we don’t finish gets put out again tomorrow,” you added. “So dig in. There’s no losing here.” Jungkook’s eyes wandered from the food to the little table you and your friends had arranged—organized chaos, a mix of homemade sides in mismatched containers and tin trays with foil. Without realizing it, he made a mental note: Try the pasta salad you made first.

The group spread out slowly—Yoongi asked where he could find drinks, Jin demanded more marshmallows with absolute seriousness, and Hoseok yelped dramatically when an owl hooted a bit too close for comfort. You were still translating here and there, weaving between your team and theirs with a natural ease, until eventually things just settled.

Jungkook ended up back near the fire, hoodie pulled over his head, paper plate in one hand as he lowered himself into the camping chair beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just sat there, cheeks a little flushed from the heat, watching the fire flicker and crackle with the same quiet pleasure as everyone else. The shadows danced across your face. Jungkook looked at you, a bit longer than maybe he should’ve, and realized he didn’t want to interrupt the peace you were wrapped in.

But still, he found himself asking, “Tired?” You turned your head just slightly toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So tired I forgot I’m tired. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, mirroring your smile. “It does.” He took a bite of your pasta salad, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is really good.” You looked smug. “Lea and I spent an unreasonable amount of time arguing about whether we needed more garlic. The answer is always more garlic.”

Jungkook chuckled. “You should sell this stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” you drawled playfully. “Just a side hustle while running full-scale zombie wars in the woods and having an adult job. Easy.”

“You don’t mind being out here for days?” he asked, voice low, pitched only for you. You turned your head toward him, and your smile was quiet, grounded. “I live for this. It’s exhausting, sure. But when the game starts? Everyone forgets it’s fake. And for four days… it’s just survival. Emotionally messy. Physically brutal. And unforgettable. If you let it happen.”

Jungkook studied your face for a moment—how the embers danced in your eyes, how certain you sounded. You weren’t just hosting a game. You were throwing people headfirst into a world you loved. He leaned in, just a little. “You ever thought about filming it like a movie? You’re already doing something cinematic.”

You blinked, surprised by the question, then smiled. His tone hadn’t been flippant. He really meant it. “Actually… yeah. We’ve talked about a YouTube channel. Mini-series, behind-the-scenes stuff. But we don’t have the gear. Or the time. Or a consistent enough crew.” You glanced at him with a tilt of your head. “You think people would actually watch?”

“I’d watch it,” Jungkook said without hesitation. His grin turned a little crooked. “I mean, if I survive the next four days.” That made you laugh, and the sound felt natural between you, easy. Warmer than the fire now burning low in the pit.

The longer you sat next to him, the stranger it felt that you hadn’t known him longer. There was an openness to him tonight—a curiosity, a genuine effort to understand your world, and it wasn’t performative. He hadn’t needed to ask those questions. He just wanted to.

The fire crackled again. Your friends and his were mingling in overlapping conversations now—language barriers half-forgotten in the mix of food and warmth. Your friends were joking around in rapid English while trying to coax Namjoon and Taehyung into playing some kind of night-tag game with glow sticks. Jimin was fully horizontal in a deck chair, whisper-singing spooky background music. Jin had given up and wrapped a blanket around himself like a burrito, muttering about zombie bites and indigestion.

You took another sip from your mug, and Jungkook watched as you closed your eyes for just a second, letting the night settle over your shoulders like a second hoodie. It was quiet, comfortable, unforced.

And Jungkook thought—not for the first time today—how unfair it was that Taehyung had gotten to flirt with you first.

One by one, people started trickling back to the sleeping quarters. Eventually, Erik started packing up the grill with sleepy movements, Pia tossed a blanket over her shoulders, and Hoseok finally declared he couldn’t feel his toes.

As you stood, knees crackling a bit from sitting so long, you stretched your arms above your head with a quiet groan. Jungkook’s eyes lingered, just for a second—like he couldn’t help watching your hoodie move higher—before he stood too, brushing stray bits of ash off his sleeves.

The rest of the members were already grumbling about the cold, groggy and slow-moving.

So they began retreating into the main house or their sleeping quarters. Jin flapped his arms dramatically. “Why does it feel like I’m sleeping in a refrigerator? Who builds houses out here with no insulation?”

“It’s historical,” you reminded him, biting back a grin as you grabbed your toiletry bag. “Be honored. You’re basically in a museum.” You turned in the low, amber-hued glow of the fairy lights strung loosely above the old rafters, their dim twinkle casting soft halos over the mattresses lined up like dominoes across the floor. Yours was nestled near the corner, extra blankets piled at the edge, and Jungkook’s mat had ended up right beside it—not close enough to touch, but closer than coincidence.

“Yeah, a museum of frostbite,” Jin shot back, wrapping his hoodie tighter. By the time you got to the bathroom, you found Jimin leaning against the doorframe. “Can I brush with you?” he asked, voice soft, already holding his toothbrush.

You nodded with a smile, and the two of you brushed side-by-side. Soon, Hoseok padded in to rinse his face and complain about the cold again. Jungkook came in last, hair still tousled from the hoodie, looking far too good for someone about to camp in a half-renovated asylum for the night.

Back in the sleeping area everyone was getting situated. The fairy lights making barely any light. Despite the portable heaters you had brought, it was still drafty. The floorboards creaked under your steps. The windows hissed with night wind.

“Okay, no, seriously,” Hoseok groaned from his nest of sleeping bag. “This is inhuman. Jin-hyung, I can feel my soul freezing. My kneecaps are shivering. Who brought us to the North Pole?!”

“I think I lost three toes already,” Jin added dramatically, clutching his hoodie like a shawl. “This is not what I signed up for. I’m not even a real actor and I don’t deserve this.”

“You’re not even outside,” Yoongi mumbled from under a blanket. “Doesn’t matter,” Jin whispered, haunted. “The cold found me.” Hoseok rolled closer to Jin like a dying Victorian noble. “Hyung. If I don’t make it through the night… tell my stylist I loved her.” Namjoon groaned loudly from the other side of the room. “Oh my god, Hyung, please. Just sleep!”

“Easy fix,” you said, sitting up and tightening your hoodie. “Just bunk with someone. Body heat solves most of it.” You meant it practically—your team had done this a dozen times. It was survival basics. But before the sentence even finished, Taehyung had already propped himself up with an eager glint in his eyes.

“Can I bunk with you?” he asked with a mischievous grin, already halfway toward your mat like a very cold puppy. You snorted, raising an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an invitation.” Before you could answer, Jungkook sat up from his corner with a sharp huff. “Yah—don’t just ask like that.”

Taehyung turned toward him slowly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You wanna bunk with us, Jungkook? You keep her right side warm, I’ll be her left?” You lost it, full-on laughing now as Yoongi let out a long, tortured groan and flopped a pillow over his face. Namjoon was face-down in his blanket, shaking his head in exhausted disapproval.

Jungkook looked mortified. His ears flushed pink even in the low light. “It’s not—! I wasn’t—!” He cleared his throat hard. “It’s rude, that’s all. She’s the organizer. She needs space.” Your brows lifted, amusement all over your face. “Uh-huh.” Taehyung looked like he was biting his tongue just to stop himself from saying something even worse.

Jimin, bless  him, nudged Taehyung back toward the other side of the room. “Come on, Tae. You’re gonna get us kicked out. I’ll bunk with you. Stop flirting.” With a dramatic sigh, Taehyung accepted it, flopping down beside Jimin and stealing half his blanket. “But just know—I could have been the hottest option.”

Yoongi didn’t even open his eyes. “You radiate chaos, not heat.”, when Hoseok snuck under his blanket and just sighed like a man who had given up on peace. Jin wiggled his eyebrows at Namjoon, who just deadpanned: “Try it and I’m tossing you outside.”

You shook your head fondly, digging into your supplies. “Jin, I’ve got an extra blanket if you want one.”  He hesitated, shaking his head. “No, no, I’ll manage—”

“Really its fine,” already holding it out. He accepted it with a sheepish grin. “You’re sure you don’t need it?”

“I’ve still got two more and a sleeping bag. I’ll be fine.” You moved carefully through the half-dark, stepping around boots and duffel bags, a folded blanket in your arms for Jin. The wooden floor creaked beneath your socked feet, each step an exercise in balance over warped boards and chaos. You murmured something to Jin, who accepted the blanket like he’d been rescued from an arctic death, dramatically clutching it to his chest.

You turned back toward your mattress, navigating the familiar obstacles in reverse. As you made your way back to your spot. And then you caught your foot on the edge of someone's abandoned hoodie.

“Shit—!” You stumbled forward—arms flailing—and would’ve face-planted if it weren’t for a solid pair of hands catching you mid-fall. Warmth met you.

You blinked.

Jungkook.

He was already sitting up, half-covered in his sleeping bag, hoodie still up, his phone forgotten beside him. His hands had caught your arms instinctively, steady but not grabbing. You were kneeling awkwardly now, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the mattress behind him, close enough to feel his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet with concern, eyes wide in the fairy-lit dark. Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it. “I—yeah—sorry,” you stammered, cheeks already burning. “Didn’t see where I—uh—my foot—hoodie—” He chuckled under his breath, one hand still lightly on your elbow. “It’s okay. You didn’t fall. Technically.”

Your eyes flicked up to his—too close, too pretty in this soft, sleepy light—and then down again, like maybe you could disappear straight into the floorboards if you just willed it hard enough.

From the dark, Jimin’s voice floated lazily through the room. “Everything good over there?”

“Yup!” you squeaked, trying to stand too fast and instead just half-falling sideways—straight into your sleeping bag with a flustered huff. There was a moment of silence before Jungkook chuckled again, softer this time. You could hear the shift of fabric as he laid back down beside you, his voice pitched low. “Smooth recovery.”

“Shut up,” you whispered through a grin, tugging the sleeping bag over your head in self-defense.

The fairy lights buzzed faintly above, and somewhere in the room Jin sighed contentedly into his new blanket like a satisfied burrito. But Jungkook stayed quiet beside you now, arms folded under his head, gaze occasionally drifting in your direction long after the rest had fallen asleep.

He couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

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The house woke slowly. The soft creak of floors and the smell of coffee drifted through the old wooden frame as morning sunlight filtered in through mismatched curtains. Jin was the first to loudly complain that someone had stolen his blanket—which turned out to be Hoseok, who claimed it had “drifted onto his mat” during the night.

“You were snoring like a vacuum cleaner,” Hoseok groaned, head buried under a pillow, insisting he needed another hour. “It’s the least you owe me.”

“I don’t snore,” Jin declared with wounded dignity. Namjoon hummed dryly. “You do. Aggressively.” Laughter bubbled through the group, even as no one quite managed to leave the warmth of their sleeping bags. Jungkook was the last to sit up, hoodie still half covering his eyes, glancing once to his left—to where your mat lay empty. Already cold. You’d been up for hours.

The smell of instant coffee and toast lingered faintly in the air, and while the boys slowly filtered through breakfast—some filming themselves with still-sleepy voices—you and your team were already darting between bags of props, radio check-ins, and set dressing. You'd been radioing Pia about the entrance setup while giving Erik a checklist and stuffing a walkie into your jacket all before most of the group had even laced their boots.

“Do you even sleep?” Jungkook had asked, watching you with something like awe as he munched on toast with one hand and held his camera with the other. “After the apocalypse,” you’d joked without slowing down, already halfway through sorting a box of bloodied bandages and prop ID cards.

Around midmorning, it was time to head to the game zone.

The boys filmed their "arrival" separately, capturing the forest entrance and the handmade wooden signpost marked "ZONE 3 – MISSION: BLACKOUT" while Erik, now dressed in dusty cargo pants and boots, played the enthusiastic guide.

"Welcome to hell, gentlemen," Erik grinned in-character, flinging his arms wide. Jin burst out laughing immediately, and Yoongi muttered, “This already feels like a fever dream.” Meanwhile, you and your friends were spread across the clearing and bunker grounds, setting up props, panning out gear to the incoming LARPers, and checking walkie frequencies.

You pulled the boys aside just before the first players arrived.

“All right,” you said, already in your organizer vest and scarf. “Masks, caps, scarves—anything to obscure your faces. Just until everyone’s settled.”

“I feel like a secret agent,” Taehyung said as you handed him a half-face tactical mask.

“Good,” you smirked. “You’re not supposed to be famous here. You’re a dirty, starving survivor like the rest.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jin huffed dramatically. “I’m going to be the hottest starving man in the zone.”

“AH! And no selfies unless you’re dead,” you added with a teasing glance.

“That’s so specific,” Namjoon muttered.

“It’s been a problem before,” you grinned. “One guy literally tried to live-stream his own death scene. Kinda ruined the mood.” Still, they complied—caps tugged low, scarves around mouths, sunglasses here and there. They settled off to the side near a small outcrop of trees, watching the entry path as players trickled in.

Jungkook pulled his mask halfway over his face, watching you bounce from person to person, still radiating energy despite the chaos. Even beneath your scarf and with your walkie clipped to your belt, you looked in your element. Confident. Happy.

That’s when the first wave of survivors started to arrive.

Boots crunched gravel. Cars rolled in, gear piled high on roof racks. The first few survivors were new and wide-eyed, some shy, some filming themselves as they approached. But others came in loud, excited—familiar faces from past games. People spilled out in various levels of post-apocalyptic chic—some clearly new, blinking in wonder, others grinning with the casual swagger of veterans. Some even had also Go-Pros on them.

“Hey, look at them,” Jimin nudged Jungkook, nodding toward a group of heavily geared players striding in like Mad Max extras. “Wow,” Taehyung whispered. “Some of these people look like they live here.”

Then they saw you.

You were greeting people by name, hugging a few, clapping shoulders. One player—a tall, bearded man with a thick leather coat and a ridiculous foam axe strapped to his back—let out a joyful bellow.

“THERE SHE IS!” he boomed, arms already out. “My favorite corpse-wrangler!”

You turned just in time for him to lift you clean off the ground and spin you in a circle, your laughter ringing out across the lot. “Markus!” you wheezed, swatting at his shoulder as he set you down. “Warn me next time! My spine isn’t apocalypse-proof!”

“Missed you, boss,” he grinned. “Ready to get emotionally traumatized again?”

“Always.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. He was too slow to school his expression. Taehyung, still beside him, caught it instantly. “Ohhh?” Taehyung leaned closer with a smug grin. “What was that face, Jeon Jungkook?”

Before Jungkook could deny anything, another man approached you—this one younger, maybe late twenties, tall and lanky with buzzed hair dyed copper red. “Hey there, fluffball,” he grinned, eyes dragging down your body.

You gave him a polite smile but stepped slightly back, putting some space between you as you shook his hand instead of accepting the hug he clearly wanted. “Hi, Lukas.” He didn’t quite get the hint, his hand brushing along your back as if to pull you into a side hug, but you dipped forward just in time to greet someone else passing by.

“Excuse me! I’ve been looking for you!” you said loudly to a surprised but delighted player behind him. Lukas was left smiling awkwardly at your back. He was, one of the newer regulars, known for pushing boundaries and blaming it on “just being friendly.”

Jungkook had taken a step forward, body tense—but as you gracefully handled it, he forced himself to stop. Taehyung saw that too.

“...Someone’s jealous,” Tae sing-songed under his breath, elbowing Jungkook lightly in the ribs.  “Looked like ‘mildly jealous caveman’ to me,” Jimin added, peeking over his mask. “Shut up,” Jungkook muttered. Taehyung grinned. “You want to go spin her around too? Or just go hug her? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—”

Jungkook snorted. “Shut up.”

Jimin held up both hands, laughing. “You’re so obvious, man. You’ve been watching her like she’s the main quest.”

“She is the organizer,” Jungkook grumbled, though his eyes followed you again as you helped someone fix their shoulder rig. “Of course I’m watching her.”

“Sure,” Taehyung said. “It’s definitely about the logistics. Not about how you almost exploded when the Mad Max McThighs got touchy.” Jungkook tugged his scarf higher up his face to hide the small, helpless smile. He’d never seen you laugh like that. Not while working, not while briefing them. It was unguarded. Effortless.

And somehow, he wanted to see it again.

Even if the guy spinning you around was the size of a refrigerator.

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By noon, the grounds were buzzing. The last car had pulled up, and nearly 200 players were now scattered around the staging area. Some stood in loose, eager groups, already forming alliances. Others sat quietly with water bottles, eyes scanning every detail like it might matter later.

You, already hoarse from shouting, clapped your hands to gather attention. "NPCs to the barn! Survivors over here—yeah, red scarves, come to Erik. Zombies, you're with me. Group A briefing starts now, Group B you're next."

As you walked backward through the chaos, still calling instructions, Jungkook spotted your pink vest and your megaphone clipped to your belt. It amazed him how you moved through the mess with such control. Like a general of the end times.

The members had already received their own briefing—thankfully in Korean, which made it easier to absorb the detailed rules and storyline. BigHit’s crew, mostly keeping a low profile, helped secure GoPros and test audio. They would run after the members and try to get as much footage as possible.

