the one where you convince your boyfriend to try that stupid tiktok trend - eating sushi off his bicep - only for the sushi not to be the rawest thing caught on camera that night.
pairing: jungkook x fem!reader
genre: established relationship au, porn with plot, smut, fluff (mdni!)
word count: 8,089
warnings/tags: 18+, explicit smut, unprotected sex, creampie!, multiple orgasms (like... three), dirty talk, praise kink, degradation, recording/filming (the phone is basically a third character), food play (sushi on nipples, sushi on biceps, sushi everywhere), oral sex (f. and m. receiving), breast play (he fucks her tits and it's messy), clit stimulation (so much blowing on it, rubbing, tonguing), fingering, grinding and dry humping, squirting (she literally gushes everywhere), cum play (eating sushi mixed with cum, sucking her own fluids off him), hair pulling/fisting, lip biting, hickies/marking, second person pov, rich miami aesthetic, tiktok trends gone wrong (or right), that lip ring doing damage, "i fucking love you" ending, soft aftercare
a/n: I was in the process of writing chapter 3 for my jungkook series "purple tears I cry," and a certain sushi scene made me think of this that I just had to write a whole separate oneshot smut for it. this is genuinely nasty, please read at your own risk! hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think of it... don't forget to reblog <3
The Miami humidity clings to your skin the moment you step out of the Uber, but the restaurant's AC hits like a wall of relief, crisp and expensive-smelling, all yuzu and polished wood and money. Nobu. Of course he chose Nobu. You catch your reflection in the dark glass doors, your teal dress catching the neon glow from the street, the silk clinging to the curve of your hips in a way that makes Jungkook's hand tighten at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who you belong to tonight.
Your hair is up, mostly, a messy twist that took you forty minutes to make look effortless, two strands curling against your collarbones like they have a mind of their own. Your skin glows, sun-kissed and dewy, and you feel his eyes on you, always on you, as the hostess leads you to the corner booth. You make sure to sway your hips a little more than necessary because you know he's watching, know his gaze is fixed on the way the silk shifts over your ass.
He's wearing a white button-up - one that should look innocent, corporate, boring, except he's left the first five buttons undone, and the fabric gapes open to reveal the hard plane of his chest, the ink that spills over his shoulder and disappears beneath the cotton. His lip ring catches the low light when he smiles at you, silver glinting against his mouth, and something low in your stomach tightens because you know exactly how that metal feels against your throat, your breastbone, the inside of your thigh. You know how it feels when he drags it down your stomach, when he looks up at you with those dark eyes while he tongues you open.
You slide into the booth and immediately pull out your phone, propping it against your water glass, angling it just so. The red recording light blinks to life. Jungkook raises an eyebrow but says nothing, just settles across from you, his knee brushing yours under the table, his foot hooking around your ankle to pull you closer.
"Documenting the experience?" he asks, his voice low, rough, the kind of voice that makes you think of hotel sheets and sweat and the way he sounds when he's inside you.
"Memories," you say, but your eyes drop to his mouth, to the silver ring there, and you know he sees it, knows exactly what you're thinking. You adjust the phone slightly, making sure the frame catches both of you, the candlelight, the way his shirt falls open when he leans back.
The server arrives with menus you don't need because you already know what you want, what you always want here. But Jungkook takes his time, asks questions about the omakase, the wine pairings, his voice smooth and deliberate while his shoe slides up your calf beneath the table, pushing the silk of your dress higher, higher, until it brushes the back of your knee and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Spicy tuna," you manage, your voice breathier than you intended, and Jungkook's eyes darken because he knows, he always knows what he's doing to you.
"Two orders," he says to the server, not looking away from you. "And sake. The good stuff."
The sake arrives in a ceramic flask, and he pours for you, his fingers brushing yours as you take the cup, and you make sure to let your tongue linger on the rim when you drink, watching his jaw tighten, watching his gaze drop to your mouth. You set the cup down and lean forward, the neckline of your dress gaping just enough, and you see his eyes flick down, see his throat work as he swallows.
"You're playing with me," he murmurs, and his shoe presses harder against your leg, insistent.
"Maybe you're playing with me," you counter, and you kick off your heel under the table, let your bare foot find his thigh, slide up, up, until you're pressing against the hard outline of him through his trousers, and he hisses, his hand gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"Careful," he warns, but his hips shift, pressing into your touch, and you smile, sweet and dangerous.
"Or what?"
The spicy tuna arrives like art, ruby-red and glistening, arranged on black slate with edible flowers you won't eat. You take the first piece with your fingers because fuck the chopsticks, and Jungkook's gaze tracks the movement, watches your lips close around the fish, the rice, the wasabi that burns just enough. You moan, deliberately, because you know what it does to him, and his jaw tightens, that muscle jumping beneath the skin, his hand disappearing beneath the table where you know he's adjusting himself.
"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked already, ruined, and you haven't even started.
"So good," you say, and you take another, and another, each time making sure to lick your fingers after, slow, obscene, your eyes locked on his. You can see the flush spreading up his neck, can see the way his chest rises and falls faster than it should, the open shirt showing too much skin, the tattoo peeking out, and you want to trace it with your tongue, want to mess up his hair and ruin his composure right here in this restaurant full of people who think they're being subtle about watching you.
You lean back, your foot still working him beneath the table, and you reach for your phone, checking the angle, making sure it's still recording. You tilt it slightly to catch more of him, the candlelight catching the silver in his lip, the way his eyes look black with want.
"Say hi to the camera," you tease, and he does, his voice rough, his smile sharp and predatory.
"Hi, camera," he says, and then, lower, just for you, "Can't wait to see what you do with this footage later."
You take another piece of tuna and hold it out across the table, an offering, a test. He leans forward, never breaking eye contact, and takes it from your fingers with his teeth, his tongue brushing your fingertips, hot and wet, and you feel it everywhere, feel it between your legs where you're already aching, already soaked through your underwear.
"Jungkook," you breathe, and he catches your wrist, holds it, sucks your fingers into his mouth one by one, cleaning them, his tongue swirling around each digit while the restaurant noise fades to nothing and there's only him, only this, only the wet heat of his mouth and the promise of what comes after.
"You're killing me," he murmurs against your palm, his lips brushing the sensitive skin at your wrist, and you shiver, your foot still pressed against his hard length, feeling him throb even through the fabric.
"Good," you whisper. "Suffer."
You eat slowly, deliberately, drawing out every bite, every sip of sake, every moment of his foot tracing patterns on your calf, his knee pressing between your thighs under the table. You talk about nothing, everything, your voice light while your body screams for him, while you watch the sweat bead at his hairline, watch him shift in his seat, uncomfortable and hard and yours.
By the time you're full, stuffed, the silk of your dress feels tighter across your ribs, and you lean back with a groan, hand on your stomach, your foot finally retreating from his lap. He exhales, shaky, and adjusts himself again, not subtle, not caring who sees, and you love him like this, undone, desperate, ready to drag you out of here and fuck you in the Uber if he has to.
"I can't," you say, patting your stomach. "I'm gonna burst."
Jungkook smirks, that dangerous smirk that means trouble, that means you're in for it the second you get back to the hotel. "Shame. I like watching you eat."
"Pervert."
"Your pervert."
You flag down the server, ask for a takeout box, and Jungkook pays without looking at the check, just slides his card across the table like the amount doesn't matter, because it doesn't, not to him, not to either of you tonight. You pocket your phone, the recording still running, capturing everything, capturing the way he stands and offers you his hand, the way he pulls you against him in the elevator, his mouth at your ear.
"You're going to pay for that," he whispers, and you shiver, feel his hand slide down to grip your ass, squeezing hard.
"Promise?"
The hotel suite is all white and marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, dark now, just a black expanse beyond the glass. You kick off your heels, your feet sinking into carpet that probably costs more than your first car, and you collapse onto the sectional, pulling out your phone, scrolling through the footage while he pours himself a drink at the mini bar, his back to you, the white shirt pulling across his shoulders, the tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve.
TikTok. Endless, brainless TikTok to wind down.
A couple on a beach. A dance trend you don't care about. A recipe for something with feta cheese.
Then: a girl, pretty, blonde, sitting cross-legged on a bed in what looks like a generic hotel room. Her boyfriend beside her, shirtless, flexing his bicep. The girl grins at the camera, then at him, and unwraps a sushi roll, places it on the hard curve of his muscle, and leans down to take it with her teeth. The comments are screaming. The views are in the millions.
You stare at the screen.
You stare at the takeout box on the coffee table.
You stare at Jungkook, who's pouring himself a drink, his back to you, the white shirt still open, showing too much skin, the lip ring catching the light when he turns his head.
Enlightenment.
You set your phone down. Stand. Cross the room on bare feet, silent, predatory. He hears you, turns, glass halfway to his lips, and you pluck it from his hand, set it on the marble counter with a clink that sounds like a promise.
"Take your shirt off," you say.
His eyebrow arches, that lip ring catching the light again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You reach for the takeout box, open it, the spicy tuna still perfect, still glistening, and you can feel him watching you, confused and curious and already getting hard because he always gets hard when you use that tone, that minx tone, the one that means you're about to ruin him.
He sets the glass down. Undoes the remaining buttons slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours. The shirt falls open, then off, and he's bare in front of you, all golden skin and ink and muscle that makes your mouth water. You step closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, and you press your palm to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it thud against your hand.
You set your phone down on the marble counter, angling it just so, the red recording light blinking like a heartbeat in the dim room. You want this captured, want the lens to swallow every moment of what comes next, want to watch it later and feel the heat crawl up your neck all over again. Jungkook's eyes flick to the device, understanding dawning dark and dangerous in his gaze, and when he looks back at you, something has shifted. The playful tension from the restaurant has evaporated, replaced by something heavier, hungrier, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.
You lean in, your hair falling forward, those two dark strands brushing his shoulder like silk curtains framing the moment. You don't go for the sushi yet. You press your mouth to his throat first, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make him groan deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your lips. His hand comes up to tangle in your updo, disheveling it further, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp sings with the sting of it. You lick the salt from his skin, taste the cologne at his pulse point, the musk of him underneath, and you feel him shudder beneath your mouth, feel the sushi roll shift against your cheek as he breathes ragged and wrecked.
"You're insane," he murmurs, but his voice is already ruined, gravel and velvet, and you smile against his neck, teeth grazing his tendon, feeling his cock twitch against your hip through his trousers.
"Wait until you see what comes after the appetizer," you whisper, and finally, finally, you turn your head and take the sushi between your teeth, your eyes locked on his, watching him watch you, watching the way your lips close around the rice and fish, the way your throat works as you swallow, and the sound he makes is animal, guttural, something torn from deep in his chest that makes your thighs clench together with nothing but air between them.
He moves before you can even taste the wasabi. His hands find your waist and he's lifting you, setting you down on the cool marble counter like you weigh nothing, like you're something to be arranged, positioned, consumed. The stone bites against your bare thighs where your dress rides up, and you gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard into your flesh, cold and burning all at once. He tastes like sake and want and the promise of destruction, and you open for him, let him take, let him plunder your mouth with a desperation that makes your head spin.
"Look at you," he breathes against your jaw, his teeth dragging down your throat, sharp and claiming. "Look at you, playing with fire, recording this, thinking you're in control."
His hands find the thin straps of your teal dress, silk whispering against your skin like a secret. He doesn't rush. He takes his time, sliding the straps down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his eyes tracking every inch of exposed flesh, his pupils blown wide and black with desire. The silk catches on your nipples for a heartbeat, clinging, teasing, and then it falls, smooth as water, pooling at your waist, and you're bare for him, your breasts heavy and full, nipples tight and aching in the cool hotel air, no barrier between his gaze and your skin.
He stares. The silence stretches, thick and electric, and you feel beautiful, powerful, laid out like a feast on this marble altar. His throat works, his hand coming up to cup you, weigh you, his thumb dragging across your nipple so slowly you whimper, arching into his touch.
"No bra," he observes, his voice rough, almost reverent. "You were planning this. Walking around that restaurant with nothing under this dress, teasing me, letting me wonder."
"I wanted you to wonder," you admit, your voice breathless, broken. "I wanted you to think about it all night."
"Evil," he murmurs, and then he's bending his head, his mouth closing over your nipple, hot and wet and devastating, and you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, gripping tight as he sucks, as his tongue circles and flicks and drives you mindless. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same worship, the same relentless attention, and you're squirming on the counter, your hips rolling, seeking friction, seeking him.
He pulls back with a wet sound that makes you blush even as you moan for more. His eyes are dark, predatory, the playful boyfriend from the restaurant gone, replaced by something that looks at you like you're prey, like you're his to ruin.
"Bed," he commands, his voice leaving no room for negotiation, no room for anything but obedience. "Now. On your back."
You slide off the counter, your legs shaky, the silk of your dress catching on your hips as you move. You cross to the bed, each step feeling like you're walking through honey, through heat, your body thrumming with anticipation. You climb onto the white sheets, the fabric cool against your heated skin, and you lie back, your breasts falling to the sides, heavy and aching, your hair spilling across the pillows in waves.
He follows you, stalking across the room with a predator's grace, all bare chest and ink and the hard outline of his cock straining against his trousers. He stops at the foot of the bed, his eyes raking over you, devouring you, and then he reaches for your phone still sitting on the counter, brings it with him, sets it on the nightstand angled perfectly to capture everything, the red light blinking like a third heartbeat in the room.
"Keep it recording," he says, not a request but a decree. "I want you to watch this later. I want you to see what you look like when you're being fucked properly."
He undoes his belt with slow, deliberate movements, the leather hissing as he pulls it free, the metal clinking as he drops it to the floor. His trousers follow, and his underwear, and then he's naked, glorious, his cock thick and heavy and curving up toward his stomach, the tip already wet with arousal, the veins along the shaft prominent and pulsing. You can't help but stare, can't help but lick your lips at the sight of him, at the thought of taking him inside you, anywhere, everywhere.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling up your body like a storm rolling in, all dark intent and coiled power. He doesn't touch you where you want him most, not yet. Instead, he straddles your chest, his knees settling on either side of your ribs, his hands bracing on the headboard above you, caging you in, trapping you beneath him. You can smell him, musk and sweat and something uniquely Jungkook, can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the weight of him hovering above you.
"Look at you," he breathes, his hand coming down to grip himself, to stroke once, twice, the sight obscene and mesmerizing. "Look at these perfect tits. Do you know how many times I've thought about this? About fucking them? About painting you with my cum?"
You whimper, arching up, and he takes that as invitation, as permission. He leans forward, guiding himself down, the hot, heavy weight of his cock settling into the valley between your breasts, skin against skin, velvet over steel. He groans, long and low, his head falling back, the column of his throat working as he begins to move.