“You ready?” Jungkook asked, testing the strap of his fake holster as he caught up to Taehyung. Taehyung tilted his foam machete like it was a guitar. “Born ready. I’m emotionally prepared to die in the first ten minutes.” Jin snorted. “Please. I’m planning to survive and retire with a fake garden and fake dog.”

“Can we have fake ramen?” Jungkook asked, smirking. “Or do we have to scavenge that too?” Then, like a starter pistol, the airhorn blasted. A long, echoing blare that shattered the warm afternoon.

Everywhere, people moved.

Screams. Laughter. Stomping boots. Half the crowd surged toward the tree line, another half bolted for the barn. Some fell immediately into character, yelling things like, “Split up! Head north!” or “They’re coming from the creek!”

Jungkook was startled to see how real it felt.

He hadn’t expected the panic—the thrill. Despite the fake weapons, the rubber knives, and the painted faces, when a mass of snarling “zombies” came barreling out of the woods, the instinct was to run.

Even he flinched before catching himself.

The zombies were good. Dirty, growling, twitchy. You were leading the pack from behind—he recognized your pink vest, your voice barking direction to the others in character, but you were already gone again into the trees.

Only those with long-range weapons made a stand—firing their limited fake ammo with purpose, trying to buy time for others to flee. In the chaos they had already lost some of the members. Jin clutched a piece of bent cardboard like a broken riot shield. “Okay, okay, fallback, regroup, hide—what are we doing?”

“Hide,” Jungkook said immediately. “Barricade if we can.”

“Find ramen,” Taehyung added.

“You’re obsessed,” Jin said.

“I’m hungry, Hyung.”

Behind them, Erik—wearing a bright pink vest that read “MODERATOR”—raised two arms and made a dramatic “breaking” motion.

“That’s the signal!” Jungkook yelled. “Barricade’s compromised!” Players screamed, laughing as they fled in a dozen directions. Taehyung grabbed Jin’s arm and bolted toward a row of abandoned sheds, while Jungkook pushed the crew member following them behind a thick wooden post before diving for cover himself.

“Okay, now what?” Jin gasped, crouched behind a fallen sign. “We regroup,” Jungkook said, catching his breath. “Try to find Yoongi or Namjoon.”

“Or her,” Taehyung added, eyes twinkling even beneath his mask.

Jungkook pretended not to hear it. Still, his thoughts drifted back to you—your voice, you disappearing into the woods, your laughter from earlier. He hoped you were okay out there in the madness you’d helped create.

Though, something told him you were probably more than fine.

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The first day had been equal parts chaos and clever hiding. It was kind of a miracle that he, Jin, and Taehyung had stayed out of the early chaos—ducking behind barns, creeping through drainage ditches, hiding under an overturned canoe at one point while a group of howling zombies passed within arm’s reach. Some groups had immediately gone feral, fighting over water jugs or arguing about whose map was correct. Others just wandered, yelling for allies or screaming when someone leapt out of the bushes as a fake infected.

Jin’s idea had been simple: “Stick together, don’t get bitten, and avoid anything that sounds like foley work.”

Jungkook agreed. They didn’t run. They didn’t shout. They watched. Stuck to the edges. By the time the sun began to dip past the tree line, casting a soft violet glow over the LARP zone, they had only minor dirt smears and one near-miss.

“I never thought crawling through actual dirt would be part of this,” Jin muttered, wiping leaves from his face. Taehyung laughed, breathless. “We were born for this. We’re survivors, Hyung.” Jungkook had just grinned, heart thudding, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line and the shadows turned long and gold, they were dirty, tired, and hungry—but they found them.

“Jimin-ah!” Taehyung called in a stage whisper. Jimin—who had been rifling through an overturned toolbox with Namjoon and two strangers—turned, eyes wide, then relaxed into a smile. “Hyung! You’re alive!”

“Holy crap,” Namjoon said with a breathless laugh. “You made it.” The reunion was short but sweet. The group Jimin and Namjoon had fallen in with—mostly guys in tattered cosplay and thrift-store camo—were initially suspicious of the newcomers.

Several of them were already carrying canvas satchels and worn-looking packs, with scavenged “rations” (pre-placed supplies from the orga) tied at their hips. A few were skeptical at first.

“Who the hell are the new guys?” a tall man with a buzzcut muttered.

“We’re clean,” Jin said with a flash of his ‘actor smile.’ “Untouched. Pure. Like rice at a wedding.”

“I hate that metaphor,” Taehyung whispered.

It took some convincing. Namjoon vouched for them—half in character, half with real charisma—and eventually, the group let them stay. The trek back to the safe zone was cautious, deliberate. No one shouted. No one ran. Even the leaves beneath their feet seemed to hush under the weight of tension.

Their new “base camp” turned out to be a miracle of DIY survivalist craft. And Jungkook was impressed. There were rotating shifts for keeping watch and a pile of ration cards being counted for their next food run. Spotlight had been placed and where working, casting bright cones of light around the camp's edge. A whiteboard on the wall labeled who was “on shift,” “scouting,” or “MIA.”

It felt like a real camp.

“Who built all this in six hours?” Jin asked, amazed as he folded onto an upturned crate near a lantern. “Apparently some of the veteran players just… knew what to do,” Jimin said, unwrapping a protein bar. “It was like instinct kicked in. With the things the Orga carried around yesterday.”

“I watched a guy build a water collection system from trash bags and a mop,” Namjoon added, shaking his head. “People are scary smart under pressure.”

“He wants to drink from it?” Jungkook looked shocked. But Namjoon shook his head, “Said the Orga would bring water if he builds it.”

“It’s crazy, So much for realism.” Taehyung muttered back.

 Jungkook sat near the barricade, fake rifle laid across his lap. He chewed a bite of cold ration bread and scanned the tree line, still charged with energy. They were just starting to relax—just starting to settle for the night—when the first growl came from the tree line.

It was subtle at first. A rustle of leaves. Then a shuffling footstep. Then a hiss.

Just two at first—figures staggering toward the barricade in the fading light, their shadows stretching long over the grass. The nearest watchman gave the alarm, and others scrambled into place. Flashlights switched on with shaky hands. Someone dropped a rubber axe.

“They’re coming!” a survivor called.

But the barricade held. More zombies emerged from the trees, groaning and clawing. Foam weapons swung, shouts echoed. One particularly committed zombie hurled himself at the gate with a blood-curdling screech that made even Jin yelp behind Jungkook.

“They’re good,” Jungkook muttered, eyes wide. “Too good,” Jimin whispered beside him, holding a battered flashlight like it might actually do something. Taehyung was grinning ear to ear. “I want to die dramatically. Let me jump from the roof.”

“No,” Jin said. “You’ll twist your ankle.”

“Then carry my corpse and avenge me.” Jungkook was laughing quietly, heart thudding.

Then—

From the woods. A flicker of movement. A splash of pink just barely visible beyond the tree line. His breath caught. There. A pink vest. It was you. Even in the low light, he knew. The confident way you moved, one hand raised in signal, clipboard tucked under your arm like a weapon. You watched the chaos unfold with a hand on your hip, head tilted.

Jungkook’s pulse jumped. He nudged Taehyung, whispering, “It’s her.”

“Huh?”

He pointed. “Pink vest.” Taehyung squinted, then smirked. “Your little crush?”

“Shut up.” But he couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips. You were behind this. Orchestrating this wild, thrilling, immersive madness. He remembered what you’d said the night before: I run the NSC side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.

“What are you planning now?” he murmured to himself, eyes locked on your figure as you turned and melted into the woods again.

Whatever it was—you’d already hooked him.

And he had a feeling things were just getting started.

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The air had stilled for a moment. No more groans from the woods. No rustling leaves. The tension that had coiled tight for the last hour had begun to loosen. Jungkook leaned back against the cabin’s wooden siding, rifle balanced across his knees. “Maybe they’ve gone to harass another group,” Jin whispered to Jimin, who was starting to doze upright.

Namjoon was jotting something down on a paper map in the corner while Taehyung peered through a crack in the barricade with childlike fascination. Jin had found a reasonably clean blanket and was curled up with it like an idol with his stage towel.

Then—

Jungkook saw you again. His eyes caught movement near the tree line, just beyond the rough gravel road leading to the cabin. You stepped into view like some trick of the moonlight—vest still on, hoodie zipped to your chin, your silhouette unmistakable even in the dark.

He sat up straighter. No zombies around. Just you. Watching. His heart thudded in a mix of nerves and anticipation. Were you just checking in on them? Taking notes? Or—

Then your hand lifted. Tapped the button on your walkie. And you smiled. Right at him.

He couldn’t hear your voice, but your lips moved. He was sure you said, “Good luck… Now.”

A second later, the lights went out. With an audible click, the generator died. The spotlights illuminating the barricades flickered, then vanished. Instant pitch black—except for the sliver of moonlight painting the gravel and one flickering lantern down the street.

Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he muttered, not even realizing he’d said it in English. “What?” Jimin hissed beside him, now fully awake.  “I saw her. Just now. She was smiling. That was not a friendly smile. Taehyung perked up. “A plot twist?” Jin groaned from under his blanket. “I hate plot twists.”

Then—

The moans began. Soft at first. Far off. But they built, swelling like a tide. Multiple voices. Low, rasping. Fast. Namjoon was already grabbing his weapon. “Positions!” People scrambled. Someone dropped their flashlight. Someone else screamed as a “guard” tripped over his own feet trying to get back into place.

Then Jungkook saw it. A flicker. A bounce of light. Something small fell a few feet before him on the ground, rolling toward him—right up to the edge of the barricade.

“What the—?”

PFFFFFTT—

A cloud of smoke exploded outward, thick and grey. “Oh come on—a smoke grenade?!” Jungkook backing up.

“Smoke!” a woman with a crossbow screamed, not missing a beat. “They use those for haunted houses. Totally safe.”

“Terrifying,” Jin muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. “I smell artificial doom.” The fog rolled over the makeshift barricade and down the path, mixing with the moonlight and giving the street a cinematic glow—soft yet eerie. Every silhouette looked ten times taller, their edges distorted by smoke and shifting shadows.

Then came the moans.

So many.

Zombies surged from the smoke like nightmares. They were louder now. Hungrier. Faster. Their makeup looked worse in the dark—more grotesque, more desperate. Foam weapons still in their hands, but they snarled and lunged and shrieked with a commitment that made Jungkook’s blood run cold.

“THEY LOOK POSSESSED,” Jin yelped as a pair slammed against the wooden fence.

“Shit,” someone whispered from the rear. “They’re using the smoke to cover a flank.” Jungkook grinned, adrenaline kicking in again. You were really going for it tonight. One “undead” scrambled over the barricade, wild-eyed, reaching for Jimin. Jimin screamed—then clocked the guy in the shoulder with a rubber hammer.

Taehyung had tears in his eyes—from laughing. “This is the best night of my life.” Jungkook couldn’t help it—he was terrified and thrilled. He felt like a kid again. A very armed kid with a fake rifle and a vendetta.

And then—figures appeared in the fog. Dozens. Some slow, arms dragging. Others twitching unnaturally, heads jerking with every step. Even though he knew it was fake, Jungkook's heart pounded. The lighting, the fog, the groans, the chaos—it was better than any horror game. You’d turned the entire woods into a living set.

He braced his foam knife tighter in one hand and his fake gun in the other. Beside him, a guy in a battered leather jacket grinned. “Whoever planned this is evil.” Jungkook beamed, eyes locked on the misty tree line. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, spotting a flash of pink from your vest in the shadows. “She really is.”

"Positions! Now!" someone barked—not one of Jungkook’s friends, but a woman near the barricade. She had a blue streak in her hair and a crossbow slung over her back. "Close-ranged to the front! Spotters up top!"

Players sprang into action. This wasn’t just cosplay—it was commitment. Everyone threw themselves into the game like it was real. A guy wearing a dirtied duster coat and fake blood smeared across his cheek grabbed an axe and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook.

“You new?” the guy asked, breath fogging. “You three look fresh.”

Jungkook grinned, ducking as a zombie thumped against the boards. “First time.”

“Hell of a night to start. If we make it out, I’ll show you where we hide the real snacks. Not the ration boxes. The actual chocolate.”

Jungkook laughed. “Deal.”

Meanwhile, Jin had cornered himself behind a crate. “Does this look like a hero arc to you?” he snapped at a random player crawling beside him with a prop spear. “I am a bard. I sing. I complain. I don’t get eaten!”

“I don’t understand shit! You’re literally holding a hammer,” the other player said, crawling past him. “You’re doing great.” Taehyung, meanwhile, had somehow ended up in a roleplay conversation mid-battle with a grizzled survivor in a torn biker jacket and a toy pistol. “My name’s Snake,” the man said seriously. “I used to run with a group out east before the swarms came.”

Taehyung blinked. “Out east, like… Seoul?” The guy didn’t break character. “Used to be called that. Now it’s a graveyard.” Taehyung whispered to Jin, “This guy’s living his dream.”

“Yeah, and we’re living his fan fiction,” Jin muttered. The barricade groaned again—another wave.

Jimin dove forward with a group of other survivors to reinforce a gap, slamming a foam board across it just in time to hold back a zombie clawing through. Someone shouted, “We need more cover left side!” and Namjoon ran to help, organizing people like he was born to be a post-apocalyptic general.

One of the players, an older man with a scar drawn across his cheek and a “Medic” patch sewn on his jacket, muttered, “Something’s wrong.” Jungkook edged closer to the front again.

And then he saw it—you, darting across the tree line just long enough to be spotted. Just long enough for him to catch the wicked grin on your face. You disappeared into the trees again like a shadow, headset still pressed to your ear.

“She's still here,” Jungkook whispered, oddly proud. “Of course she is,” the chocolate-smuggling player muttered beside him. “We call her secretly the Puppetmaster. She only smiles like that when something real bad is about to happen.”

And then it did.

A guttural howl tore through the woods—different from the earlier zombie moans. Everyone froze. “What the hell was that?” Jin asked, eyes wide. “Boss zombie?” Jimin guessed, not sounding confident. Namjoon slowly rose from behind his makeshift command table. “Or worse.”

The front barricade shook again—but not from a horde. From something heavier. Then smoke again—this time from behind. Jungkook spun. “Back entrance!”

Several players rushed to the rear barricade as you unleashed the next chaos round. Amid the smoke, a dozen zombies swarmed from the woods—some moving faster than before. Their groans were louder, their makeup more grotesque, their eyes glowing faintly from the LEDs embedded in their masks.

You had leveled up.

“GUYS—THIS IS SO COOL,” Taehyung screamed as he dodged behind a barrel. Jin smacked a zombie's arm with his foam hammer, panic written across his face. “THIS IS A FORMAL COMPLAINT!” The players were laughing, yelling, swearing, acting—and Jungkook loved every second. The adrenaline, the immersion, the fact that you were the mastermind behind it all.

Then he caught a flash of pink again.

Your vest. You were darting through the shadows behind the zombies—counting, correcting, watching them as they attacked. Fully in control. He couldn’t help but grin. Then, your voice cut through the night commanding: “GAME STOP!”

The word was like a spell. Every player froze, weapons half-raised, breaths held in the chill dawn air. Only the few you signaled with a hand gesture moved, carefully shifting the faux-barricade aside to make the scene safe again. Jungkook blinked, heart still thudding. Even though he knew it was a game, the adrenaline refused to fade.

And then—there you were.

Stepping lightly over the uneven ground, in that same pink vest, headset snug against your cheek, clipboard in hand. You made your rounds like a stage manager inspecting the set after a complicated scene—checking faces, weapons, broken props.

When you passed Jungkook’s side of the barricade, you didn’t say anything. Just gave him a sly wink. He didn’t even try to hide his grin. Then, turning to face the cabin, you lifted your voice: “Ready?”

A few tired nods. Some thumbs up. You waited one extra beat… and then stepped aside with a flourish of your hand. “Continue.” The world shifted again—players jolting into motion as if time had resumed. As zombies now flooded the cabin.

He raised his fake gun, nodded to his new squad of random survivors, and shouted: “Let’s defend this place!” Someone cheered back, “For the chocolate stash!” “FOR SEOUL!” Snake added dramatically.

Jungkook aimed and fired a foam dart into the chest of a rushing zombie, adrenaline coursing through him like fire. He was in your world now.

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The attack had ended.

The aftermath was quiet, eerie. Six players had “died” during the horde, and one had been “bitten.” Jungkook watched as the bitten man and his friend played out a painfully convincing scene by the fire—whispers, pleading, an emotional goodbye, then a single dramatic “stab” to the chest with a foam knife. The bitten man fell back into the shadows, now part of the undead ranks.

Jungkook was impressed. He hadn’t expected people to feel this much playing pretend.

After that, the next few hours passed in relative quiet.