He starts slow, rocking his hips, sliding himself through your cleavage, the friction making him hiss, making his abs tighten and flex with each thrust. You press your breasts together, creating a tighter channel for him, and he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, his pace quickening, his hips snapping faster, harder. The head of his cock peeks out from between your breasts with each forward thrust, glistening and flushed, and you crane your neck, wanting to taste, wanting to lick the salt from his skin, but he pulls back just enough to deny you, a wicked smile playing at his lips.
"Greedy," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm, his control fraying at the edges. "So fucking greedy for it. You want this? Want me to cum all over you? Mark you?"
"Yes," you gasp, your own arousal spiraling tight and hot between your legs, the sight of him using you, losing himself in your body, driving you wild. "Yes, please, Jungkook, please-"
He breaks. His hips stutter, his hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles go white, and he comes with a shout that sounds torn from his soul, thick ropes of cum spilling across your chest, your throat, marking you, claiming you in the most primal way. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself, his cock twitching against your skin, until he's spent, until he's trembling above you, his chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his inked shoulders.
The silence that follows is broken only by your ragged breathing, by the wet sounds of him still sliding against your cum-slicked skin. He looks down at you, at the mess he's made of you, and his eyes flash with something dark and satisfied, something possessive.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his hand coming down to smear the evidence of his pleasure across your breasts, your nipples, making you glisten with him. "So fucking beautiful."
He reaches over to the takeout box still sitting on the counter, forgotten until now, and retrieves another piece of spicy tuna, the fish still cool, still perfect. He brings it to your chest, and you watch, breathless, as he places it carefully on top of your nipple, the sushi resting there like an offering, like sacrilege.
He bends his head, his eyes locked on yours, and takes the sushi between his teeth, his tongue dragging across your nipple as he does, hot and wet and filthy, sucking the fish and your flesh together, the combination of sensations making you cry out, making your back arch off the bed. He chews slowly, savoring, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, spreading his own release across your skin in obscene patterns.
When he swallows, he surges up, his mouth crashing against yours with a ferocity that steals your breath, his tongue thrusting deep, sharing the taste of tuna and salt and him, his teeth catching your lower lip, the metal of his piercing dragging against your sensitive flesh. He kisses you like he's starving, like he wants to consume you whole, like the camera isn't even there, like the world has narrowed down to just this, just you, just the wet heat of his mouth and the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
"Mine," he growls against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest, through your bones. "Say it."
"Yours," you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his inked skin. "I'm yours, Jungkook, I'm-"
He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper, harder, his hand sliding down your body, beneath the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist, finding where you're wet and aching and ready, and you know this is only the beginning, know that the night is long and the camera is still rolling and he's nowhere near finished with you.
He pulls back from the kiss with a wet, filthy sound that echoes in the quiet room, his eyes dark and glittering with intent. His hand is still between your legs, his fingers spreading your wetness in slow, teasing circles, and you arch into his touch, desperate, needy, your hips rolling to chase more friction.
"Give me the phone," he commands, his voice rough as gravel, as velvet, as something dangerous wrapped in silk.
You reach for it with trembling fingers, the device still warm from where it sat recording, and you hand it to him, your breath catching as he takes it, as he adjusts the angle, as he points the lens down at you like he's directing a film where you're the only star.
"Look at you," he murmurs, the camera capturing everything, capturing the flush spreading down your chest, the way your breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath, the sheen of sweat and his release still glistening on your skin. "Look at this fucking body. Do you see what I see? Do you see how perfect you are?"
He shifts back on his knees, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and he hooks his fingers in the silk of your dress still pooled at your waist. He pulls slowly, agonizingly slowly, the fabric sliding down your hips, your thighs, leaving you completely bare, completely exposed to the lens, to his gaze, to the hungry darkness in his eyes.
"Spread your legs," he orders, and you do, your knees falling open, your thighs trembling as the cool hotel air hits your heated core. You feel exposed, vulnerable, the camera recording every inch of you, the way your pussy glistens with arousal, swollen and pink and aching for him. He zooms in, the lens close enough to capture the details, the way you pulse with need, the way your thighs are already shaking with anticipation.
"Beautiful," he breathes, the word almost reverent, almost profane. "Look at this pretty pussy. So wet for me. So fucking ready."
He sets the phone down on the mattress, angled up at you both, the red light blinking steady and watchful. But then he's reaching for your hand, pulling you up, placing the device in your trembling grip.
"Hold it," he instructs, his voice dropping lower, filthier, his eyes locked on yours with a command that brooks no argument. "Record me. Don't you dare stop filming, understand? I want you to capture every second of this. I want you to watch later and see exactly what you do to me."
You nod, your throat too tight to speak, and you angle the camera down, your fingers shaking as you focus the lens on him, on where he's settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's coming home.
He looks up at you through his lashes, that silver lip ring catching the light, and he knows, he always knows what that piece of metal does to you. He runs his tongue over it slowly, deliberately, letting you watch the way it moves, the way it glints, and your breath hitches because you can feel it already, can imagine the cool metal against your overheated flesh.
"You like this?" he asks, his voice a purr, a promise, a threat. "You like watching me? Like knowing I'm about to wreck you with this mouth?"
"Yes," you whimper, the camera trembling in your grip as you hold it steady, as you capture every moment.
He starts at your knee, his mouth hovering, his breath hot against your skin. He blows, a gentle stream of air that makes you gasp, makes your leg jerk in his grip. He holds you steady, his fingers digging into your thigh, and he drags his lips up, up, not touching, just breathing, just letting you feel the ghost of him, the promise of him.
He reaches the crease where your thigh meets your hip and he pauses, his eyes flicking up to the camera, to you, holding your gaze as he blows again, right there, right where you're throbbing, where you're aching, where you're dripping for him.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking, the camera shaking in your hand. "Please, Jungkook, please touch me-"
"Shh," he soothes, his breath washing over your clit, hot and cool and devastating. "I've got you. Be patient, pretty girl. Be good."
He blows again, directly on your clit this time, the sensation shocking, electric, making you cry out, your hips bucking off the mattress. He holds you down with one hand on your stomach, pinning you, controlling you, and he leans closer, closer, until you can feel his breath fluttering against your most sensitive flesh, until you're trembling, until you're sobbing with need.
"Look at the camera," he commands, his voice vibrating against your thigh. "Don't look at me. Look at the lens. Show them how pretty you are when you're desperate."
You force your eyes up, staring into the small black circle of the phone's camera, your vision blurred with tears, your mouth open, your chest heaving. You look wrecked, you know you do, you can see your reflection in the dark screen, can see the way your hair is tangled and wild, the way your lips are swollen and red, the way your body is flushed pink with arousal.
"Good girl," he praises, and then he finally, finally, touches you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, slow stroke, hot and wet and perfect, and you scream, the sound tearing from your throat, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and he does it again, and again, lapping at you like he's starving, like he wants to taste every drop of your arousal, like he could spend hours here, drowning in you.
He focuses on your clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, then flicking it, relentless, merciless, driving you higher and higher until you're panting, until you're chanting his name like a prayer, like a curse, until your thighs are trembling on either side of his head.
"So fucking loud," he murmurs against you, the words muffled, filthy. "Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking hotel hear what I'm doing to you."
He pulls back just enough to speak, his chin glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and wild. "Keep recording. Don't you dare stop."
You nod frantically, your hand cramping around the phone, but you hold it steady, you keep the lens focused on him, on where he's watching you with predatory intensity.
He slides one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, curling it to find that spot that makes your vision white out, and you moan, long and loud, unable to help yourself. He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, and he starts to pump them in and out, his wrist twisting, his knuckles dragging against your walls in a way that makes you see stars.
"More," you gasp, your head falling back, but he clicks his tongue, sharp and reprimanding.
"Eyes on the camera," he reminds you, his voice stern, commanding. "Look at me through the lens. Show me that pretty face."
You force your head up, your neck trembling with the effort, and you stare into the camera, your eyes wide and glassy, your mouth open as you pant. He adds a third finger, the stretch burning so perfectly you sob, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts, and he starts rubbing your clit with his other hand, circling it in tight, relentless patterns while his fingers work inside you, while he crooks them to hit that spot, that perfect spot, over and over and over.
"You're taking three fingers so well," he praises, his voice dripping with filth, with pride. "Look at you, stuffed full, dripping down my hand. You love this, don't you? Love being watched, love being used, love being my little porn star."
"Yes," you cry out, the camera shaking as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and hot in your belly. "Yes, yes, Jungkook, please, I'm gonna-"
"Not yet," he cuts you off, his fingers stilling, his hand pulling away from your clit, leaving you hovering on the edge, desperate and whining. "Not until I say. Keep holding that camera. Keep recording. I want to see your face when you cum all over my tongue."
He dives back in, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you with wet heat while his thumb presses hard against your clit, rubbing in furious circles. The dual sensation is too much, overwhelming, devastating, and you're screaming now, loud and unrestrained, your voice raw as you chant his name, as you beg, as you plead for release.
"Jungkook, please, please, I can't, I need to-"
"Cum," he commands, the word vibrating against your core. "Cum for me now. Let me taste it. Let me drink you down."
He sucks your clit into his mouth, the metal of his lip ring pressing hard against the sensitive bud, and you break. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, like a storm, like something violent and beautiful and earth-shattering. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head, your hand spasming around the phone as you cry out, loud and broken and his, completely his.
He doesn't stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, until you're sobbing, until you're pushing at his shoulders because it's too much, too sensitive, too everything.
He finally pulls back with a wet, obscene sound, his chin dripping with your release, his eyes dark and satisfied and wild. He looks at the camera, looks directly into the lens where you're still recording, still capturing every filthy moment, and he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, savoring your taste.
"Delicious," he murmurs, the word dripping with innuendo, with promise. "My favorite meal."
He crawls up your body, his skin hot against yours, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes like you, like him, like everything dirty and perfect and yours. The camera is still recording, still capturing, still blinking its red light in the dark room, and you know, you know this is a night you'll be watching back for years, a night that will never stop making you blush, making you ache, making you want.
"Good girl," he whispers against your lips, his hand tangling in your hair, his body heavy and warm above you. "You did so well. You held it the whole time."
He takes the phone from your trembling grip, checks the recording, a smug, satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Perfect angle. Look at you, pretty thing. Look how beautiful you are when you cum."
He shows you the screen, and you watch yourself, watch your face contort with pleasure, watch your body arch and shake, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck even as you feel yourself getting wet again, already wanting more, already wanting everything he has to give.
He pulls you up, his hands rough at your waist, flipping you until you're straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands braced on his inked chest. The sweat-slick slide of your skin against his is electric, devastating, and you can feel him hard and thick beneath you, pressing against your thigh, leaving wet trails of pre-cum against your skin.
"Come here," he growls, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling you down until your mouths crash together, teeth clicking, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance. He tastes like you, like sake, like the lingering spice of tuna and salt and sex, and you moan into his mouth, your hips rolling instinctively, grinding your soaked core against his rigid length.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, his hips bucking up to meet you, the friction making you both gasp. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."
You reach for the takeout box still within arm's reach, your fingers trembling as you unwrap another piece of spicy tuna, the fish cool and glistening in the dim light. You break the kiss, sitting back on your heels, and his eyes track your movements, dark and questioning, until you lean forward and place the sushi directly on his nipple, the pink flesh peeking through the dark ink of his chest tattoo.
"Christ," he hisses, his head falling back against the pillows, his throat working as you bend down, your hair creating a curtain around you both.
You take the sushi between your teeth first, biting down, the flavor bursting across your tongue, but then you keep going, your mouth closing over his nipple, sucking hard, laving it with your tongue, the combination of cool fish and hot skin making him arch off the bed, his hand flying to your head, gripping tight.
"Oh fuck," he groans, long and low, the sound vibrating through his chest into your mouth. "Oh fuck, baby, fuck-"
You suck harder, your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and he cries out, his hips jerking up, his cock sliding through your folds, bumping against your clit with each thrust of his hips. You release his nipple with a wet pop, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips swollen and glistening.
"You like that?" you purr, your voice dripping with filth, with power. "Like me eating off you? Like being my plate, my meal?"
"Yes," he pants, his eyes blown wide, his chest heaving. "Fuck yes, anything, everything-"
You start grinding in earnest, rolling your hips, sliding your soaked pussy along the length of his cock without letting him inside, teasing, torturing, your clit dragging against his rigid shaft with every movement. The friction is delicious, maddening, and you're both moaning, the sounds filling the room, raw and unfiltered.
"Oh fuck, baby," he chants, his hands gripping your waist, your hips, guiding your movements, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Oh fuck, just like that, just like that-"
You lean down, your breasts pressing against his chest, your mouth at his ear. "Feel how wet I am?" you whisper, your voice a dirty secret. "Feel how much I need you? I've been dripping for you all night, Jungkook. All fucking night."
"Shit," he groans, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "Shit, you're gonna make me cum like this, make me-"
He reaches for the phone, his hand trembling as he angles it up at you, capturing the way you move above him, the way your body undulates like a wave, like something primal and ancient and devastatingly beautiful.
"Look at this," he murmurs, his voice wrecked, his eyes flicking between the screen and your face. "Look at you, grinding on me like a little slut, so desperate for it. You want this cock, baby? Want me to fill you up?"
"Yes," you whine, your movements becoming erratic, desperate. "Please, please, I need it, need you inside-"
He drops the phone to the mattress, the camera still recording, still capturing everything, and he grips your hips hard, lifting you, positioning you above him. You reach between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his thick length, guiding him to your entrance, and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, your head falling back, your mouth open in a silent scream as he stretches you, fills you, completes you.
"Fuck," you gasp, your hands braced on his chest, your nails digging crescents into his skin. "Oh fuck, Jungkook, you're so big, so-"
"Move," he commands, his voice guttural, his hands guiding your hips. "Ride me, baby. Show me how good you are."
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls, hitting places that make your vision blur. He keeps one hand on your hip, guiding you, controlling the pace, while the other reaches for your breast, palming the heavy weight, his thumb dragging across your nipple.
"The sushi wasn't the rawest thing tonight," he breathes, his eyes locked on yours, dark and possessive. "This is. You and me, like this, nothing between us. Just raw, filthy fucking."
You moan, your movements speeding up, your hips snapping down harder, taking him deeper, until he's hitting your cervix with each thrust, the stretch bordering on pain but feeling so perfect you can't stop. He grabs the phone again, angling it up at you, capturing your face contorted with pleasure, your breasts bouncing with each movement, the place where your bodies join, wet and obscene.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his voice reverent and filthy all at once. "Look at you, taking me so well. My perfect girl."
He flips you suddenly, his strength shocking, his movements fluid and predatory. You're on your back before you can process the shift, him settling between your thighs, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands bracing on either side of your head.
"Recording," he commands, pressing the phone into your trembling hand. "Don't stop. I want you to see this. Want you to watch later and see exactly how I fuck you."
You hold it up, the lens focused on where your bodies meet, and he pulls out slowly, agonizingly slowly, until just the tip remains inside you, glistening with your combined arousal. He hovers there, teasing, and you whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more.