They re-secured the barricade—Jin helping hammer prop-boards into place while Jimin argued over who should take the next watch. Namjoon and Taehyung went through “scavenged” supplies, checking LARP rations, carefully labeled in duct-taped bags. The fake walkie-talkie system still worked, and the illusion of apocalypse held steady.

As the deep purple of night slowly melted into that strange, pale blue of early morning, Jungkook sat against the side of the shed, rubbing at his neck and breathing in the cold.

“I thought we were dead for sure,” Jin murmured next to him, legs stretched out. “I almost cried,” Jimin said dramatically, flopping down onto a sleeping mat. “I thought Tae got bitten.” Taehyung scoffed. “I was performing, thank you. Some of us have range.”

Namjoon sipped from a thermos of something that was definitely just instant coffee, but in this world felt like a potion of life. “Honestly, I’m surprised we made it through the night. That will give amazing footage.” Jungkook didn’t say anything at first.

He was looking past them—toward the tree line again, where the smoke had cleared and the trees looked just like trees again. He had seen you there, in the middle of it all. Smiling. Running the show. Creating chaos and keeping them all safe inside it.

And he’d felt… exhilarated. Not just because he’d survived. But because you’d made it feel real.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured without thinking. The others glanced at him. “Huh?” Jimin blinked. “Who’s amazing?” Jin teased, raising an eyebrow. “No one,” Jungkook said too quickly, but his ears were already red. Taehyung didn’t say a word, just smirked, bumping Jungkook’s knee with his own.

Jungkook looked up again, just as you appeared around the corner, talking into your headset with that same intense focus—head tilted, brows furrowed, clipboard under one arm.

Still working. Still organizing. Still making this world turn.

And somehow, even after staying up all night surviving fake zombies and crawling through fake smoke, Jungkook had never been more awake.

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You jogged across the field, half-laced boots kicking up dust in the early light. You had just gotten word from your comms team: one of the BTS members had officially “died” in-game.

Time to pick up the body.

The makeshift makeup atelier was full with people that wanted to turn into zombies, turn from reality into the ruined world your team had crafted. You expected someone tired, maybe a little dramatic. You did not expect Yoongi lying on a fold-out chair like a lazy vampire, arms crossed and hoodie pulled halfway over his head.

“Yo,” you greeted, brushing back your windswept hair. “Dead, or just felt like napping?” Yoongi cracked one eye open and gave you a smirk. “Bit of both. I figured I’m way better at being creepy than surviving.” You laughed. “Honestly, valid. Want a break first or should I track down the others for you?”

Yoongi sat up, hoodie slipping from his head. His eyes glittered, mischievous and strangely at peace with his new undead status. “Food. Nap. Then undead chaos.”

“Respect,” you said with a grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the kitchen. You good with whatever they’ve got, or should I threaten someone to find you a real croissant?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but followed. “If there’s a real croissant, you’re legally required to bring it to me.” You held your hand over your heart. “Scout’s honor.”

The kitchen was one of the few non-immersive zones—filled with thermoses, cereal, toast, and bleary-eyed crew. You led Yoongi in, checked he had everything he needed (which, as expected, was basically a piece of toast, tea and a quiet seat), and leaned on the table.

“If you wanna hop back in after your nap,” you said, “just head to makeup. They’ll get you zombified. Walk-ins welcome.” Yoongi gave a lazy salute. “Enjoy the chaos.”

You smirked. “Oh, I will.”

As you stepped back outside, you pulled your vest off, checked your headset, and tapped your radio.

“Sparkles goes in to play,” you told everybody in the Orga channel.

The wind stirred your hair as you walked up the stairs to get into your survivor outfit. Somewhere out there, survivors were scavenging. Somewhere in the trees, barricades were being reinforced, stories played out.

And maybe—just maybe—Jungkook would spot you again.

You couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

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You had changed.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed game runner in a bright vest and headset. In her place, standing at the back entrance of the ruined asylum terrain, was a frail young woman—dirty, disheveled, a little wild in the eyes. Your cheeks were flushed as if you’d cried, and your hair was messily pulled back like it hadn’t been washed in days. You wore a torn oversized knit sweater that hung off one shoulder, stained and torn, and your jeans were fraying at the hems like you’d worn them through hell. A ratty scarf was wrapped around your wrist, and your hair was a tangled mess like you hadn’t had a brush or mirror in days. But it was the lifeless plastic baby doll swaddled in a stained cloth to your chest like it was your entire world that completed the look.

You looked haunted.

You were embodying the character you'd warned the staff about weeks before—the “young mother,” a deeply unhinged, petty chaos agent with one goal: survival. At everyone else’s expense.

The back entrance of the asylum was quiet now, but as you predicted, players had already started establishing a trade hub there. Makeshift tables held bartered goods—scraps of old food props, dummy ammunition, lighters, glowsticks, water bottles, a few hand-written “currency” notes. Some players stood guard, clearly skeptical of strangers, while others played smooth-talking scavengers or suspicious loners.

You blended in perfectly.

Your current mark was a man with a fake shotgun and far too much fake canned food to his name. You rocked the doll in your arms, sniffled, and gestured toward the woods as you explained in slow, stilted English that you were looking for your brother.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said softly in a broken, unsure tone, gently rocking the baby doll in your arms. “He… he wanted to look for food…but… I think something happened…”

A weathered-looking survivor with a fake scar across his jaw nodded slowly. “You armed?”

You looked at him, eyes wide. “No. I—I’m not stupid, I had a knife, but I traded it. For formula.” You shook the baby slightly. “She… she was screaming. And people were starting to look. Please… he said he’d meet me here, if something happens. Please, I don’t want anything. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

Your eyes glittered with wetness. The man softened, the way players do when they think they’re being heroes. “Stay close, alright? If you need anything—”

Jungkook, Taehyung, Snake (still inexplicably calling himself that), and Molly—crossbow-slinger extraordinaire—were making their way through the asylum’s crumbling courtyard. A day and a half in, they looked the part now: mud on their clothes, sweat-dampened shirts, fake bandages here and there. They had clearly made it through a night and a morning of scavenging, and judging by the pack Taehyung carried, they were doing well.

That’s when Taehyung spotted you from a distance.

He nudged Jungkook and hissed under his breath, “No way. Is that Y/N?”

Jungkook’s eyes locked on you—and froze. “She’s… acting, right?” Jungkook asked, but he was already moving toward you.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed you that Jungkook had seen commanding a smoke grenade like it was part of your DNA. Gone was the grinning puppet master who had thrown him and his friends into a zombie nightmare for the sheer love of chaos. Instead—standing under the gray, early-morning sky—you looked like someone lost.

You stood at the trading post near the old asylum ruins, speaking softly to a weathered player with fake dirt on his face and a rusted toy gun slung over his back. Your voice was shaking. So were your hands.

“Y/N?” he said uncertainly, a flicker of hope in his voice. You didn’t react. Of course not. That wasn’t your name right now.

So he tried again, stepping closer, more hesitant. “Hey… are you okay?”

Taehyung beat him to it, his Korean accent thick but clear. “Miss? Is everything okay?”

You turned toward them slowly. Your lip trembled. And the look you gave them… it was so raw it knocked the wind out of Jungkook’s chest. You looked at all of them like you didn’t know whether to run or cry. You glanced from Taehyung to Jungkook to the two strangers flanking them. You held the baby tighter to your chest. Your lip wobbling, and your voice came out small.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said. “We—we said we’d meet here. I lost my knife. I traded it for formula. For her. Please, I don’t want anything. I just—I need help.”

You clutched the baby doll tighter and gave a little, heartbreaking smile. And Jungkook’s heart squeezed in a way that shocked him. He should know better. He did know better. This was a game. You were in character. You were one of the organizers. Hell, he’d seen you cut the power and signal a horde like a general commanding troops just last night. But right now…

Right now, all he could see was you looking scared, tired, alone—and goddammit, holding a baby. Even if it was a fake one. You looked down at the baby doll, brushing your thumb over its plastic cheek. “She’s been so quiet, but I think she’s hungry. I… I don’t know where else to go.”

Jungkook couldn’t breathe.

Your vulnerability wasn’t just convincing—it felt real. Too real. He knew it was stupid. He knew this was part of the game. But still, something primal and protective swelled in his chest. He wanted to shield you. Even from pretend danger. Even if you were one of the people causing it.

You looked up at them again with a shiver. “You’re not with the men from the train, right? They had—masks. And one had this axe…”

Molly gave a soft, reassuring nod. “We’re not with the train people. You can come with us, okay?” You nodded, eyes wide. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Snake muttered under his breath, “If that baby starts crying tonight, I swear—”

“I’ll keep her quiet,” you said quickly, gripping the doll tighter. “She knows not to cry anymore.” Jungkook couldn’t take his eyes off you. His brain kept screaming it’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake—but his heart wasn’t listening.

As the group turned and began to walk back toward their temporary outpost, you fell in step beside them, eyes alert but downcast. Jungkook moved quietly beside you, matching your pace. You didn’t look up, but you let your arm brush against his as if by accident. He glanced sideways—and for the briefest moment, your expression cracked just enough for him to see the smallest flicker of a smirk.

You knew. You knew exactly what you were doing. And god, it was working. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair and sighed through his nose, exasperated with himself.

He was so. fucking. doomed.

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It was crazy. Absolutely insane.

From the second Jungkook’s group took you in, everything changed. One of the trade vendors, a grizzled guy with a sheriff badge duct-taped to his chest, handed them two extra magazines of Nerf ammo “for the baby.” Another gave a can of pineapple, whispering with serious urgency, “Good for nursing moms.”

You nodded, clutching the doll like your life depended on it, eyes watery with gratitude. You didn’t overplay it. You didn’t need to. Back at their camp—a semicircle of barricades and scavenged supplies around the shed—chaos broke loose. You walked in and people lost their minds.

“She’s got a baby?” “She has a baby!” “Is she alone?” “Where’s the father?” “Was she pregnant during the outbreak?!”

People took it way to serious. But Jungkook kind of understood. The men swore to protect you. Loudly. With solemn nods and fist-to-chest pledges. Even the quieter ones suddenly sharpened their focus, ready to fend off zombie hordes at the sound of a rattle.

The women? They were instantly circling. One gently tugged your sleeve and whispered, “You should sleep, hon. Let someone else take care of the little one for a bit.” Another offered to heat water and try to sterilize a bottle. A third handed over a slightly-clean blanket, saying it would be softer for the baby.

Molly, tough-as-nails Molly with her battered crossbow and flinty eyes, was the most surprising of all. She stepped up, arms crossed. “You need to eat. Properly. Sit.” You blinked, nodding slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

Molly took the baby doll from your arms like it was made of glass. Then—dead serious—she growled at it. “Don’t give me that face. Your mom’s busy.” You couldn’t help but laugh, eyes crinkling with warmth. When you returned from the warm food someone shoved into your hands, Molly handed the baby back with a straight face. “Grumpy little thing. Missed you.”

“Thank you,” you said, genuinely touched, your hands brushing hers as you took the baby back. “You’re… really kind.” 

Taehyung, crouched by a rusted fire barrel with Jungkook, Jimin, and Namjoon, leaned in and hissed low under his breath, “Don’t let her distract you. She’s got villain energy written all over her right now.” Jimin snorted. “Bro, she’s holding a doll and crying.”

“That’s exactly why,” Taehyung said seriously. “That’s exactly how they get you.” Namjoon didn’t speak. He just looked across the camp, watching you sit under the tarp, huddled with the baby like a storm-wrecked statue.

Jungkook… didn’t speak either. He just looked at you.

Watched the way you curled your body around the doll, like you were shielding it from the cold. The tiny smile you gave to the woman who offered to stitch the tear in your sweater. The way your eyes scanned each person like you were searching for something real. Your brother. Maybe hope. Maybe a way out.

He knew you were acting. He knew you were playing a role.

But the tenderness of it—the truth underneath it—cut into him.

You were building something. A narrative. A presence. A story that folded into theirs, made their world feel larger, more real. You asked softly, eyes tired but kind, “Has anyone here seen my brother? He’s about this tall…” You held your hand a bit above your head, eyes sweeping over their faces. Everyone shook their head with murmurs of apology. No one had seen him. You gave a small nod, looking down at the baby. “Okay. Maybe he’s further south.”

And then, reluctantly, after they insisted—you let them lead you to a cot inside the shed, where two women covered you in blankets and one brushed your hair softly from your forehead. “Sleep,” she whispered. “We’ll keep watch.”

And you did.

 He didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Maybe because you trusted them, even just in-character. Trusted them enough to sleep.

Jungkook stood nearby, cross-legged on an overturned crate, his gun across his lap. He kept his eyes on the tree line. But every few minutes, he turned and looked toward you.

Just to be sure you were okay.

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You woke slowly, groggy but warm. For a moment, the peaceful hum of camp lulled you—muted conversations, the scrape of someone sharpening a weapon, distant birdsong. And then your hand slid over the blanket beside you. Nothing.

The baby doll was gone.

Your eyes snapped open. You sat up fast, breath catching, scanning around wildly until you spotted one of the women from earlier—Annette, the redhead with the braid—standing by the fire barrel. Holding the baby. You stormed over. And went into character.

“Give me back my child!”

Every head turned. The group froze. Annette startled, backing up a step. “I was just—he was cold! You were asleep—!”

“You took him without asking! Without telling me!” You were full of fake hysteria now, body trembling, eyes shining with fresh tears as you stomped toward her. “You were passed out!” she snapped back, holding the doll protectively. “You’re lucky you have people to help you. Don’t act like a saint—you’ve got a whole family around you now!”

“Don’t you dare guilt me for caring about my own child!” you screamed, and the camp exploded into noise.

Women yelled. Men hovered uncertainly, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon staring wide-eyed as you and Annette tore into each other like wild animals in rags and apocalypse grime. Jimin held his hands up like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Molly shoved through the circle. “Alright! Enough!” She snatched the baby out of Annette’s arms, cradled it to her chest, and stalked back toward your bed. “I’m putting him down where he belongs.” But the damage was done.

From the woods, groans began—deep, feral, unmistakable.

“Zombies!” someone shouted.

And then you and Annette were surrounded by indecision. The men hesitated—do they break up the fight? Do they protect you? Annette was still fuming. “You can’t even handle being a mother!” You looked around wildly—then saw the zombies moving closer. Ten? Maybe more.

You didn’t flinch.

“You don’t deserve him!” Annette screamed. And with a dramatic sob, you shoved her hard—right toward the oncoming horde. You stumbled back just in time not to end as Annette.  As Annette let out a perfectly-timed scream as she stumbled backward into their arms. The zombie players descended in full choreographed carnage—screeching, arms grabbing, paint splattering.

“NOOOO!” she wailed, perfectly, theatrically, just as she was “bitten” and dragged to the ground. Her hand reached out… and dropped.

Game over.

The whole camp went dead silent. Jungkook’s heart was hammering. He saw it all—your heaving shoulders, your wide tearful eyes, your trembling hands. As some of the guards went to deal with the zombies now coming your way. You had just killed someone.

Sort of.

Molly returned, baby doll back in your arms. “She touched your kid. That’s on her.” Another woman nodded sharply. “No one takes a child from its mother.”

Taehyung whispered, “She’s terrifying.” Namjoon exhaled like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Jimin blinked. “Did she just—?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook whispered. “She did.” But it wasn’t condemnation in his voice. It was awe.

You pulled the baby closer to your chest as the zombie players—groaning, covered in fake blood and smugness—left toward the next part of the map. You wiped your eyes and turned toward the fire, shaking.

And the group? They closed in around you, no questions asked. Annette’s name was crossed off the board.

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Jungkook approached slowly, hands in the pockets of his tattered apocalypse jacket, still glancing at the baby doll cradled in your arms as if it might blink.

“You know…” he said, voice low and a little awkward, “the kid has the same sparkle… in his eyes as you.” You froze. Your head snapped up immediately. Your gaze flicked to Jungkook. You gave him a small, quiet nod of understanding. “Thanks,” you said, softly. Then, to Molly, “Could you watch him for a second? I need… I need a breath.”

Molly, rocking the fake baby as if it were the most precious thing in the world, smiled. “Of course. He’s an angel when he naps.” Before you could turn, she added, “Take Jungkook with you. He looks like he needs it too.”

You looked at him grinning, one brow raised. He looked… startled. But he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

The trees offered some quiet from the chaos behind you. For a while, you just listened to the wind threading through the branches and the crunch of your boots on dry leaves. It was strange how easily the game dissolved out here. No screams. No laughter. Just you and him. Then you stopped and looked at him with the same gentle concern you’d shown to the doll not five minutes ago.

Jungkook stared at you, confused. For a moment—just a second—he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

“I… I think I used the wrong phrase,” he admitted. “The sparkle thing—I thought that’s how people got out of the game? Like… a code?” You looked at him, something melting in your expression. “It is a code,” you said softly. “You used it perfectly.” He blinked. “Then… why do I feel so messed up?”

You inhaled slowly and reached up to remove the scarf around your head, your shoulders relaxing as you let the mask of your character slide off. “I’m going to talk to you now as me,” you said. “Not the mother. Not the Game Master. Just… Y/N.”

Jungkook nodded and saw your entire demeanor change. You were instantly more open—more you.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard,” he admitted eventually. “I knew it wasn’t real. You were holding a doll. I saw it. But something about it—your voice, the way you shook, how scared you looked…” He laughed bitterly. “I thought, if something happens to her, I won’t be able to fix it.” You watched him with quiet patience.

“You know,” you said, “a lot of people come into these games thinking they’ll be cool and strategic. Like it’s chess with costumes. And then they see someone crying over soup, or hear a scream at night—and suddenly their brain forgets it’s a simulation.”

Jungkook gave a tired nod. “Yeah. That happened about three hours in.”

“Of course it did,” you smiled. “You’re human. Your empathy isn’t fake.” He looked at you. This time, really looked. “You were so good,” he said. “I thought—” His voice broke off like it betrayed something too personal.

You didn’t press. You gave him space.

“I’ve been doing this a while,” you said. “I’ve seen heroes break down because someone pretended to die in their arms. Seen friends scream at each other over fake betrayals. Emotions can be real even if the context isn’t.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you mean I’m not crazy?”

“Not even a little,” you said, stepping closer. “But I will say this—” He met your eyes again, waiting. “If you do ever get too close to a character—too emotionally tied—step out. Use the sparkle phrase. And don’t be ashamed of needing a breather. It’s not weak.”

Jungkook exhaled, long and slow. “You’re really good at this.” Your lips twitched into a grin. “That was my evil plan.” He laughed—genuine, breathy, warm. “Well, it’s working. You’ve got, like, twelve people ready to die for you back there.”

“I know,” you said, brushing a leaf off your sleeve. “I love watching human psychology unfold in these settings. Throw in a helpless baby and a crying woman, and boom—pack instinct. Protector mode activated.” Jungkook chuckled again. “You’re dangerous.”

“I try.”

You walked a little further, the air calmer now, your heart beating less like you were in a game and more like you were just… here. With him. “Do you feel better now?” you asked, tilting your head. He exhaled, but it didn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

But you could see it—how his body still carried it. The weight. The leftover adrenaline. The strange, instinctual need to protect something that was never real. You hesitated for only a breath, then took a small step closer.

“Can I offer you something?” you asked. Jungkook blinked. “Uh… what?”

“A hug.” His eyes widened, and he laughed—not at you, but because he hadn’t expected that. “A hug?”

“Sometimes it helps,” you said with a gentle smile. “Just—Something human. Especially after hours of zombies, crying, and everyone screaming about rations.” He paused. You could see him considering it. Then, with an almost sheepish smile, he said, “Yeah… okay.”

You stepped forward, arms open but soft, giving him room to change his mind. He didn’t. Instead, Jungkook folded into the hug like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it until it was happening. How it made him realize you were safe. His arms wrapped around you, firm but hesitant at first. Then, when you didn’t pull away, he held tighter.

And for a moment, there was nothing but the two of you in that quiet patch of woods—no fake apocalypse, no baby dolls, no cameras. Just his heartbeat against your chest. Just your breath near his ear. “You smell… nice,” he mumbled, half-laughing, and you felt his smile against your shoulder. You grinned too. “Thanks. Its called a shower.”

He pulled back laughing, just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer now—less dazed, less confused. Grounded. You gave him a look like, See?

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. And he meant it. You nodded. “You’re welcome.” You started turning back toward camp, but paused, reaching out and placing your hand lightly on his forearm. “One last thing,” you said quietly. He looked at you, attentive. “When the time comes,” you said, voice more serious now, “don’t try to save me.”  Jungkook frowned. “What?”

“I’m supposed to die,” you explained. With how serious he took this you didn’t want to traumatize him. “It’s planned. For story, tension, payoff—all of it. So when it happens… let it happen. Don’t let your character die for me.” He looked at you for a long moment, lips pressed tight. He didn’t like it. Not even a little.

But eventually, he gave a small nod. “Okay. I’ll try.” You smiled at him. “That’s all I ask.”

And the two of you walked back to camp—quietly, but closer. Something between you had shifted. And the end of the world kept spinning.

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Back at camp, the mood was lighter for a while. People were laughing over old canned soup, swapping stories about their fake injuries, showing off smudged zombie makeup like war medals. Jungkook sat beside the fire pit with Taehyung and Jimin, poking at the embers with a stick as the sun dipped lower behind the trees.

“I talked with Y/N earlier,” he said, voice quieter than before. Jimin raised a brow. “The mother?”

“She broke character. For me,” Jungkook added. Taehyung leaned forward, grinning. “That’s unexpected. You okay?”

“I think so,” Jungkook said, then smiled a little to himself. “It just felt… too real. Like I couldn’t separate her from the game. I looked at her and couldn’t tell where the mother ended and she began. I needed to separate them for a moment.”

“She offered me a hug,” he added softly, almost like it embarrassed him to say it. “You took it, right?” Taehyung asked, nudging him. “Yeah,” Jungkook said. “And it helped. It made it feel like… it was okay to enjoy it again.” Jimin nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “She’s good. I think she sees when someone’s slipping too far into it.”

Before they could say more, a horn blared from the far end of the camp. Then came the scream.

It was you.

Blood-curdling. Raw. Real enough that even the most seasoned players froze for a heartbeat. You crashed into camp, fake tears streaking your cheeks, your baby doll clutched tight to your chest. “They’re coming—I can’t—I can’t do this—please, someone—!”

Jungkook's body moved before his brain did. He stepped forward—but too late. Then, in your frantic scramble, you fumbled with the makeshift barricade and ripped it open. And the horde swarmed in.

Chaos erupted.

It was like a dam breaking. Zombies—dozens of them—surged from the trees with low groans and guttural snarls, their movements jerky and terrifyingly fast for something supposed to be undead. The illusion was flawless. You bolted for the other side of camp, stumbling with your doll in your arms, and vanished.

The scream that came next didn’t belong to you.

It was Jin.

“NOPE. NOPE. I’M OUT!” he yelled, laughing even as he backed himself into a corner, behind some stacked crates meant to look like a supply station. “I’m not fast enough for this sh—!”

They got him.

One of the zombies tackled him, then another. Then three more. Jin disappeared under the pile, mock screaming and laughing at the same time, smacking at the air with ketchup-smeared hands. “I’M BEING EATEN ALIVE! SAVE ME—ACTUALLY DON’T—THIS IS KINDA FUN—”

And then his hand dropped limp. Fake-dead. Out of the game.

Jungkook turned to call for Jimin—but Jimin was already being overwhelmed. He had tried to hold a makeshift line near the fire pit, swinging a padded bat and shouting commands, rallying three of the younger players behind him. “Hold the flank! Hold the—AH—!”

One grabbed him from behind. Then another. A third clung to his legs. “Shit—shit—I’m down! I’m—gah—nooooooo—!” Jimin crumpled dramatically, laughing breathlessly as he disappeared beneath a tangle of groaning zombie players. He held up a hand one last time before letting it fall with a thud. His “death” was over-the-top—classic Jimin—and it still managed to hit Jungkook square in the chest.

Within minutes, nearly half of their group had gone down.

Some were taken trying to flee. Others died fighting. Some just froze in the panic, paralyzed by the sheer size of the horde. And when it cleared, only three of the members were left, with only a few of the original survivor group.

Jungkook.

Namjoon.

Taehyung.

The camp was littered with bodies—players lying still, arms splayed, makeup smeared with fake blood, laughing and groaning as they pretended to be “fresh kills.” Jungkook stood, chest heaving, heart racing. His bat dripped red corn syrup. He looked around, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, and spotted you.

You were across the camp, standing slowly, brushing leaves off your shirt. You still had the doll but now hit hung limp like a doll in your hand, your expression was calm again. Collected. You turned. Found him with your eyes. And waved. And for the first time since the screaming started, Jungkook remembered to breathe.

He waved back, just once.

Then you were gone again—heading off toward the makeup rooms with Jin and Jimin rising to follow. They teased each other as they walked, still catching their breath, still smiling through the chaos. Followed by many other undead, ready to find other survivors or to go with you the makeup rooms.

“You really went all in,” Jin said, chuckling. “God, I thought you were actually going to cry for real.”

You laughed. “Almost did.” But it was Jimin who leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You left an impression,” he said. You blinked. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure how the baby would play with the—”

“No,” Jimin cut in. “Not the character. You.” Your brow furrowed, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” Jimin smirked. “I mean, you—Y/N—you got under Jungkook’s skin. He’s still pretending not to notice, but I’m telling you now, something cracked open in him. You’re in there.” You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck. “He just got stuck in immersion.”

“Nope,” Jimin said confidently. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I saw the way he looked at you. That wasn’t caring for just your roll.” You glanced back once, just before disappearing behind the curtain of trees toward the makeup.

Jungkook was still watching. And your chest fluttered—just a little. You smiled shyly at Jimin, brushing dust from your shirt, cheeks still warm from the earlier chaos. “Oh… then Jungkook won’t like my next character,” you murmured. Jimin raised a brow and leaned in. “Oh? What’s it gonna be?”

You only grinned. “First? Food. And maybe an hour of sleep.” Jimin laughed, nodding. “Fair. I’ll be around. Don’t forget to scare me later.” You gave him a mock salute and started making your way upstairs—up into the top floor of the asylum, where players weren’t allowed. Where you could take a breath, eat without breaking immersion, and switch roles without being spotted.

On the way up, you passed a surreal little scene—Yoongi, fully zombified with his head twisted at an odd angle and one eye gone pale with makeup, lumbered through the halls muttering, “Did you see Hoseok? I want to scare him."

You stifled a laugh. “No but I will let you know.”

“Acceptable,” Yoongi mumbled in his zombie voice, shuffling away.

You made it to the upper ward, peeled off your layers, and managed to get two and a half hours of rest. Your alarm buzzed at 9:45pm.

It was time.

By 10:00, the event would shift. The safe zones would crumble. And from 11 onward… there would be no mercy. Downstairs, five of your most seasoned zombie player had been briefed and would meet you at the NSC hall. You wanted your entrance to be theatrical, disruptive, and unforgettable.

By 10:15, you were halfway through your transformation—tight brown neoprene pants clinging to your legs, the lower half of your costume fitted. The upper part, a terrifying piece of neoprene and latex-mottled horror, hung around your hip, along with the harness system that would make your movements twitchy and unnatural.

You were just adjusting your sports bra and reaching for the torso suit when the door creaked.

“Hey, did you—” Taehyung froze in the doorway, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. He blinked hard, processing the sight of you: half-dressed, back turned, casually sorting through prosthetics and blood tubes.

You turned around, utterly unfazed in your sports bra and pants. “Dead or tired?” Taehyung swallowed, his voice catching. “Uh. Dead. I died. Heroically. Saved Snake and Molly. Got torn apart. Y’know. Normal day.” You chuckled, reaching for the suit. “Glad someone made it out with flair.”

Taehyung lingered, clearing his throat. “Uh—do you… want help?”

“Please,” you said immediately, stepping toward him and turning your back to him. “The zipper’s a nightmare.” He caught the heavy latex piece awkwardly and stepped closer. The suit was clammy from the spray blood and tight as hell, almost impossible to shimmy into without another person. You guided your arms in, shifting your weight.

Taehyung tried not to look at the way the fabric stretched around your body. “You alright?” you asked as he fumbled with the zipper. “I—yeah. It’s just—tight,” he mumbled, finally getting the zip started, pulling it slowly up your back.

When it clicked into place, you rolled your shoulders, adjusting the neckline and tugging at the seals. You met his eyes over your shoulder. “Thanks. This character’s a little… worse.”

“How bad?”

You smirked darkly, your voice lowering. “Tonight… there’s no more safe space.” Taehyung blinked. “Like—none?”

“None,” you confirmed. “No sanctuary. No barricades. Only hiding. Running. Or dying. And I’m going to make sure they remember it.” Taehyung stared at you. “I think Jungkook’s gonna have a heart attack.” You laughed. “Good. Maybe I’ll let him live if he plays it right.” He shook his head with a grin, backing toward the door. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Y/N.”

“You should’ve remembered that the moment you walked in on me half-naked,” you called after him. Taehyung flushed but grinned wider. “That wasn’t my fault!” You grinned back. “It is now.”

You picked up your blood capsule belt, slipping it over your shoulder. The last part of your transformation was almost complete. From here on out, no one would recognize you under the makeup, the prosthetics, and the twitchy, grotesque movements of your new role.

Tonight, you would become the thing people whispered about.

And Jungkook would be right in the middle of it.

The night was thick with fog and the smell of wet leaves, the moonlight too thin to offer comfort. You stood in the shadows just beyond the NSC hall, the five zombies around you adjusting their gear in eerie silence. Your neoprene suit clung to your body like diseased skin, the painted latex blistered and blackened. You had blended the mask into your neckline so your real face disappeared beneath rot and ruin. Only your eyes remained—but even they were ringed in thick, oily black makeup, obscuring any hint of humanity.

Taehyung stood nearby, wide-eyed, one hand over his mouth. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You guys look like something from Silent Hill.”

You tilted your head slowly toward him, silent.

“That’s not helping,” he added, stepping back.

The other five—Alex, David, Mira, Yuji, and Garam—stood tall beside you, identical in costume and horror. A collective nightmare. One of them cracked her neck; another flexed their fingers in tight gloves soaked in darkened blood. You all looked like a single organism splintered into six lethal bodies.

And when Eriks voice whispered through your comms—Go—you didn’t stumble or lurch like the rest of the infected.

You ran.

Fast.

The six of you surged into the night like a flock of death crows, howling, shrieking, voices jagged with distortion. You had trained for this—months of movement practice, stunts, and horror choreography. Every motion you made was unhinged and wrong, arms twitching, heads jerking too far. Real terror wrapped in rubber and foam. And when the normal zombies saw your group emerging from the darkness, they actually cheered.

“Let’s go, monsters!”

“The bosses are here!”

“Hunt them!”

It was like a celebrity entrance from hell. And that’s exactly what you were—hell in motion. And Taehyung watched in horror. He was suddenly very happy he had died and hadn’t had to face you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the map…

Jungkook sat against the cracked wall of an abandoned two-story building, head tilted back, breath steady. He hadn’t realized just how badly he needed the break until now. Namjoon dozed lightly beside him, one hand still on the prop axe resting across his lap. A few others—veteran players and a couple of newer ones—had taken refuge here too. One, who played a frazzled but skilled doctor, had claimed the cellar and set up shop with fake supplies and dim LED lights to simulate a generator hum. He’d even set up a patient cot.

Snake sat at the window, looking out into the forest with haunted eyes. “Taehyung shouldn’t have saved me,” he murmured. Jungkook leaned forward. “He would’ve done it every time.” Snake didn’t reply, just gripped the curtain tighter.

Since you had left the game earlier in the day, Jungkook had finally started breathing normally again. Watching you with that doll—sobbing, panicking, screaming as you threw open the barricades—had twisted something inside him he hadn’t expected. Even knowing it was part of the event, it had pierced something too real. Too much. Your trembling hands. Your broken cries.

And then you were gone. Not dead, not hurt. Just… absent from the game. And that distance, as strange as it was, helped. He could see it as a game again. He could focus on survival. Strategy. The vlog footage. The thrill.

But then—

The screams began. Far off at first, like crows fighting. Then closer. Louder. Sharper. Wrong. Jungkook shot up. Namjoon blinked awake, eyes wide. “What the hell is that?” It wasn’t the usual zombie moan. Not even a fast-zombie screech. This was like someone being torn in half.

And then the first impact hit.

Something—or someone—slammed into the front of the building with a crunch and a spray of fake blood. One of the new players screamed as the front barricade gave way and something darted through the broken opening.

It wasn’t stumbling. It was sprinting.

“Upstairs!” Namjoon barked. “Now!” Jungkook grabbed Snake’s arm and hauled him back as one of the monsters—rotting flesh, twitchy limbs, face all wrong—threw itself at the nearest survivor. They weren’t like the others. These were different. Silent coordination. Screaming, yes—but like hunters calling to each other, not mindless noise.

Upstairs, the survivors scrambled. Jungkook kicked over a shelf to block the stairwell. It bought them seconds at best. And then another scream—closer, more guttural. One of the new players was down. He looked out the broken top-floor window.

There were five of them. All identical in horror.

Jungkook backed away from the window, breath caught in his throat. Below, the five nightmares prowled through the dark yard like wolves who had just learned how to hate. They didn’t move like zombies. They moved like something smarter.

And then came the curse: “FUCK,” one of the veteran players snapped, fumbling with the fake gun strapped to his shoulder. “What?” Namjoon asked, crouched behind a toppled cabinet. The veteran pointed sharply out the window. “They brought them again.”

“Them?” said a new player, confused and wide-eyed.