"Quiet," he orders, his voice sharp. "Be quiet and listen. Listen to how wet you are for me."
He thrusts back in, hard and deep, and the sound is obscene, wet and filthy, your arousal squelching around him, the slap of skin against skin filling the room. You bite your lip to keep from screaming, your hand shaking as you hold the camera steady, capturing the way he pulls out and thrusts back in, over and over, the rhythm building, the sounds growing louder, wetter, more desperate.
He pulls out completely, his cock slapping against your stomach, wet and heavy, and he drags the head through your folds, bumping against your clit, circling it, teasing it with short, sharp jabs that make you cry out despite your best efforts to stay quiet.
"Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, please fuck me, please-"
He lines himself up and thrusts back in, but this time he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, doesn't tease. He starts pounding into you, hard and fast and merciless, his hips snapping forward with a force that moves you up the bed, your head hitting the headboard with each thrust. He's fucking you like he hates you, like he loves you, like he wants to crawl inside your skin and never leave.
"Scream," he commands, his voice ragged, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, just reminding you who you belong to. "Let me hear you. Let the fucking city hear what I'm doing to you."
You scream. You can't help it, the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, building and coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm approaching like a freight train. He's recording your face, the camera capturing your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolled back, tears streaming down your temples into your hair.
"That's it," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. "That's it, baby, cum for me, cum on my cock, let me feel you-"
You break. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and beautiful, your pussy clamping down on him, milking him, and he groans, long and loud, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless. But as you come, as your body convulses around him, something else happens, something wet and shocking, and you're squirting, actually squirting, your release gushing out around his cock, mixing with his cum, creating a mess of fluids that soaks the sheets, his thighs, drips down your ass.
"Holy shit," he breathes, his eyes wide and wild, the camera still recording, capturing the obscene flood of liquid, the way it glistens on his skin, the way your body continues to shake and convulse. "Holy fucking shit, baby, look at you, look at this-"
He pulls out slowly, his cock still half-hard, dripping with your combined release, and he holds it up, angling the camera to capture the mess, the way his cum mixed with your arousal drips from his shaft, thick and white and obscene.
"Suck it," he commands, his voice rough, his hand tangling in your hair. "Suck your cum off my cock. Clean me up, kitten."
You scramble down, your body still trembling from aftershocks, and you take him into your mouth, tasting yourself, tasting him, the mixture salty and musky and filthy. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head, and he groans, his hand tightening in your hair.
"Fuck, yes," he pants. "My balls, kitten, suck my balls."
You pull back, your hand wrapping around his shaft, and you duck down, taking one testicle into your mouth, then the other, rolling them on your tongue, sucking gently while your hand works his length. He pulls your hair, guiding you, his hips bucking slightly, and then you pull back, kitten licking him, small, teasing laps at the head of his cock, your eyes looking up at him through your lashes, innocent and filthy all at once.
"Perfect kitten," he breathes, his voice wrecked, his eyes dark with renewed desire. "My perfect little kitten. Look at you, so eager, so good for me."
He starts fucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head, his hips snapping forward, pushing his cock deep into your throat, and you relax, let him use you, let him take what he needs. He's relentless, his stamina shocking, and you can feel him swelling, feel him getting close again.
"I'm gonna cum," he warns, his voice strained. "Gonna cum again, baby, gonna-"
He thrusts deep and holds there, his cock pulsing, and he spills down your throat, hot and thick, more than you thought possible, more than should be human. You swallow, your throat working, your eyes watering, and when he finally pulls out, spent and trembling, you collapse back onto the pillows, laughing, the sound breathless and beautiful and disbelieving.
"I can't believe you had all that cum inside you," you marvel, your voice hoarse, your lips swollen and glistening. "That was... that was the third time?"
He collapses beside you, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and sweaty and marked by your nails, your teeth, your possession. He pulls you into his arms, his hand cradling your head against his chest, and you can hear his heart hammering, feel the rumble of his laughter.
"For you," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your hair. "Only for you, pretty girl. You drain me completely. You ruin me."
The phone is still recording somewhere on the bed, still capturing the aftermath, the sweat-slick mess of your bodies, the way you curl into each other like survivors of some beautiful storm. But for now, you just breathe, just exist in this moment of shattered, perfect aftermath, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest, his hand stroking lazy circles on your back.
He doesn't ask. He just moves, shifting off the bed with a grace that seems impossible for someone who just spent himself three times over. You hear water running in the bathroom, the sound of a cloth being wrung out, and then he's back, kneeling between your thighs with a warm, wet towel in his hand.
He cleans you slowly, carefully, his touch reverent where it had been ruthless before. He wipes away the mess of your combined release, the sweat, the evidence of everything you did together, and his eyes follow the path of the cloth with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He presses kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, your stomach, each one soft and lingering, worshipping you in a different language than the one he used when he was inside you.
When he's finished, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls up your body, his weight settling over you again, but different now, protective, cocooning. He finds your mouth, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that tastes like salt and love and exhaustion. He bites your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth, pulling slightly until you whimper, and then he releases you with a laugh, low and warm and vibrating against your skin.
"Beautiful," he whispers, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he's memorizing you, like he's trying to commit every inch to memory. "You're so fucking beautiful. Do you know that? Do you know what you do to me?"
You smile, your hand coming up to tangle in his hair, still damp with sweat. "Show me," you whisper back.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, his eyes dark and endless and full of something that makes your breath catch. He cups your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over your swollen lips, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, stripped bare, nothing but truth.
"I fucking love you," he says. "I love you so much it scares me."
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and real and perfect, and you pull him down, kiss him deep and slow, pouring everything you can't say into the movement of your lips against his.
The camera is still recording somewhere, still blinking its red light in the dark, but neither of you reach for it. Some moments are just for you. Just for this. Just for the two of you, tangled in white sheets in a Miami hotel room, sweating and spent and in love, the rawest thing either of you have ever known.
𓊆 ❤︎ 𓊇 ──── seven powerful businessmen have the luxury, the influence and anything they could ever desire — yet none of it makes them feel alive anymore. that is, until they become captivated by a waitress who awakens something inside them for the first time in years. drawn in by your presence, they offer you one night of passion and pleasure in exchange for money, never expecting it to end in such an unforgettable way.
PAIRING ✦ dom!bts x sub!f.reader
GENRE ✦ gangbang au, BDSM, polyamory, eightsome, porn with little plot, smut, fluff
WARNINGS ✦ 18+, explicit smut, consensual rough sex, eightsome, multiple orgasms and positions, creampie, unprotected sex, free use, semipublic sex, breeding and impregnation kink, degradation, power play, size difference, bondage, reader gets passed around, oral sex (f. receiving), double penetration, triple penetration, vaginal and anal sex, anal training, spanking, impact play (use of hands, belts etc), choking and breath play, possible use of sex toys, overstimulation, forced orgasms, cum inflation and belly bulging, pussy eating and fingering, squirting, wet & messy sex, body worship, dirty talk, fisting and gaping, breast play, mentions of safe word (not used), oral sex (m. receiving), sloppy blowjob, throat fucking, manhandling, use of lube and saliva, cum stuffing, use of belt as a collar, reader takes three cocks at the same time, sweetest loving aftercare, more tags to be added...
WC ✦ 20k+ ( estimated )
NOTE ✦ 5k followers special oneshot as i promised to you babes *MWAAAH*
summary: on the side of a sunburnt los angeles road, you with a broken down car meet a man you can't stop thinking about. he's older, composed, impossibly charming, and far too experienced to be looking at you the way he does. you're used to immature love that never knew how to hold you properly. but with him, everything is different.
themes: age gap (reader is 24, namjoon is 33), los angeles in the 2000s, smut, fluff, famous producer x non!celebrity reader, reader doesn't know who he is, confident joon yum, mainly readers pov w/ brief joon's pov, he's whipped, brief texting, tension, established relationship, strangers to lovers, teasing, they go on dates, joon is a gentleman, relationship building, joon is so dom and a lil possessive, nicknames, porn with lots of plot, eventual love confession
warnings: sexual themes, explicit & descriptive smut MINORS DNI 18+ (hard dom! joon, slight age kink & size kink, slightly semi-public sex(?? in his studio :3), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, missionary, cowgirl, edging/teasing, fingering, oral f, slight choking if u squint, creampie)
word count: 18k.. whoops
inspired by arirang joon because he's just too fine
♬ ₊˚. street thing - aaliyah
read part 2 here ✧ domestic au, boyfriend namjoon.
it was a late, blazing july afternoon with the kind of california heat that sticks to everything.
your beater car had just given up on you in the worst possible place it could—pulled over on the stretch of a busy road with no shade, just heat shimmering off the black asphalt and distant palm trees that don't feel helpful at all.
you already tried the obvious things. ignition, gas, trying it all again like it might change something.
it never did.
you leaned back against the passenger door of your car letting out a frustrated breath, hair sticking to your neck as you watched cars pass by with the soft sound of your hazards blinking in the background.
of course it's today. of course it's here.
that was when you suddenly heard the low hum of an engine slow down beside you. a sleek, black bmw—expensive, but not loud about it. it pulled in front of your car, and for a second you think the car is just stopping briefly.
that was before the driver door opened.
he steps out like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.
tall—noticeably so, he moves towards you easily, like he’s used to taking up space without ever forcing it.
sunglasses sit low on his nose, shielding his eyes, but not enough to hide the way his attention lands exactly on you. his shirt is simple—lightweight, slightly open at the collar, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. nothing flashy.
but it fits him too well. everything about him does.
dark jeans, clean shoes, watch on his wrist that you can't recognize but can tell is expensive. you notice all of him in the mere seconds he takes to walk over to you, the feeling hitting you all at once.
dear god, he was fine. the kind that made you straighten up a little bit without realizing; running a quick hand through your hair and fixing your jewelry.
he walks toward the front of your car, unhurried, one hand sliding briefly into his pocket before resting against the hood of your car.
up close, it’s worse.
sharper features than you expected. clean, but not overly polished. there’s something slightly worn in about him—like experience and maturity that sits on him well.
“everything alright?” he asks, voice is low and steady.
you blink for a second longer than necessary before responding. why does he look like that... helping me with my car?
"uh-" you stammer before clearing your throat. "it's- it's dead."
"yeah..." he says, eyes examining your car closer. "i can see that."
you nod and suddenly there's a pause, small but noticeable.
he comes around the side of your car, closing the distance between you to look inside of the window. you fumble while taking a few steps back as he looks at your dashboard then back at you, suddenly flustered by his presence.
"you got jumper cables?" he asks.
you simply shook your head.
"didn't think so," he says simply.
he walks back to his car, and you stand there feeling so helpless in the hot sun as he turns his car around to face yours in a swift manner, opening the door casually before coming around to his trunk like he's done this plenty of times.
when he comes back with the cables, he quickly slides his sunglasses in a way you almost miss a glimpse of his whole face.
you assumed it was because of the sun. but little did you know, it wasn't.
because before he walked back to his car, he had looked at you a little too closely. it wasn't some polite, quick glance. it was one that lasted a second too long.
he noticed everything about you.
the way your top fits—not overly revealing, but just enough to catch his attention without trying. the fabric light, slightly clinging from the heat. your skirt—shorter than it probably needed to be, riding just a little higher from the way you shifted against your car door.
his gaze dropped, brief, controlled—then came back up. your legs, your hands, the thin bracelet at your wrist. rings that don’t match perfectly but somehow work. jewelry that feels personal to you.
he takes note of that. of course he does.
then, your face. slightly flush from the heat, skin warm toned and sun-kissed. there's something effortless about you, like you spent more time living in the sun than hiding from it.
your expression—somewhere between annoyed and trying not to be. and your eyes, focused on him, but not softened. not entirely impressed by him, but more appreciative.
and when he closed his trunk, he forgets to look away. so he pulls his sunglasses back over, quick and casual. like it's nothing.
and not because of the sunlight, but because he was looking at you a little too openly. and he knew it.
he arrives at your car and connects everything smoothly, no hesitation and big hands steady. it was unfairly attractive.
“so,” he says, glancing up while he works, “you live out here or just enjoying the scenic breakdown experience?”
a smile pulls at your mouth despite yourself. “neither. i was just trying to get home.”
“mm.” he clicks something into place. “dangerous thing to try in LA.”
that gets a small laugh out of you, softer now and less defensive.
when the car finally sputters back to life, you visibly relax. he steps back, wiping his hands lightly. “there you go."
you should've just said thank you and left. but something in you doesn't act immediately. because now that the problem was gone, the silence between you two felt different now.
“so how do i… repay you?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious.
he tilts his head slightly. "you don’t.” a beat passes. "just don't break down in the worst place possible next time."
you rolled your eyes a little, a smirk tugging at your lips. "no promises."
that earns a small smile from him. he steps back toward his car, then pauses like he’s deciding something.
“i’m—” he starts, then stops himself, like he’s choosing not to introduce himself the usual way. "i’ll see you around.”
"yeah... thank you."
and you watch him get back into his car, driving away and getting lost in the sea of los angeles traffic as you realized two things;
you didn't get his name, and you would likely never see him again.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
one week later
he's just getting off the phone when it happens.
“yeah, send it over tonight,” he says, already half-distracted. “i"ll listen then.”
a pause. “mm. yeah. i got it.” he ends the call before the other person finishes their last sentence.
he slips his phone into his pocket, stepping onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun hitting just right—warm, a little blinding, the kind of los angeles light that makes everything look softer than it is.
but he's not really paying attention at first.
he's thinking about work. about a track that still isn’t sitting right. about whether he even wants to go to the next session he has lined up.
and then—he sees you.
just down the block, wired headphones plugged into your ears as you walk towards a small coffee shop.
it takes him half a second too long for him to register it. he slows before stopping in his place on the scorching sidewalk just to be sure.
same walk. same unintentional confidence—like you're not trying to be noticed, which somehow makes you stand out more. your outfit catches his attention again without effort. something light, slightly different from the first time he saw you, but still you.
skirt again—of course. not the same one, but same idea.
he notices that. he notices everything.
you push the door open to the shop before disappearing inside. and for a second—he considers just letting you go, letting the roadside interaction stay that way, a one time street kind of thing that didn't need to turn into anything else.
he exhaled quietly before shaking his head, "yeah, no." he changed his direction subtly like he was always going that way.
by the time he reaches the door, he's already composed again. no rush or urgency in him, just the same steady stride he always carried around.
inside the cafe, it’s quieter than the street. low music, soft conversations, and the smell of coffee swirled in the air.
he scans the space once and it doesn't take long for him to find you, standing near the counter, slightly turned away, looking up at the menu like you're stuck deciding between the same two things.
he watches you for a second. not long, but enough. and suddenly, there's that feeling again rising up in his chest.
he steps into line behind you—close enough to matter, not close enough to be obvious. he lets the moment build naturally. of course he does. he lets you stay unaware just a second longer.
then, as you shift your weight and turn slightly back—he steps forward at the exact right time. light contact, your shoulder to his chest. just enough to capture your attention.