“Crawlers,” the vet spat like it was a slur. “They’re fast, they’re coordinated, and worst of all—they don’t go down like normal zombies. You can’t just push them or tag their arm. You have to fight them. Hard.” Even Namjoon’s brow furrowed at that. “I thought this was supposed to be a survival horror game. Not full-on combat.”

“Oh, it’s both, still LARP fighting only,” the vet said grimly. “But that’s the boss class.”

The "doctor" player popped up from the cellar stairwell, glasses askew, fully in character. “But if we catch one,” he said, voice buzzing with faux-manic glee, “I might be able to extract the virus. Create an antidote.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” he said, indignant. “That’s literally my quest line.”

Upstairs, they fortified the landing. One staircase. One hallway. If nothing came through, they were safe—for now. Official game rules meant no break-ins unless an Orga member approved it. Everyone relaxed slightly.

Until a scream ripped through the room.

The vet player stumbled back, swearing again. “Window! They’re coming in through the fucking window!” Two of the Crawlers were halfway inside—literally crawling through the second-story window frame, their movements contorted and snapping, their masks reflecting the dim LED lights with a shine that made everyone recoil.

“They climbed the goddamn drainpipe!” someone shouted.

The room exploded into chaos.

One of the Crawlers lunged for the doctor, who barely rolled out of the way. The second went for the vet, who fought back—but in the scuffle, he clocked the monster hard in the ribs.

“GAME STOP!” the veteran called, hands shooting up in the air. “STOP, STOP, STOP!”

Everyone froze mid-motion. The doctor, mid-laugh, cut off instantly. Namjoon swore and backed up, gun lowered. Jungkook was halfway through a lunge and immediately paused, breath caught in his throat. Garam was slumped against the wall, arms cradling his side, eyes shut tight.

“Garam?” someone asked, voice tense.

“I didn’t mean to hit that hard—shit, I’m sorry, man,” the veteran said quickly, rushing over but stopping short, hands out in apology. “I panicked. You were coming at me like a fucking demon.”

“I’m fine,” Garam said hoarsely, holding up a hand.

“No, for real—are you sure?” Jungkook stepped in now, crouching next to him. Looking beyond the horror of a costume. “Don’t push through if you’re actually hurt.” Garam drew in a breath, sharp and shaky, then slowly exhaled. “I’m okay. Winded. Just… give me a sec.”

Namjoon knelt beside them, offering his canteen. Garam took a sip, then leaned his head back, already laughing softly. “God, you guys are so soft now. Its cute.“ The veteran muttered, visibly shaken. “I’m really sorry. I got scared, man.”

Garam looked at him properly now. “It’s okay. Honest. You got a clean hit. No cracked ribs, I think. Just knocked the air outta me. Good reaction time.” He smiled—strained, but genuine. The group laughed lightly, nerves easing. The veteran still looked remorseful but nodded gratefully as Garam gave him a reassuring pat on the leg.

“Let’s keep going,” Garam said. “I want my death scene to be worth it.” The players regrouped fast. And the fight picked up again with renewed fury. One Crawler went down under coordinated fire from Namjoon and the vet. Another—Yuji—was tackled and “captured” by the doctor with wild delight. The remaining Crawlers hissed, shrieked, and clawed, but were picked off one by one.

And then there was you.

You’d gone for Namjoon—darting in from the shadows with a curved movement that made his skin crawl. You tackled him into the wall with a guttural cry. He shouted in shock, the breath knocked from him.

But just as you leaned in to “bite,” Jungkook moved like lightning. He grabbed the prop axe from the ground and turned you off Namjoon with a strike so fast it made everyone pause.

You froze.

You dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead in the game.

Unmoving.

Breathing hard, Jungkook stood over you. Startled for a moment. Had he hurt you? But the crawler didn’t groan or called for a stop. “Nice save,” Namjoon muttered, rubbing his side. The doctor was practically dancing in place. “Bring the bodies down! I’ll dissect them for a cure!”

Normally, a dead player would be tapped or, just sit up and ask where to go. But Jungkook was staring at you like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

He crouched beside you, prop axe still in hand, and leaned down to “double tap” for dramatic effect. But as he did, he whispered low: “Y/N…?” You gave the smallest nod.

His heart jumped.

He hadn’t been wrong.

You were here. You’d been one of them. One of the nightmares. The others were getting ready to drag the bodies into the cellar, the doctor already spinning in-character theories about viral extraction and neural mutation. The noise fell away for a moment when Jungkook leaned closer, hoodie brushing your side.

He cleared his throat. “Y/N… would you be part of the cellar scene?” You gave a tiny nod, keeping your body limp. “Can I move you?”

Again, you nodded—expecting the usual signal. Normally, the player in charge of corpse transport would tap the "dead" player twice on the shoulder, telling them to get up and walk to the next area. But instead of that, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He simply leaned down and scooped you up into his arms like it was second nature. Like you weighed nothing, in front of the entire group, Jungkook slipped his arms under you and carefully picked you up, cradling you against his chest.

Startled, you tensed—and your hands instinctively gripped the front of his hoodie. Tight. Jungkook paused the second he felt it. “You okay?” he whispered softly, head close to yours. You hesitated a second, then exhaled shakily and slowly relaxed. Your body went slack in his arms.

Jungkook felt it. Felt your trust settle into his chest like warmth. He held you tighter, more securely, and started moving down the hallway toward the stairs.

The doctor whooped. “To the lab!”

“Man, how are you touching that thing like it’s not disgusting?” one of the players called playfully. “Dude, it smells like rubber and old meat!” another joked. “Jungkook,” Namjoon called, eyeing him curiously, “you sure you wanna carry that thing?”

Jungkook didn’t even look back. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ve got her.”

“Think he likes corpses now,” a third laughed.

Jungkook ignored them all, only shifting you slightly in his arms so your head wouldn’t bump the stairwell wall. As he stepped onto the first stair, he heard it: a whisper, muffled under your latex mask. “Please don’t bump me against anything…” He smiled.

His grip tightened again, protective, steady. “Never,” he whispered back.

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The doctor’s “lab” in the cellar was cluttered and eerie, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. It smelled like fake blood and floor polish. He’d cleared a long table in the center for dramatic effect, and when Jungkook arrived, the doctor clapped gleefully.

“Put her here, yes, yes—right under the light!”

Jungkook didn’t just drop you off. He gently lowered you onto the table, hands bracing your back and shoulders until he was sure you were resting comfortably. The latex of your suit squeaked faintly as you settled.

The others filed in, dragging the other Crawlers. Garam gave Jungkook a thumbs-up before collapsing back into his dramatic corpse pose. The doctor hovered over you, monologuing in detail about virus strains, moral quandaries, and the possibility of a cure—“if only we can harvest enough tissue before the mutation completes!”

Half an hour passed before the doctor clapped his hands and declared, “That’s a wrap on dissection!”

People relaxed. It was an immersion break. But sometimes that was the only way to get a group of zombies out of a scene. Laughter bubbled up. Someone offered Garam a bottle of water. Another player grabbed a granola bar.

You sat up slowly—but before you could stand, Jungkook gently touched your arm. “Wait.” You blinked at him through the mask. Your body still wore the look of rot and infection. Only your eyes were visible—blackened around the edges with makeup, narrowed at him curiously.

He stared for a moment.

Then you reached up and peeled your mask back, the latex lifting with a soft hiss. Your face was flushed from the heat, and the black makeup had smudged slightly around your eyes. Your hair stuck to your forehead.

“Better?” you asked, voice hoarse but warm. Jungkook’s lips curled into the softest smile. He nodded. “I think…” He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I think it’s easier when you’re the danger.” You chuckled—tired and amused—and without thinking too hard, you leaned forward and gave him a hug. Arms around his shoulders. Quick. Sincere. Real.

He hugged you back before he even realized it.

Then you stepped away, slipping the mask back into place like a switch had flipped. The creature returned. Crawling death. Fear incarnate. The doctor gave a playful salute. “See you on the battlefield.”

With a blood-curdling scream, you launched yourself back into the night with the other Crawlers, skittering up the stairs like nightmares given shape. Namjoon leaned into Jungkook’s side as they watched you vanish around the corner. “You’re down bad.” he teased. Jungkook didn’t look away, eyes fixed on where you vanished.

“She hugged you coverd in latex, dude. Latex.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered cheeks flushing just a little. Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “And that’s not even the weirdest thing you’ve been into this week.” Jungkook’s voice dropped, quieter than before. “She is just cool…”

Namjoon blinked, “She let you carry her like a princess.” then clapped him on the shoulder, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You need to calm down before you propose in the basement, Romeo.”

Jungkook didn’t even hear him. He was still staring toward the stairwell. Waiting for the screams.

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Now, early morning had settled over the camp. Despite all their efforts to survive the night, the relentless game had even caught up to Jungkook and Namjoon. But even the strongest couldn’t escape unscathed.

Namjoon was the first to go down. It happened so fast, almost by pure chance. They had been trying to treat a wounded player nearby when a zombie slipped in unnoticed from a side corridor. Namjoon barely had time to react before the creature was on him.

Half an hour later, Jungkook went down too. He and Snake had gone to refill their water bottles when one of the Crawlers—not you— ambushed him suddenly, and he was taken down, collapsing hard to the ground.

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Now, around the breakfast table in the NSC lounge, the members tried to catch their breath and regroup. The early morning light was soft, the room cluttered with empty coffee cups and half-eaten granola bars. Yoongi sat back, arms crossed, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I couldn’t find Hoseok anywhere last night. He’s got to be the last living member out there, right?”

Taehyung smirked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes, hell bent on changing the topic. “You know, Y/N’s got a really nice trained body.” The others immediately turned to him, eyebrows raised. “How would you know that?” Jin asked, clearly curious.

Jungkook cut in quickly, voice low but firm, “Taehyung, maybe you should drop it.” Jimin gave Taehyung a pointed look, then glanced over at Jungkook with a slight warning. “Yeah, Tae, that’s not really something you should say out loud.”

But Taehyung just laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not lying. I actually saw her—in her underwear, earlier.” Jungkook’s jaw twitched involuntarily at that confession, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. Taehyung grinned wider, clearly enjoying the moment. “I was helping her get dressed after her break. You know, the suit’s tricky to put on alone.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but Jungkook’s expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement. Jin clapped his hands, eager to change the mood. “Hey Namjoon, why don’t you get zombified with us? We can go find Hoseok and scare the hell out of him.”

Namjoon grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Sounds like a plan.” He looked expectantly at Jungkook. Jungkook shook his head firmly, rubbing his tired eyes. “No way. I want to sleep for at least two hours before anything else. I’m wiped.”

Just then, the door creaked open and you walked in, still in your Crawler costume — the latex suit clinging tightly, eyes rimmed with smudged black makeup from sweat. You grabbed a banana and a granola bar from the counter, munching casually.

“Morning. Looks like you all had fun without me.”

Yoongi grinned slyly, waving a hand. “You have no idea. I’ve been having a blast scaring the other players. You should see their faces.” They shared stories, laughing about close calls and wild moments. You smiled, genuinely happy they’d had fun.

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You and Jungkook moved quietly up the creaking stairs together, the weight of the night’s chaos finally pressing down on both of you. The stale air clung to your skin, mixed with sweat and the grime of hours spent playing your part in the nightmare. You could already feel the tight neoprene suit clinging uncomfortably, suffocating you in every movement.

You placed your mask and gloves at the foot of your mattress, giving a small sigh of relief to finally be rid of them. The room still smelled faintly of latex, dust, and whatever old building materials had long since decayed here. Now came the tricky part—getting out of your suit. You reached behind your back, fingers fumbling for the zipper, but as expected, it was nearly impossible to grab at that angle.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Jungkook walking by, towel slung over one shoulder and his small toiletry bag in hand, clearly headed for the showers.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you called, turning your head toward him with a sheepish smile. “Can you help me with the zipper real quick?” He stopped mid-step, blinking. “Oh—uh… yeah, sure.” His voice cracked slightly, caught off guard, but he didn’t need to be asked twice.

You turned around fully, holding your hair out of the way so he could see the zipper running along the back of your suit. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your back as he grabbed the zipper tab. His touch was warm—surprisingly careful. The sound of the zipper sliding down seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet of the room.

As he pulled it lower, his eyes involuntarily dropped, catching a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your sweat-slicked back. Taehyung hadn’t lied—your body was strong, defined, glistening slightly from the hours of movement. Jungkook’s fingers lingered a moment longer than they had to, hovering near your spine before he cleared his throat and stepped back like he’d touched something sacred.

“There,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You’re good.”

You turned back to him with an easy smile. “Thanks, lifesaver.” He gave you a short nod, but didn’t meet your eyes. As you peeled the top of the suit down and started pulling it off your legs, Jungkook retreated into the bathroom, flushing hard even before he got to his cabin.

Inside, the showers were basic—four stalls with curtains, old tiles that had probably seen better days. Still, the hot water was a gift after hours in costume. Jungkook stepped into his stall, undressed and put his clothes on a hock and turned the knob, exhaling as the warm water hit his skin. But then he heard your voice from the stall just two over—cheerful and relaxed.

“So how did you die?” you asked through the running water.

“Huh?” he answered, caught off guard again to here your voice so close with his state of undress. “In the game,” you laughed. “Last I saw you, you were still human. What got you?”

“Oh. Uh… Namjoon went first, some zombie got him when we were trying to distract for a medic run. Then me and Snake went to refill water and one of your creepy little friends came crawling out of a hole and nailed me.” He chuckled. “I didn’t even see them coming. They were small.”

“That was probably Mira,” you replied, amused. “She’s got the smallest frame but is pure chaos in the dark. She lives for that kind of ambush.”

“She’s terrifying,” Jungkook admitted, grinning despite himself. You laughed, and he could hear the sound of you scrubbing your hair. “So you didn’t last long without me.”

“Are you saying I need you for survival?” he teased back, as he washed his own hair.

“I’m saying you should’ve let me kill you. I would’ve taken you out dramatically.”

Your banter echoed between the stalls, easy and natural—both of you shedding more than just the sweat and grime of the game in that moment. The intimacy wasn’t physical, but it was there, warm and unspoken.

After the shower, both of you dressed in sleepwear—loose, clean clothes that smelled faintly of soap. You stepped out first, toweling off your hair. Jungkook followed shortly after, ruffling his own damp hair into a messy puff. He was wearing simple sweatpants and a hoodie, but he still managed to look unfairly good in the dim light.

You returned to your mat with a small yawn, ready to collapse—and then frowned.

Your blankets were gone. You looked around once. Twice. Only your sleeping bag remained. “What the hell,” you muttered. “Did Pia take my blankets again?”

Jungkook glanced over, already halfway through pulling on his hood. “What’s wrong?”

“My blankets are missing,” you said flatly, rubbing your arms. “Again. That’s like, the third time during a break. I’m gonna freeze.” You grumbled under your breath, tugging your sleeping bag tighter around you as you curled inward, trying to trap any hint of warmth. It wasn’t working. The bag alone just wasn’t enough, not after hours of sweat and adrenaline that had now chilled on your skin.

Next to your mattress, Jungkook had already made himself comfortable, lying cocooned in his own sleeping bag, arms tucked under his head. He watched you silently for a moment, then sat up a little, reaching for the extra blanket that lay folded over his legs.

“Here,” he offered gently, holding it out to you. “Take this.” You looked up at him, surprised, and hesitated before shaking your head. “I’ll be fine,” you murmured, forcing a small smile. “Just need to fall asleep quickly, that’s all.”

Jungkook didn’t argue at first, but you could tell from his expression that he didn’t buy it. And honestly, neither did you. Not even a minute later, your body gave you away as a shiver rippled through you, followed by another. Jungkook sat up again with a sigh, clearly having reached his limit.

“Seriously—just take the blanket,” he said, a little firmer this time. You shook your head again, teeth almost chattering. “You need it too—if you give it to me, you’ll be cold.” Jungkook stared at you, frustration twitching in his brow, and then—without warning—he huffed loudly and tossed the blanket at you with a bit more force than necessary.

“Okay, then we’re both using it,” he muttered.

Before you could even react, he scooted over with a soft grunt, shifting from his mat to yours with a little “hup.” You blinked at him, startled, still lying on your back as he threw the blanket over both of you and pulled the edge down to tuck it around your sides.

“There,” he said, grumbling, but not unkindly. “Better?” You swallowed, your heart giving a strange little kick as you nodded slowly. “Yeah. Better.” Your voice came out quiet, meek even. “Thanks.”

You could still feel the cold—your limbs hadn’t quite caught up yet—but the difference was immediate. The blanket added a crucial barrier, but more than that, Jungkook's body was a furnace next to yours. You were lying close, shoulders nearly touching, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your hoodie like sunlight under a door.

Minutes passed in silence. You stayed perfectly still, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, hoping he’d fallen asleep—because the truth was, you were still cold. Less so than before, but it lingered. The kind of chill that settled into your bones. You hated the idea of waking him if he had managed to doze off.