"oh, sorry—" you say automatically before looking up. it took a moment for you to process that the same, gorgeous man who jumped your car last week was the one currently blocking your vision.
he tilts his head slightly, like he’s just as surprised. “well,” he says, calm, almost amused, “this is becoming a pattern.”
you blinked. "you... helped me with my car."
"i did," he agrees. "and now apparently i'm following you around LA."
you narrow your eyes slightly. "are you?"
he puts a hand over his chest, mock offended but calm. “i prefer ‘running into you repeatedly by tragic coincidence.’”
that earns a laugh from you, the first real one between you. the barista calls you next in line, and he trails behind you like you're a couple ordering together. his presence alone makes your heart thump against your chest.
the barista takes your order and before you can even unzip your purse to pay, you already see a large hand coming from behind you, inserting a card in the machine.
the barista hands the man behind you the receipt and you turn around abruptly, tilting your head up to fully face him as you both drift away from the register. "i can pay for myself," you said.
"i know," he says simply.
"i was supposed to pay," you corrected as you picked up your freshly made coffee order.
"why?" he asked genuinely, tilting his head to match the angle of yours. it sent a light pink blush up your cheeks.
you look at him like the answer is obvious. "because you jumped my car."
his eyebrows pulled together. "that was like five minutes of my time."
you all but blinked, suddenly at a loss of words under the intense gaze of this mysterious, confident man.
he begins to walk towards a table and you follow him, still protesting under your breath. "that doesn't mean you get to—"
“get to what?” he glances back at you, sunglasses now off, and it’s worse without them in a way—more direct, more readable. more of his perfectly chiseled face exposed to you. “buy you coffee?”
you open your mouth, then close it. because the way he said it made it sound ridiculous to argue.
you both end up choosing a table by the window. endless blue, moving slowly under the late afternoon sun. a few people pass by on bikes, others walking along the sidewalk with iced coffees in hand, like time moves differently here.
not sat too close to him, not too far—just enough space that it could still be casual if either of you decided to pretend it was.
“so, what do you do?” you ask finally, wrapping your hands around the cup.
he leans back slightly in his chair. “music.”
“that’s vague.”
“it's intentional.”
you give him a look. “oh, so you’re mysterious.”
“i’m tired,” he corrects lightly, a smirk of amusement tugging at his lips. “there’s a difference.”
that makes you smile. “what, like a band?” you press.
“no,” he says. “behind the scenes.”
“oh.” you tilt your head. “like a manager?”
he pauses for a moment. "something like that."
it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. you nod like you accept that answer, but the curiosity doesn't go away.
“and you?” he asks.
you almost laugh. “i don’t do music.”
“didn’t say you did.”
“i mean…” you gesture vaguely. “nothing like that. i work. i live on the edge of LA where nothing interesting happens.”
his gaze holds on you a second longer than necessary. "that’s not true,” he says.
you frown slightly. “you don’t even know me.”
“i know you broke down on the side of a road in peak heat and didn’t immediately panic,” he says. “that tells me something.”
"like what?"
"that you're stubborn," he replies calmly.
you lean forward a little, eyes analyzing his expression. "that's not a compliment."
“it can be,” he says. “depends who it’s about.”
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you and him slip into easy conversation—half started stories, simple questions, the kind of conversation that doesn't feel like you're trying too hard.
you're mid-sentence, explaining something about where you live—how everything feels slower out there—when he interrupts you, but gently. “how old are you?”
you pause, caught off guard. “that’s random.”
“it’s relevant,” he says, like that should be obvious.
“to what?”
he lifts his cup slightly, studying you over the rim for a second before answering. “to how seriously i should be taking you.”
your eyebrows lift immediately. “excuse me?”
there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “i’m kidding,” he says, calm, unbothered. “mostly.”
you shake your head, trying not to smile. “twenty four.”
he nods once, like he expected that. “yeah,” he murmurs.
“yeah what?” you press.
“nothing,” he says, setting his cup down. “it makes sense.”
“that’s so annoying,” you say. “you don’t get to say that and not explain.”
“i just did.”
“no, you didn’t.”
he leans back slightly, relaxed, completely comfortable letting you be a little frustrated. “you carry yourself younger at times,” he says. “but not in a bad way.”
you narrow your eyes. “that still feels like an insult.”
“it’s not,” he says, softer now. “it’s honest.”
you look at him for a second longer than you mean to. “okay,” you say quietly. “then how old are you?”
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching you like he’s deciding how much to give. “what do you think?” he asks.
you study him now, more deliberately. he doesn’t look older, not really. no obvious lines, no tiredness. and of course, he looks put together in a way most guys your age aren’t.
“twenty-seven,” you say finally. “maybe twenty-eight.”
he lets out a soft laugh—low, almost under his breath.
you frown immediately. “what?”
“nothing,” he says, shaking his head slightly with amusement.
“no, what?”
“you’re off,” he says.
“by how much?”
he pauses, then shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “enough.”
“that’s not an answer,” you says leaning forward closer now.
“it is,” he replies calmly. “just not one you like.”
you stare at him, half-annoyed, half-curious. “you’re not going to tell me?”
“not yet.”
your eyes narrow. “why?”
he meets your gaze fully this time. “because i want to see if it changes anything for you.”
you lean back slightly, thrown off in a way you don't show completely. “why would it?” you ask.
he shrugs after a small pause. he glances down at your cup. “you drink your coffee too slow, by the way.”
your mouth falls open a little as the moment quickly softens again. “oh my god.”
“just saying.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“and you’re still here,” he points out lightly.
the conversation drifts again after that, easier now. you talk more without meaning to—little things, fragments of your life. he listens in a way that feels attentive, but not invasive. like he’s not collecting information, just understanding your pace.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you both drift toward the door without really deciding to. the conversation doesn’t end—it just slows, like both of you are aware it has to, eventually.
outside, the afternoon has softened. the heat isn’t as sharp anymore, but it’s still there, hanging in the air between you.
you shift your weight slightly, glancing down the street, then back at him. “this was…” you start, then stop, like you don't want to overdefine it. he watches you, gazed fixed on you patiently.
“unexpected,” you continue on.
he nods once. “yeah.”
“i still owe you,” you say.
he glances down at you. “you don’t.”
“i do.”
“you don’t,” he repeats, softer but final. but after a small beat, “if it makes you feel better, you can get the next one.”
you narrows your eyes. “there’s going to be a next one?”
he paused again, but only for a fraction of a second too long before he shrugged slightly like it was nothing. "if you break down again, i might start thinking it's planned."
you rolled your eyes, but a smile pulled helplessly at your lips. as you stepped out into the light of the sun, you realized two things at once. this man still hadn't told you who he is or his name, and that you somehow already agreed to see him again.
"let me see your phone," he said lowly, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes once again. it wasn't really a question.
and so you reached into your pocket, pulling out your phone, and without asking—he takes your hand gently, turning your palm slightly towards his. the faintest brush of his fingers sent an unexpected warmth up your arm in a way you couldn't ignore.
he picked up your phone that now seemed so small in his hands, typing something quickly before handing your phone back. you looked down at your screen, squinty slightly from the sun.
his name. a number.
joon 213-555-0010
when you look back up at him, he's already watching you—unreadable in a way that sent a pink flush throughout your cheeks.