But then, you heard it—another huff. A small, exasperated sigh that made it obvious he was still awake. “Are you seriously still cold?” he asked, voice low but clear in the darkness. You didn’t answer right away, unsure if you should lie or not. “I’m fine,” you whispered eventually. Jungkook shifted beside you, the sound of fabric rustling. “You’re shaking.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but the next second, you felt his arm slip across your waist, pulling you ever so slightly toward him. Not forceful. Just enough that your sides touched fully now, his chest against your shoulder. The heat from him was immediate, his hoodie warm against your arms.

“Okay?” he asked softly, this time with less exasperation—just concern. You hesitated, heart thudding, then nodded into the pillow. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Thank you.” He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a quieter sigh, this one sounding more like relief. His hand stayed at your side, resting lightly, and the closeness wasn’t awkward—it was grounding. Your shivering slowed, then stopped.

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew quiet again. The air had stilled. But the space between you and Jungkook was something different—small, warm, shared. You closed your eyes.

“Night,” Jungkook murmured, his voice just barely audible.

And for once, you were warm enough to whisper back, “Night.”

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You woke slowly, the edge of sleep still soft around your thoughts. Everything was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Sometime during your rest, your sleeping bag had worked itself open—or maybe Jungkook had helped, you weren’t sure—but now you lay wrapped in something better. Jungkook’s arm, solid and warm, lay snug around your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. His tattooed forearm rested across your middle, the ink just barely brushing your skin where your hoodie had ridden up. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and slow.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

Even with all the work still to come—players to scare, undead routes to reset, makeup touch-ups to manage—you couldn’t bring yourself to shift away. Not yet. Instead, you nuzzled back a little deeper against his chest, murmuring a quiet, contented, “Warm.”

A subtle ripple moved through Jungkook’s chest in response—a slight hitch of breath, then the unmistakable rumble of his voice, low and gravelly from sleep. “Morning,” he murmured, the sound wrapping around you like a second blanket.

His arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you more securely against him until the crumpled sleeping bags beneath you rustled. You felt the line of his body at your back, his warmth chasing away the last of the chill from your sleep. You smiled. “Morning.”

He stayed quiet for a moment longer before speaking again. “Did you sleep okay?” You hummed, nodding as you tipped your head gently back against him. “Yeah. I did. You?” There was a pause. And then, too honest to be casual, came his answer: “I did. Best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

The quiet that followed was thick and strange and sweet all at once. Your heart did an unhelpful little flutter as you stared at the wall. His voice had been quiet—like a secret—but it was the way he said it, the way it settled under your skin, that startled you.

Still tucked in his arms, you hesitated before slowly peeling yourself away, stretching your legs and arms with a small groan. “We should probably get up,” you muttered. Jungkook made a reluctant noise behind you, but eventually pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He blinked down at you, his voice still a little hoarse. “So… what horrors await us today?”

You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. Your eyes widened. “Shit. We overslept.” You turned to him, already scrambling to gather your things. “We were supposed to be up at least an hour ago to prep the player routes. Come on!”

Jungkook followed suit, grabbing his clothes and slipping them on with smooth, practiced motions. He grinned as he shoved his arm through a hoodie sleeve. “Guess I really did sleep well.”

“You better hope I can still get you into the zombie ranks,” you teased over your shoulder, pulling on your boots. “They might reject you for being too cuddly.”

“Hey,” he said, raising a brow as he followed you out into the hall. “That was survival cuddling.”

“Oh yeah?” you laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Absolutely. Basic warmth acquisition.” He bumped his shoulder against yours lightly, and the two of you headed down the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the sleepy silence of the building.

You both made your way to the kitchen, where the smell of instant coffee and oatmeal powder greeted you. Inside, Taehyung was leaning against the counter, his long limbs wrapped in a tattered bloodstained robe, clearly halfway into his zombie transformation (or out of it) already. Jimin sat at the table eating a banana, one eye shadowed with black makeup.

“Well, well,” Jimin drawled, spotting the two of you. “Look who finally decided to rise from the dead.” Taehyung grinned. “Didn’t know we had to go wake the lovebirds.” Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. You just raised a brow and headed to the table for the last granola bar. “You’re just mad we look better rested than you,” you quipped.

“Debatable,” Jimin muttered around a mouthful of banana. “So. We still got one survivor left—Hoseok. You two in?” Jungkook grinned. “Absolutely.” You leaned on the counter next to him, smirking. “He won’t know what hit him.”

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The day moved at a full sprint. The final night of the event loomed close—players were on edge, volunteers ran from one side of the forested game area to the other, and the undead roamed with renewed energy, determined to make the last full round of scares their best yet.

Jungkook, freshly zombiefied with a smear of fake blood on his cheek and a torn-up hoodie that somehow still looked good on him, had left with Jimin and Taehyung just after lunch. The three of them had dramatically limped into the woods, groaning and growling, arms outstretched as they slipped into character followed by on of there camera guys. You’d only had a second to wave at Jungkook before he disappeared behind the tree line, flashing you a boyish grin beneath all the gore.

You, meanwhile, were knee-deep in logistics. Between coordinating player movements, monitoring timelines, and fixing half a dozen costume or prop-related mishaps, your feet barely touched the ground. Still, through the organized chaos, you caught glimpses of the guys doing what they did best—causing a scene.

At one point, you spotted Jungkook chasing a trio of screaming players down a muddy path with Jimin crawling out of the bushes behind them. Later, you heard Taehyung howling like a banshee near the river checkpoint. It was impossible not to smile. They were having the time of their lives.

But by nightfall, with just a few hours left before the grand finale at 6pm tomorrow—and the afterparty that would follow—it was becoming clear that one thing was still unresolved. “Hoseok’s still MIA?” you asked one of the Orgas, brows raised as you checked your notes. “Completely vanished,” the guy replied, breathless from running equipment between checkpoints. “Jungkook swore he saw him near the cornfield trail, but then poof. Gone.”

“Okay, either he’s in deep stealth mode, or he’s sleeping in a tree,” you muttered.

Around 10 PM, drained but steady, you made your way back to the NSCs rooms. You were just about to climb the stairs toward the staff rooms when the door burst open and the rest of the crew poured in—Yoongi, Jin, and Namjoon among them.

“I’m done,” Yoongi declared, already pulling off his gloves. “Like, corpse-mode. Actual sleep tonight.”

“Same,” Jin said, groaning. “If Hoseok’s really vanished, I’ll haunt him tomorrow.”

You smiled tiredly. “I just came to change back into my crawler costume. I need to help with the tunnels. We’ve got a group going through in twenty minutes.” Taehyung immediately perked up, nearly tripping over his own boots as he took a step forward. “Want help changing again?” he asked, eyes bright and hand half-raised like an eager kid.

You hesitated, suddenly more flustered than you expected to be. Taehyung had already helped you into the suit earlier with no shame whatsoever. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate—it had just been functional.

Still... you’d kind of hoped someone else might offer this time.

You stumbled for a second, unsure how to phrase your answer, but you didn’t have to say anything. Wordlessly, Jungkook came up beside you and gently placed a hand on the small of your back. Without saying a thing, he guided you up the rest of the stairs.

Taehyung blinked after you both. “I was just—”

“She’s fine,” Jungkook said over his shoulder, calm but firm. “We’ll wait outside if she needs help.”

“Wait, we?” Taehyung started. But Jungkook turned, holding a hand out against Taehyung’s chest and calmly, but with that subtle steel in his tone, said again, “Wait. Outside.” Before Taehyung could protest again, Jungkook closed the door with a soft click, leaving you blinking inside the small room, alone and stunned.

That… was kind of adorable.

You got changed fast, tugging on the skin-tight crawler suit, grimy from hours of wear. With the bulk of it on, you opened the door a crack, needing just a bit of help with the zipper. The first thing you saw was Jungkook’s back—broad, inked arm crossed as he leaned against the railing, still arguing quietly with Taehyung about “giving people space.”

He must have sensed your presence because he turned at once, and the second your eyes met his, you grinned. Wordlessly, you turned around and held up your hair.

Without hesitation, Jungkook stepped into the room, his hands warm against your back as he reached for the zipper. His fingers brushed your skin lightly as he drew it up, not rushed, not clumsy. You could feel his breath near your neck, the subtle tension in his shoulders. His touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to—his fingertips barely grazing your lower back before he let go.

It wasn’t overt.

But it was enough for your heart to stutter. Was that on purpose? You didn’t dare turn around yet, just let your hair fall back down and murmured, “Thanks.” Behind you, Jungkook cleared his throat, voice quiet. “Anytime.” There was something intimate in the silence that followed, something thick and unspoken. You finally turned, meeting his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, but he was watching you—really watching you. Not with teasing or smugness like Taehyung, but something quieter. Something... careful.

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The moody, overcast sky hung low as your group of undead moved silently across the clearing, a grim swarm of crawling, shuffling figures. Those who hadn’t needed rest—the tireless, restless ones—had followed you and the other crawlers, forming the largest horde of the weekend so far. It was impressive. Terrifying. Beautiful.

Jungkook kept close to your side, his gait eerily fluid now that he’d embraced the undead role. His makeup—smudged and dripping as intended—made him look like he’d clawed his way from a shallow grave. It was hard to look at him and not feel a chill, even knowing it was all fake.

Your target loomed ahead: the same weather-worn house from yesterday. The survivors had taken the whole day reinforcing it, piling fake furniture against doors, jamming wood panels over the windows, and even reinforcing the crawlspaces and drainage. You had to admit—you were impressed.

No ordinary zombie was going to breach those defenses.

But you and the crawlers weren’t ordinary.

You circled to the back, scanning every possible entry point. The drain was blocked. The cellar sealed. Windows barricaded. But then you spotted it—an open skylight above the sunroom extension. Small, maybe two feet wide, but you could make it through.

You just needed a lift.

Turning to Jungkook, you lowered your voice to a whisper. “How strong are you?” He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—what?” You pointed toward the skylight. Jungkook followed your gaze, his expression morphing from confusion to surprise. “You want me to… hurl you up there?”

“If you think that’s too much, I can ask someone else,” you teased, your voice cool, deliberate. Jungkook's jaw set. “No way. I’ve got you.” He wouldn’t risk someone else making a mistake that could get you hurt. You grinned, already backing up to get a running start, moving in position as Jungkook did as well. “Alright then. Just don’t drop me.” He crouched, hands out in position. “You better jump like you mean it.”

The two of you moved like you’d practiced it for years. You dashed toward him, boots silent on the damp grass. At the right moment, you planted your feet into his hands. Jungkook grunted as he pushed upward with strength that surprised even you. The world tilted—sky, house, the sharp outline of the skylight racing toward you.

Fingertips caught the ledge. You gritted your teeth, swung a leg up, and wriggled through. It was tight—but you made it.

You dropped into the attic-like space below with a soft thud and a grin, heart pounding from the adrenaline. A second later, you peeked back through the skylight. Jungkook stood below, looking stunned. You whispered down, “I will never ask someone else for this shit ever again!” He gave a breathless laugh, already approached by the next crawler.

In the next few minutes, you helped pull up two more. One got through on their own, the other needed Jungkook’s full strength and a bit of a climb. From your high perch, you coordinated their positions through narrow crawlspaces and above ceiling beams. Inside the house, muffled voices from the survivors grew louder—unaware of the silent, slithering danger creeping above.

And then the screams began.

Chaos erupted inside.

One of the crawlers dropped from the attic into a bedroom and shrieked. Another lunged from the shadows of the hallway, forcing a survivor to tumble back and crash through a makeshift barricade. The rest of the horde—waiting like hungry wolves—poured through the newly opened path.

You grinned with satisfaction as the house devolved into beautiful, fake carnage.

By the time it was over, the “survivors” were either “dead” or fleeing into the woods with wildly flailing arms, laughing and screaming in equal parts. You climbed out through the front window, breathing heavy but beaming, makeup streaked with sweat again.

Jungkook waited by the tree line, breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “That was… insane.” You sauntered toward him, brushing a cobweb from your shoulder, the thrill still sparkling in your chest. “You mean brilliant,” you corrected, giving his shoulder a friendly nudge. “Couldn’t have done it without my undead catapult.”

Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were just—like—gone. I thought I overthrew you for a second.”

“Well, lucky for both of us,” you said, nudging him again, “I have excellent upper body strength.” He looked at you for a moment longer than he probably meant to, eyes tracing your face, your smirk, the fading makeup. There was something new in the way he was seeing you—somewhere between admiration and being completely, quietly floored.

“I’m seriously not sure if I should be impressed,” he murmured, “or mildly intimidated.” You raised a brow, amused. “Why not both?” Jungkook grinned—genuine, wide, and a little shy. “Yeah. Both works.”

And together, shoulder to shoulder, you wandered back toward camp, the last moans of the “dead” trailing off behind you.

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You had played through the night. One relentless wave after another, your massive horde had flushed the most of the remaining survivors out of every hideout they had pieced together over the weekend. Some screamed. Some laughed. Some fought back valiantly—but none of them lasted long. It had been glorious.

Jungkook had stuck by your side for most of it, shambling and snarling beside you as if he'd been part of your crew since day one. By now, he fully understood why you loved this—why Yoongi had defected to the undead team without hesitation. There was something cathartic about giving in to chaos, something addicting in being the fear rather than the prey.

But still… playing a survivor had made Jungkook feel more. Adrenaline. Hope. Loss. Victory. Desperation. And you. You, always right in the thick of it. There was something unforgettable about the way you'd looked at him, teasing and alive.

It was nearing 10 AM now. The fog was finally burning off the morning air. Everyone had dragged themselves back to base. Some were already sleeping in bunks or huddled in chairs. Others slumped over mugs of instant coffee. The ones that hadn’t been up all night, just came back from their zombification to pick up were you left of.

You had wandered into the break area for off-duty undead NSCs. There, without a word, you'd climbed onto the billiard table, peeled off your gloves and mask, and lay down flat on your back, arms draped across your stomach. Eyes closed. Still in costume. Still streaked with grime and fake blood. But utterly at peace.

And Jungkook couldn’t stop looking at you.

He wasn’t the only one. Taehyung leaned lazily against the wall next to Namjoon, watching you with a curious tilt of his head. “She’s knocked out cold?” Taehyung asked, though he already knew the answer. Namjoon smirked faintly. “Nah. Just recharging. Like a haunted Roomba.”

“Should I poke her?” Taehyung grinned, raising a finger.

“Do it and lose that finger,” Yoongi mumbled from his spot in a nearby armchair, eyes barely open. “She hasn’t slept properly since Thursday.” Jungkook smiled to himself at Yoongi’s comment. But then someone else entered the room. The last person Jungkook wanted to see.

Lukas.

The same guy who had all but tried to force himself on you as he arrived here on the first day, eager and overly familiar from the start. A former survivor who’d now joined the undead side like everyone else. And apparently still hadn’t taken the hint.

Lukas sauntered over to your resting spot, standing at the edge of the billiard table and launching into some one-sided conversation about how epic the finale last year had been and how this year would probably be even better, he’d totally bring better gear next year, and how “you and me should team up next time” and on and on.

You didn’t move much, didn’t open your eyes, but the subtle pinch of your brow was all Jungkook needed to see. You weren’t relaxed anymore. Jungkook set down the energy bar he’d been holding and stood up.

Namjoon noticed. “Oh?” he murmured, nudging Taehyung. Taehyung leaned closer. “Here we go.”

Jungkook ignored them both, grabbed a bottle of water and a bag of chips from the supply table, and made his way over to you. He stopped right beside Lukas, who faltered midsentence, startled by the sudden appearance of the younger man.

In slow, careful English, Jungkook said, “Make space, please.” You opened one eye in surprise.

Lukas blinked. Jungkook held the bottle out toward you. “Water. For you.”

You stared at him for a second, then slowly sat up to make room on the table, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks,” you said, genuinely touched. You hadn’t asked him for anything—but you also wouldn’t say no. Especially not if it meant Lukas stopped talking.

Jungkook climbed up next to you without hesitation, stretching out on the green felt beside you, propping his head on one arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t even subtle about it—he just was there. Close enough to feel the heat of him again. Like last night.

Lukas stood awkwardly at the edge of the table, clearly thrown. “Uh… well. I guess… I’ll see you later?”

You hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look at him. Lukas lingered for a second more, then mumbled something and left the room. Taehyung whistled low. “Oh damn.” Namjoon laughed under his breath. “That was smooth. Very nonchalant. Ten out of ten for execution.”

Yoongi cracked one eye open from his chair. “Is he lying next to her now?” Taehyung nodded. “Full-on pool table cuddling. He just stared that dude down in second language flirtation mode and won.” Yoongi closed his eye again. “About time.”

Jungkook ignored them, offering you the chips as well. You took one, still smiling. “Didn’t mean to steal your table,” he murmured. “You didn’t,” you said, voice soft and relaxed now. “You upgraded it.” His grin was small but pleased. You lay back down beside him, arms occasionally brushing as the room fell into a comfortable lull.

The room buzzed around you in muted tones—people talking in corners, the occasional thud of boots, a laugh carried on the tired air—but next to him, it felt like the eye of the storm. Warm, peaceful, grounded. You didn’t need words. Just the rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest next to yours and the shared quiet of mutual exhaustion. And this time, no one interrupted your peace.

That was, until Jimin appeared.

Without hesitation, he climbed up onto the billiard table with the agility of a cat and flopped across your legs like he belonged there. Which, apparently, he did. “Comfy,” Jimin murmured, his head pillowed on your thigh. “You’re crushing my soul,” you replied, flicking the back of his head affectionately. “Good. You weren’t using it.”

Jungkook snorted, as you muttered, “He always like this?”

“Worse when he’s had sugar.”

You all stayed like that until the walkie-talkie on your belt crackled and broke the spell. “HQ to zombie queen Sparkles. Everything’s in place. Megaphone announcement’s done. All survivors have been warned. Last stand is good to go.” Eriks voice offered.

You sighed, sitting up with an exaggerated groan. Jimin flopped onto the floor dramatically like you’d cast him off a cliff. Jungkook stretched beside you, rubbing a hand over his face and smearing the last of his undead face paint across his cheek. The three of you reluctantly peeled yourselves off the table and made your way to the final battlefield.

The terrain had been cleared. Flags were up. The megaphone had roared across the campgrounds announcing the final stand. The survivors, what few were left, had gathered and were bracing themselves behind makeshift defenses, guns ready, darts loaded.

You moved among your horde. Dead eyes. Snarling mouths. Fake blood drying on skin and clothes and fingernails. All of them buzzing with excitement and end-of-event adrenaline. Everyone was here.

Everyone… but Hoseok.

You were starting to worry, but then—

A scream. A scramble. And then, emerging from the woods, looking like he’d barely slept or eaten in a week, came Hoseok followed by a cameraman and hunted by two Zombies. Mud-streaked. Wide-eyed. Alive.

Barely.

Yoongi didn’t miss a beat—lunging from a bush with a banshee screech. Hoseok screamed. Like a horror movie final girl. Dropped to the ground, arms over his face, bracing for impact. Yoongi just cackled and stood over him. Namjoon helped Hoseok to his feet, who was still shaking like a leaf.

“How the hell—” Namjoon began, looking both amused and baffled, “—how are you still alive?” Hoseok blinked rapidly, eyes darting around at all the undead closing in now. “I… I did what she said,” he stammered, gesturing weakly toward you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What did I say?”

“Keep moving,” Hoseok replied. “Don’t stay too long in any one group. Hide when it’s quiet. I—” He swallowed. “I spent the night in a tree.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Taehyung let out a bark of laughter. “You feral squirrel! You slept in a tree?”

“I panicked, okay!” Hoseok shouted, hands in the air. The final stand didn’t last long after that. You and your horde overwhelmed the last defenders like a slow-moving tidal wave of moans, shrieks, and Nerf darts. The end came gloriously, with dramatic deaths and heroic sacrifice.

And then—it was over.

Cheers erupted. Everyone collapsed on the grass. Some in laughter, some in total exhaustion. Hugs were exchanged. Final photos were taken. The event was officially declared a success.

Which meant only one thing: the after party.

What began as a mad dash turned into a full-blown war in the dorms. Everyone rushed after you as they saw you make a run for the room and then to the limited bathroom stalls. You, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Yoongi ended up in a four-way standoff in the hallway outside the bathrooms, all equally caked in grime and fake blood.

“There’s four showers!” you said, already tugging at the zipper of your jacket. “We can do this. We can be civil.”

“We’re never civil,” Yoongi muttered, eyeing the doors like he was going to sprint at the first handle that turned. “I vote Taehyung showers last,” Jungkook said, pointing at Taehyung’s face. “You literally have glitter glued to your cheek.”

“It’s part of my character,” Taehyung retorted. “I was a vampire zombie warlord, thank you very much.”

“I call stall three,” Jimin shouted as he skidded in, already half out of costume. “And if anyone touches my conditioner, I will bite.” You laughed, giving up the illusion of control. “We’re all feral.” But you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Especially not the way Jungkook’s eyes kept drifting toward you, even now—mud-streaked, tired, and grinning like a man who had just found something worth crawling through dirt and fake gore to keep seeing.

From your group of eight, you, Jimin, Jungkook, and—surprisingly—Namjoon had won the great shower battle and secured first dibs on the stalls. Victory had never felt so warm and sudsy.

But that victory came with a price: the walk of shame.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, hair still dripping and skin flushed from hot water and scrubbing off layers of fake gore, you had to walk barefoot from the shared bathroom back into your room—with them. Not your usual mix of female friends and old LARP buddies, but instead a full suite of K-pop idols with unfair cheekbones and far too many curious eyes.

You opened the door and stepped inside, water-slicked and entirely underdressed. Yoongi whistled, long and low.

Taehyung? Didn’t even pretend to be subtle. His eyes dragged over you like it was part of a performance piece. Jungkook, bless him, nearly dropped the hoodie he was folding and spluttered, “You—you forgot to grab clothes?”

You shrugged, casual as could be, striding across the room to your duffel bag. “Didn’t forget. Just didn’t want to lose my spot in the shower queue.” This wasn’t your first post-bathroom towel walk. But you had to admit, it was a lot easier around your usual chaos crew. You were used to that. You weren’t used to standing in a towel while the nation’s heartthrobs stared at you like you were a comet they weren’t supposed to look directly at.

You bent down, rifled through your things, and grabbed your black underwear and—

—pulled out your party outfit.

Jimin, still towel-drying his hair, froze. “You’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” As you wiggled into your panties, trying not to lose your dignity and keeping the towel in place, Jungkook caught Taehyung shifting on his bed and very pointedly moved to block his view. With Jungkook’s back turned to you like a protective wall, you quickly slipped on the rest of your clothes and zipped up the front of your fuzzy red panda onesie.

You were warm, soft, and immediately happier. Taehyung laughed, incredulous. “A red panda? For a party?” You grinned, cheeks flushed but triumphant. “All the Orga are wearing onesies tonight. And this one’s warm. And comfy. And now—” you spread your arms with mock pride “—I am fluffy.” Jimin ran over like a heat-seeking missile and threw his arms around you. “Confirmed. Very fluffy.”

Jungkook, finally looking at you in full red-panda glory, let out a soft laugh, and the last of the embarrassment in his expression faded into something gentler. He didn’t say it out loud, but the look in his eyes clearly read: adorable.

By the time the group of you arrived at the after-party, the hall had already transformed. Music was pumping, string lights strung between beams. People were dancing, drinking, lounging on couches—some still in costume, some freshly scrubbed clean like you, and others halfway in between.

You headed toward the bar, where Lea was already pouring drinks with practiced speed and familiar chaos, dressed in a beautiful dragon onesie.

“Beer?” she asked, without needing to be prompted.

“You know it.” You turned to Jungkook, who was already pulling out his wallet with that polite determination he always showed when trying to do something nice. “I’ll get hers too,” he said to Lea. You chuckled and lightly pushed his hand down. “No need, golden boy.”

“Huh?”

You leaned in, voice pitched over the music. “It’s my event, remember? My name’s on the staff list. I drink for free.” His eyes went wide. “Wait—you organizers drink for free?”

“Perks of power,” you said, and with a wink, handed him a beer instead—on your tab. Jungkook stared at it like it might explode in his hand. “You got me a drink?”

“Don’t look so shocked. You helped me catapult into a house full of screaming survivors, I figured I owed you one.” He took it with both hands like it was sacred. And then he blushed.

Hard.

Taehyung, passing behind him with two colorful drinks and glitter again clinging to his jaw, gave you a knowing smirk. “Careful. Jungkook might fall harder than that survivor who tripped into the fog machine earlier.” You raised your beer to your lips and shrugged, grinning. “I don’t mind a little drama.” And beside you, Jungkook drank, trying not to smile too hard—and failing.

The party had a warm chaos to it, the kind that made the exhaustion of the last few days dissolve into beer foam and basslines.

Somewhere during the first hour, a regular player—Mads, one of the older guys who had survived every single event you ran—took over Erik’s place at the grill. Erik, grateful, passed off the tongs with mock ceremony and rejoined the rest of the organizer crew.

That meant, for once, all of you (except poor Lea, glued to the bar like a bartender in some Viking saga) could give your traditional end-of-event speech.

So there you were: standing on the makeshift podium in your red panda onesie, Erik beside you in his lemur suit (complete with a striped tail and hauntingly round eyes), Pia in an inflatable frog getup, and four more of your crew in various animal-shaped fleeces. You each held beers, shouted into the mic, and barely kept a straight face.

“Thank you for not dying too early!” Erik called out, the lemur ears wobbling as he waved his beer in salute. “Thank you for dying dramatically!” Pia added. “And remember,” you said, holding your mic aloft with one paw-gloved hand, “when in doubt—scream louder.”

Your crew’s unofficial anthem blared from the speakers. And with that, the dance floor was officially open.

Players whooped. Some already half-drunk stumbled forward. Others started clapping, and the lights dimmed enough to encourage even the shy ones. Your crew, still in onesies, immediately launched into the most chaotic, uncoordinated, off-beat dancing the LARP world had ever seen.

You waved your arms like a raver raccoon on energy drinks. Pia was hopping. Erik did something disturbingly close to twerking with his lemur tail. It was a mess. Jungkook watched from the sidelines, drink in hand, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—not to laugh. “What… are they doing?” he asked quietly, in disbelief. “They’re dancing,” Namjoon said around a mouthful of chips. “I think.”

“No one taught them rhythm?” Taehyung asked, grinning. Yoongi chuckled. “Who needs rhythm when you’ve got that much conviction?” Jungkook took another sip of his beer, gaze lingering on you, red panda tail bouncing as you did a spin that nearly knocked over Pia. It was stupid. It was adorable.

But then his jaw tensed.

Because there, half-shadowed near the back of the hall, stood Lukas—again—watching you with a kind of focus that rubbed Jungkook the wrong way.

He stiffened.

Yoongi noticed immediately. “What’s up, lover boy?” Jungkook blinked, caught. “You’re staring at that guy staring at her,” Jimin chimed, leaning into Jungkook’s side like a nosy little devil. “You gonna do something or keep clutching that beer like it’s gonna kiss her for you?”

“He’s just… watching her. Again.” Jungkook’s tone was too neutral to fool them. Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “So you watch her, but when someone else does it, it’s creepy?”

“Yeah, because he didn’t get her hint. Not the first day, not earlier. He doesn’t even know her.” Jimin tilted his head. “And you do?” Jungkook opened his mouth—then closed it. “I know enough.”

“Then go talk to her,” Yoongi said simply. “It’s not that easy.” Jungkook looked away, jaw tight. “She’s… different. This isn’t some club. We’re in the woods. This whole thing’s temporary. What am I supposed to give her? A one-night stand in a barrack at the ass-end of nowhere?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment. Then: “Why are you deciding for her?”

Jungkook blinked.

“If that’s all she wants,” Jimin added, “fine. Go for it and stop looking at her like a lovesick puppy. But what if she wants more?”

“I’m an idol,” Jungkook said quietly. “Schedules. Tours. Cameras. Chaos. I don’t even know where I’ll be next month. How do you fit something real into that?”

Yoongi leaned on the table next to him. “First of, this doesn’t look real to me,” and with that Yoongi pointed back at you and your friends now all twerking… in a circle… rubbing your butts together? “Second, maybe you don’t. Maybe she fits you into her life.”

That thought lingered, heavy and hopeful. Jungkook stared into the crowd, finding you again—laughing now as you leaned on the bar next to Lea, talking with some of the remaining players. One girl clasped your hand and said something earnest. Another guy raised his drink and said, “Best LARP I’ve ever done.”

You looked genuinely happy. Genuinely in your element. Jungkook felt his chest tighten. But before he could take a step—before he could even turn around—

There was a commotion.

All heads turned. Glass clinked. Music faltered for a second. Jungkook shoved his drink into Yoongi’s hand and moved. He didn’t hear Yoongi call after him. He was already in motion, eyes locked on you, on Lukas, on the way your shoulders tensed and your voice cut through the music like glass.

“Let me GO!”

Lukas had you by the arm—tight. His face was flushed, not just with drink but something rawer. Jungkook’s pulse surged. By the time he got to you, Erik and two other guys were already there, trying to pry Lukas off. You weren’t crying, but your face was pale, and the way you leaned back, straining against Lukas’ grip, made Jungkook’s stomach twist. Your body was tight with fury.

Jungkook didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He just stepped forward and gripped Lukas’s wrist—not his shoulder, not his chest, but right at the tendon and bone where Lukas was holding you. His grip was precise. Firm. Final. His other hand found your waist. Gentle. Protective. Steadying.

“Let go,” Jungkook said—low, dangerous, and razor-sharp. Lukas jolted at the tone, but his grip stayed locked on your arm. “I just wanted to talk—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you snapped, voice ringing out above the crowd. “Not now. Not ever.” Lukas faltered, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that in front of everyone—as if his entitlement had never once been challenged. His hand stayed where it was, fingers tight around your skin.

Jungkook’s fingers pressed harder on Lukas’s wrist, just enough to make the point clearer. But you weren’t done. Your eyes blazed as your spine straightened. “If you don’t let me go in the next five seconds,” you said, voice shaking with rage, “I swear to god I will break your nose.” Jungkook could feel the rage vibrating through you—radiating off your body like a storm about to burst. He wasn’t sure if you were bluffing or if you were about to swing.

Honestly? He wasn’t sure if he should stop you if you swung.

But Lukas still didn’t let go. His pride puffed up like a balloon on the verge of popping. He looked around, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. Of how many people weren’t stepping in to defend him—but you. Cornered, humiliated, he snapped. His voice turned sharp and bitter as he sneered at Jungkook, eyes flicking to the hand still resting protectively on your waist.

“What, a ching chong like you thinks he can just show up here and take my girl?”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, vile, and so incredibly wrong. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He’d been called worse before—more vile, more venomous. He’d learned, long ago, to let it pass over him like cold wind. But here? In a place like this, surrounded by paint-stained props and foam swords and people just trying to have a good time? It surprised him. How casual the cruelty was.

And it surprised him even more—how fast you moved.

Your fists clenched, words hissed. “What did you just say?” Everything about that sentence—the racism, the possessiveness, the delusion—made your blood boil. And you lunged.

And Jungkook caught you. Barely.

His arms snapped around your waist like instinct. His fingers curled tight, grounding you as your momentum dragged both of you forward a step. He was strong, but you were all rage, and it took everything in him to anchor you still. Erik and his friends surged forward again, grabbing Lukas and dragging him off you.

You thrashed once in his hold, fists curled, jaw clenched. “Let me go,” you growled, low and lethal. “I’ll break his fucking jaw for that—I swear to God—" Every inch of you wanted to throw your fist into Lukas’s face. And you would’ve—if Jungkook didn’t hold you.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed against your temple, voice still calm, still quiet—but laced with something tight and simmering underneath. “He’s not worth it. Not your hands. Not your energy. He’s not worth you.”

But you were shaking with more than rage now—humiliation, helplessness, the aftershock of being touched like that, spoken to like that, in front of everyone. If not for Jungkook holding you tight, grounding you, you might’ve done it. You wanted to.

Lukas shouted something incoherent as Erik and his friends dragged him away, kicking and protesting. “This is bullshit! I didn’t even do anything—!” As they dragged Lukas toward the gate, shouting and protests growing quieter, you stood trembling—but trying to take slow and controlled breaths. Your hands shook as they fisted in Jungkook’s hoodie. Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

You weren’t scared. Not with Jungkook behind you, Erik standing guard, and half the event ready to rip Lukas apart. But you had been handled. In public. Dragged like you didn’t matter.

And that... stayed with you.

Jungkook’s grip loosened just slightly, but he didn’t let go. You didn’t either.

He glanced down, brows tight with worry. His hands were steady. But his pulse wasn’t. He could feel the fury in you—righteous, volcanic—and for a second, something deep inside him marveled. At how fast you’d defended him. He wasn’t proud that it had happened—wasn’t proud of being reduced to a slur in front of strangers. But he was proud of you.

Proud he’d had to catch you mid-swing because you’d chosen to step in—for him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” you muttered automatically. But you weren’t. Your arm was red—angrily so—and your fingers, curled into his hoodie shaky. That told him all he needed to know. You weren’t fine. And the way the red panda fluff of your onesie caught in the light only made it more noticeable. Jungkook followed your line of sight, then looked down at you again, brows pinched.

“Can I see?” he asked gently, nodding toward your arm. You hesitated—just for a second—then gave a short nod. He let go of you slowly. You turned to face him as he carefully reached for your wrist. His fingertips brushed the discolored skin—hot, raised, aching.

You hissed through your teeth before you could stop it. He pulled back instantly. “Okay,” he said softly, like talking to a cornered animal. “You’re gonna need ice. And space.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

But your voice was strained, and your hand trembled again—this time against the chest of his hoodie, where you were still holding on.

You weren’t fine. You were furious. And humiliated.

Jungkook didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. You were standing there—shaking, unsure, your arm throbbing now that the adrenaline had started to burn out of your bloodstream. You felt the ache settling in, the way your fingers trembled at your side, the warmth of Jungkook’s presence suddenly too close and not close enough.

Embarrassment burned hotter than the bruise.

You couldn’t look at him. Not really. Not after lunging like that. Not after being manhandled in front of half your own damn crew. Behind Jungkook, Jimin and Yoongi stood nearby. They hadn’t interfered but had clearly been ready to jump in if things had escalated. Jimin’s jaw was set, eyes still flinty and sharp with anger on your behalf. Yoongi, meanwhile, had that unreadable look—cool, assessing, but not uncaring.

Then Yoongi tilted his head, dry humor flickering in his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he said, glancing at your clenched fist. “Jungkook should’ve let you throw that punch.” That broke the tension like glass underfoot. You blinked up, startled. So did Jungkook.

A small laugh escaped you—wry and strained, but real. Jungkook huffed a soft sound. “Don’t encourage her,” he said, though his mouth twitched. “She was serious.”

Yoongi just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Exactly. When was the last time a pretty lady was ready to throw a punch for you?” that forced a chuckle out of you and Jungkook.Seconds later, Taehyung arrived with long strides and no smile in sight. His usual easy warmth was replaced by something clipped and focused as he held out a bottle of water to you.

“Erik’s walking him out,” he reported, eyes flicking to Jungkook, then back to you. “I called our security. He’s handled.” He paused. “Jungkook, you might want to press charges.” You nodded before Jungkook could answer, your fingers brushing his. Even that soft contact was shaky. Your grip was weak around a water bottle, and it took you more strength than normal to unscrew the cap. Your mouth was dry, but swallowing felt harder.

Jungkook’s voice was calm but resolute. “I’m not pressing charges.” That made your head snap toward him, brows pinched. He met your gaze. “It’ll only drag the event into it. Headlines, attention… you don’t need that.” The quiet that followed wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t peace. It was the stillness of something raw, exposed.

You nodded slowly, but you felt small. Shrinking. The ember of humiliation sat low in your chest—tight and awful. Being grabbed like that—dismissed like that—had settled in your bones. Your voice was smaller than you intended. “I think I’m gonna sit down for a second.”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. “Come on.” He placed a hand lightly on your back, steering you gently toward a quieter corner behind the bar. You weren’t sure how you got there—just that he never left your side. You could still feel the aftershocks in your hands. The tremble wouldn’t stop.

Lea saw you coming and immediately crossed the bar with urgency. She passed Jungkook a folded towel packed with ice, eyes widening at the redness blooming across your arm. “Thanks,” you murmured, pressing the bundle to your skin.

You sank onto the bench like your knees had finally given out. Jungkook crouched in front of you, eyes locked on your face. His brows furrowed—not with frustration, but with a quiet, watchful worry. He waited until your gaze finally lifted to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, throat thick. “For… ruining the mood.”

“You didn’t,” Jungkook said immediately, voice low, unwavering. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” But still, the weight of it sat heavy in your chest—like you’d broken something sacred by needing help.

“Yeah, no offense,” Jimin chimed in gently from somewhere just behind Jungkook, “but the mood was already kinda dead when you guys started that weird circle twerk thing.” You blinked. Then snorted. Taehyung pulled another bench over, slouching onto it with theatrical despair. “Was that meant to be dancing? Because I think my eyes need therapy.”

Yoongi gave a low chuckle from behind a cup of water someone had handed him. “Honestly, I think I preferred the screaming zombies.” The laughter this time was softer, but it curled through your chest like something healing.

The boys were trying to lighten the air, you realized. Trying to give you a minute to feel normal again. And you realized—this was what safety felt like. Jungkook didn’t smile, though. Not really. He huffed, looking down with a rueful smile, then leaned in a little closer, voice quiet and serious. “Honestly? Would’ve been nice to watch Lukas get dropped flat. Especially by you.”

Yoongi gave a quiet snort of agreement, and Jimin let out a low, appreciative, “Damn.” Then Jungkook looked back up at you, head tilting. “And you came in swinging for my honor. That was… sweet.” Your stomach dropped. You groaned, burying your face in one hand. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“What?” Jungkook grinned, teasing. “It was kinda romantic.”

“I hate this,” you mumbled into your hand, burning. “I should’ve just bitten him.”

“You were aiming,” Yoongi commented. “I saw that jaw clench.” Jimin leaned in, mock-serious. “Next time, lead with the knee.” Taehyung, blinked. “I miss five minutes of drama and apparently it turned into Mortal Kombat?” That finally earned a real laugh from you—soft and sore-throated but genuine.

You looked down at Jungkook—still crouched in front of you like you might fall over again if he wasn’t anchoring you. He looked up, eyes dark and gentle. “You sure you’re okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded once. “…Getting there.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything to that. But the look in his eyes said enough.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

Part 2

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[sweetvoidstuff]

What the Heart Knows

Jungkook x Pregnant!Reader I Werwolf x Human I Angst I Hurt I Comfort I Domestic Fluff I Supernatural AU

Summary: A misunderstanding born of instinct and exhaustion threatens to crack the foundation between Jungkook and his mate. When harsh words are exchanged, it forces both of them to confront what’s really changing between them

This was the Request: werewolf!Jungkook x pregnant!reader

Word Count: ~ 2K

Masterlist

__________________________

The apartment door creaked open at 9:43 p.m.

Again.

You sighed as you stepped inside, kicking off your shoes with a muted thud. Your feet throbbed in your boots from the fourteen-hour shift. The air smelled like the leftovers you forgot in the fridge, the faint laundry detergent from Jungkook’s hoodie on the back of the couch—and faintly, just faintly, the scent of frustration.

He was in the living room. Sitting on the edge of the couch. Shirtless, damp hair, pants slung low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to finish dressing after his shower. And his eyes met yours like a wolf caught mid-prowl—sharp, dark, searching.

You gave him a tired smile. “Hey, Kook.”

Jungkook didn’t smile back. Instead, he sniffed once. Subtle. Human eyes wouldn’t catch it. You did.

Your brow knit. “You okay?”

“Who were you with?”

You blinked. “What?”

He stood slowly, bare feet soundless against the floor. “Who were you with? You don’t smell right.”

That was the third time this week. You groaned, shoulders sagging as you dropped your bag by the door. “Jungkook, I’ve told you—work has been insane. I’m pulling doubles at the studio. I’m around people all day—paint, chemicals, dust, you name it. That’s what you’re picking up on.”

But Jungkook shook his head, eyes locked on you like he was trying to read something buried beneath your skin.

“No,” he said, quiet but firm. His voice held that edge—controlled, but only just. “You don’t get it. You’ve smelled different for weeks now. Not like work. Not like paint. You smell like…” He exhaled through his nose. “Like someone I don’t know.” Your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t raising his voice. But Jungkook’s intensity was like a building storm, always quietest right before the crack of thunder. You took a cautious step closer.

“Jungkook,” you said slowly, voice tighter than you meant, “I haven’t been with anyone. I’m just around people. It’s a shared workspace. I don’t know what it is you’re picking up on, but I swear—that’s all it is.”

For a second, he didn’t speak. But something flickered behind his eyes—doubt or something close to it—and then he muttered under his breath, too low and bitter to ignore, “It’s like you’re meeting up with someone and just don’t want to admit it.”

You froze.

The words struck like ice water down your spine. The silence after was deafening. You blinked at him, stunned. “What?”

The air shifted. Dense. Sharp-edged.

A humorless laugh slipped out before you could stop it—dry and disbelieving. “So you do think I’m cheating.”

Jungkook looked away, jaw tight. “No. It’s not intense enough for that.”

As if that made it better. The sting bloomed sharp in your chest, creeping through your ribs like frost. “But you thought about it,” you said quietly, the disbelief slowly cracking into hurt. “You stood there and let your mind go there. About me.”

He didn’t answer. And that silence? That’s what made it worse.

You shook your head, heart pounding unevenly. “Well, lucky me. Three years together, and that’s all the trust I get. I’ve been exhausted, Jungkook. Stressed. Nauseous. Burned out from work and barely sleeping. I smell things I can’t explain and I don’t even know what’s going on with me anymore.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining, voice shaking now with more pain than anger.

“But instead of asking me what’s wrong—really wrong—you decided I must be sneaking around behind your back?” Your voice cracked at the end, raw and real. “God, Jungkook… I thought we were stronger than this.”

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing deeply, trying to keep control. But his instincts were louder than his logic. He could smell the shift in you. Not betrayal. But something—unknown. And unknown made him paranoid.

You turned toward the front door, snatching your coat. “You know what? I need air.”

“Wait—” He grabbed your wrist, gently, but you jerked away.

“Don’t,” you said sharply. “Not when you look at me like… like that.”

And just like that, the door closed behind you.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jungkook stared at the door long after you left. His hands shook. Not from rage—but from shame. His wolf hated your absence. It clawed at his insides, restless and irritated without your scent close. That was the thing—your scent had changed, but it was still you. Still comforting under all the new layers. He should’ve trusted it. Trusted you.

Jungkook sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair. The apartment was too quiet. The echo of your voice still lingered in the corners—hurt, tired, angry. And he hated himself for putting it there.

His phone buzzed against the coffee table.

Mom 🐺

He hesitated, then picked up.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, baby, do you and Y/N wanna come over next Sunday for dinner? I can make the potato thing she likes?” her voice was warm. Jungkook hesitates again before deciding humming might be the better option. But his mom picked up on this. “You sound like shit. What happened?”

He let out a tired breath. “I screwed up.”

She went quiet. Just long enough for him to hear the shift—the mom tone. “What did you do?”

Jungkook leaned back, head hitting the wall behind him. “I don’t even know. She’s been… different. For weeks now. I didn’t notice it right away, just—her scent changed. Not bad. Just not hers. And she’s been distant, tired, stressed. I thought maybe something was going on. Not cheating—I didn’t smell that. But something.”

“You told her that?” his mom asked flatly.

“Not like that. I just—I asked. Wrong time. Wrong words. She walked out.”

Another pause. Then—

“You absolute dumbass.”

Jungkook blinked. “Mom?”

“No, seriously. You’re an idiot!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up and listen to me for five seconds.” Her voice cut sharp, but underneath was concern. “You said she’s been tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Also, Nauseous?”

“Sometimes, yeah. And she’s moody, emotional—”

“And you said her scent changed slowly. Not overnight. Not with perfume. Gradual.”

“…Yeah.”

“Jungkook.” She said his name like he was six years old again, about to touch a hot stove. “What’s one reason—one very common, very obvious reason—a woman’s scent would shift like that over weeks?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Think, sweetheart,” she said, voice softening just enough to crack him open. “Hormonal changes. Body heat rising. Emotional spikes. Fatigue, Nausea—ring any damn bells, Jungkook?”

His heart started racing. “You think…?”

“You’re a werewolf, Jungkook. You can track deer for miles by a change in wind, but you couldn’t tell your own mate might be pregnant?”

His stomach dropped.

The puzzle pieces locked into place with terrifying clarity. The foreign scent. The nausea. The shifts in mood. Her exhaustion. The scents she picked up on. The way she couldn’t explain what was happening either.

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah,” his mom said bluntly. “Oh my god. Now get your sorry ass off that couch and go find her.”

He ran a hand over his face. “But what if she—”

“She didn’t leave you, Kook. She left the fight. Big difference. You pushed her when she needed you. So fix it.” Jungkook stood so fast his phone nearly dropped. His chest burned with adrenaline and something dangerously close to fear.

Fear of losing you. Fear of what he’d said.

And now—fear that he hadn’t seen the most important thing growing right in front of him.

He was already at the door, heart slamming in his chest sweater in hand.

“I’m gonna fix it.”

“You’d better,” his mom said. Then, gentler, “And bring her to dinner. She’s going to need a lot of love soon.”

──── ୨୧ ────

It took Jungkook hours to find you. His clothes were damp from running through the drizzle, his phone battery was nearly dead, and he’d checked every place you might go just to be alone. Jungkook had nearly torn his hair out retracing your usual routes. But when he spotted you through the fogged window of the 24/7 diner, sitting in a booth with your head resting against the glass, something inside him buckled.

You looked exhausted.

Eyes closed. Shoulders slumped. You looked like you’d been holding yourself together with sheer will. And all he could think was I did that. That’s on me. He moved slowly, heart pounding louder with every step until it was all he could hear.

You didn’t flinch when he slid into the seat across from you. Didn’t say a word. Just opened your eyes and stared at the window like you couldn’t quite bear to look at him yet. Only the soft hum of the diner, the clatter of dishes and distant rain filled the silence between you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice rough at the edges.

You finally turned to look at him. Eyes bloodshot, lips pressed in a thin line. It wasn’t anger on your face—it was exhaustion. Sadness. It was enough to make his chest ache. He raked a hand through his damp hair, frustrated with himself. “I... I think I know why your scent changed.”

Your expression shifted, faint irritation flickering across it—already done with that conversation. But then he said something you didn’t expect.

“I think you’re pregnant.”

Your heart stopped. Your eyes snapped fully open, sharp and wide as they locked onto his. “I…What?”

He swallowed, throat tight, gaze fixed on your face like he was afraid you’d vanish. “Pregnancy…” he started, voice low, “…changes scent. Especially to wolves. It shifts something in the way you carry yourself, your hormones, your heat. It’s subtle, but it’s there. It’s why I couldn’t place it. Because it wasn’t some other person, or stranger, or danger. It was you. Still you. Just… changing—enough to throw me off.”

He let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And I was too much of an idiot to realize what my instincts were actually trying to tell me. I didn’t recognize it, and instead of using my head, I let it mess with me. I hurt you. That’s on me.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You weren’t even sure if you could. Your throat felt tight. Your heart beat in your ears. And suddenly everything felt too real. Tears stung behind your eyes, uninvited and fast.

Pregnant?

The word rang like a bell inside you.

You wanted to tell him he was wrong. That it was just stress. Or hormones. Or burnout.

But deep down… You knew.

You’d missed two periods. You’d been nauseous in waves. You couldn’t stomach the smell of coffee anymore. You’d nearly cried watching a dog food commercial last night. You were tired all the time. And now, hearing it out loud—you were scared.

You and Jungkook had been together for years. You loved him, completely. Would you want a future with him? Yes.

But this?

This felt like stepping off a cliff with your eyes closed.

“I—I missed my period,” you admitted softly. “I just… I thought it was the stress. I’m getting a test tomorrow.”

Jungkook nodded once, firm. “Can I come with you?”

You looked down at his fingers. “Even after everything?”

“I’ll spend forever making it up to you if I have to.”

You looked at him for a long time. Then nodded.

“This wasn’t planned,” you said, voice tight. “I don’t even know if it’s real yet, and I don’t know what it means. I mean, we’ve talked about the future but—this is huge. I don’t even know if you’ve ever wanted—”

“You’re my mate,” Jungkook said, interrupting gently but firmly. “Whatever comes with you? I’m in it.” You looked up at him sharply, stunned.

He went on, voice lower now, more controlled. “I want you,” he said. “All of it. Even if I didn’t know this was coming. Even if it scares the shit out of me. I’ve been so caught up in stress and instincts and work and just… being stupid. But you’re not alone in this. You won’t be. No matter what happens next.” He exhaled like a drowning man breaking surface. “I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you. I do trust you. I was just scared. And stupid.”

You blinked, startled by how steady he sounded. A tear rolled down your cheek. You swiped it away quickly, but Jungkook reached across the table, palm open. You hesitated, then placed your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours instantly. Warm. Solid.

Safe.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The rain kept falling outside. But something—maybe everything—between you had finally started to settle. He leaned over and pressed his forehead to yours, warm and close and home.

And for the first time in weeks, he breathed you in without confusion—only awe.

You didn’t smell wrong.

You smelled like the future.

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Not sure if i did everyting right with the tag list. Please let me know if there was a mistake.

[sweetvoidstuff]

hi can i request something? You r so good at writing werewolf fics so i wanna read something from you where y/n and jungkook would be in a established relationship and they get into a fight or y/n is angry at jungkook, and she storms out of the house, but she’s pregnant and of course jungkook would lose his mind or freak out or get frustrated and angry. I’m leaving the rest to you💗 You don’t have to write it just cause i asked of course it’s totally fine if you don’t. Have a nice day💓

I really like the idea! 💗 I’ll get to it as soon as I can—might take me a little while since I don’t have a writing schedule, but this sounds like such a fun (and emotional!) scenario to write. Thank you so much for the request, and I hope you have a lovely day too!

[sweetvoidstuff]

I had an idea! It will be on by the 17.06. <3