"joon," you said, like you needed to say his name out loud. like you knew it was just a nickname.
he simply nodded, something small like a smile tugging at his lips from the sound of you hearing his name. "yeah."
he paused, low eyes peering above his sunglasses as he looked at you closely. "you gonna tell me yours?" he asked lowly, the baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.
so you told him, and he repeated it a few times under his breath like he had to let it sink on his tongue. "y/n," he said finally, voice quieter than usual. "pretty name for a pretty girl."
your eyes couldn't help but widely slightly at his bold words, the pink on your face turning into a deep red.
a small pause filled the air before you swallowed, trying your best to lock in your confidence in front of this man. "you didn't ask for my number," you said.
"i know."
"that's a little backwards."
"not really."
you titled your head. "why?"
he took a step back, giving you just a little more space. "because now it's your choice."
you study him for a second, like you're trying to figure out if this is some kind of game. some kind of reality tv show where they prank you with some hot mysterious man. but it didn't feel like one.
"and if i don't text you?" you ask.
a small pause before he shrugged easily. "then i'll assume you didn't want to." but his tone didn't have any pressure or persuasion in it.
"confident," you mutter.
"selective," he corrected.
you almost rolled your eyes—but you don't quite let it happen. he glances past you for a second, like he's remembering that he actually has somewhere to be. then, they quickly averted back to you.
"if you do," he continues, quieter now. "don't over think it."
you let a small laugh. "too late."
that earns a small smile from him, dimples tugging at his cheeks in a way you noticed immediately. "i figured."
another pause before he steps back swiftly, like he's deciding that he couldn't stay any longer than necessary—even if he wanted to. "i'll see you around," he says, for the second time.
before you can respond, he's already turning and stepping away, suddenly gone in the same effortless and casual way he arrived.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
that night, you tell yourself you're not going to think about him.
and you failed immediately.
you failed when you went to dinner with your friends, when you did chores around your house; in the shower and when you laid in your own bed that night—the bed that was supposed to make your thoughts go away. it was the small things at first.
the way he didn’t rush anything. the way he answered questions without really answering them. the way he looked at you like he already understood something you hadn’t said out loud yet.
and as the night continued on, the bigger things settled in your brain, making heat shamefully pool between your legs.
he didn't ask for your number. he didn't try to lock you in. instead, he just left his number with you.
who is he?
your phone sat next to you with the screen dark and off, but it felt louder than anything else in the room. you fell into a cycle of picking it up and putting it back down.
finally, you picked it up again, finding his contact. you flipped it shut, sucking in a sharp breath at the thought of messaging him. you found your thumbs typing, deleting, then typing something again.
you exhale softly, leaning back against your pillow trying your hardest not to overthink it, his voice replaying in the back of your head.
he wasn't some typical guy—you could tell in the way he carried himself. he walked casually, but with assurance. he dressed with stride, but still managed to blend in. he talked with confidence, and every line was coated with experience.
so now, it wasn't just about texting him. it's about what it would mean if you did. because somehow, after one roadside encounter and a cup of coffee—you already wanted more than you should have.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
namjoon's drive back was quiet. not because he wanted it to be—but because nothing else fit how he felt at the moment.
not even any of his music.
he had driven these streets thousands of times. the same turns, the same streets, the same palm trees. usually his mind is somewhere else entirely—work, mixes, deadlines, people who expect things from him.
but not tonight. because tonight, it kept circling back to you.
it all kept replaying in his head—the way you looked at him like you were trying to figure him out. he noticed the way you didn't try too hard. you didn't perform like everyone else in LA.
you didn't know what he is, who he is, or what kind of world he's involved in.
that was the part that was stuck in namjoon's head so deeply. because most people that meet him are already adjusted to him—already well aware, careful with their words and their tones, their intentions.
but you certainly weren't.
because you argued with him. you rolled your eyes and called him annoying. and you meant all of it.
a faint smile pulled at his mouth as he came to a stop at a red light. "twenty-seven," he muttered to himself, shaking his head and laughing slightly.
but still, you didn't hesitate.
he pulls into his place, kills the engine, but doesn’t get out right away. he glances at his phone, sitting in the center console of his car, dark and quiet.
but he doesn't reach for it. because namjoon was a patient man—he always had been. in work, in life, in everything that mattered.
once he gets inside his spacious, sleek home, he dropped his keys on the counter, running a hand through his hair, exhaling.
namjoon had been with plenty of women before. older, younger—in his world and outside of it. he always knows how it goes. he knows how to keep it light and uncomplicated.
but this didn't feel like that. because it felt like something that could get complicated. but instead of pushing it away like he normally would, he leaned into it. just a little.
an hour passes. then two.
namjoon tells himself he's not checking his phone. but it turns out to be a lie, because throughout night—he checks it without picking it up. glancing every time he walks past, like it might light up if he looks long enough. but it doesn't.
he tells himself to relax, that you have a life or that you might not be interested at all. but still—he wonders what you're up to. if you're thinking about him the way he's thinking about you. if you're overanalyzing that moment outside of the coffee shop.
suddenly, his phone buzzed. he doesn't look right away. he just looked at it before reading the unsaved number, no name attached. he picks it up and opens it almost immediately.
unknown: do you always leave girls with this much pressure or am i just special?
he lets out a quiet breath—half a laugh of amusement, half something else. there you finally were, exactly the way he had anticipated. he begins to type before he stops and quickly deletes it.
he leans back against the counter, thinking—not about what to say, but about how much he should give. because namjoon didn't want to rush this. he didn't want to come on too strong.
but he couldn't pretend that he was unaffected either, because he most certainly couldn't even if he wanted to. not with you.
he types again, this time sending it.
him: i was starting to think you wouldn't.
he watches the screen for a second longer than necessary, saving your contact before setting his phone down. it wasn't far, but it was just enough. because now, you know that he was waiting too.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you exhale softy, rolling onto your back with a smile that couldn't help but tug at your lips.
you: oh so you were waiting
a pause settled on the screen before the typing bubble popped up again.
joon: i was curious
you: that sounds like a more mysterious way of saying waiting
joon: you can call it whatever makes you feel better
and now, you definitely smiled at that. because he was already doing that thing again—side stepping without hesitation.
you: you're too difficult to read
joon: you're trying too hard then
you: i think you're just confusing
joon: only for you sweetheart
you actually laugh out loud at that, shaking your head and ignoring the way the nickname made pink tint your cheeks.
you: wow
so is this how you talk to every girl you buy coffee for?
his reply comes faster this time.
joon: i don't buy anyone coffee
you: good answer
joon: an honest one
what are you doing right now?
you glanced around your room like he could somehow see.
you: nothing important
joon: doesn’t sound convincing
you: i could say the same about you
joon: i’m working
you: doing your very mysterious job?
joon: still stuck on that?
you: a little
joon: you'll figure it out eventually
you bit your lip slightly, thinking of an answer.
you: you're very sure i'm going to stick around long enough to figure it out
joon: aren't you?
your heart does that annoying little jump again, and you don't answer right away. and he doesn't send anything else. instead, he waits. three minutes later;
you: maybe
joon: that's a start
another painfully long beat passes before your cellphone vibrates again.
joon: you busy tomorrow night?
you stare at the message, blinking twice to make sure you read it right. but somehow, half of you wasn't surprised. you were practically waiting in a way you couldn't admit. but the other half was incredibly in shock.
you started to type.. deleted it.. then typed again.
you: depends
what are you planning?
joon: something better than coffee
you smiled immediately, even though you tried not to.
you: that's a little confident
joon: doesn't seem like you hate it
you: i don't
joon: good
a pause settled on the screen again.
joon: 8?
you exhaled slowly, the reality creeping in as you stared at the screen. you were really going to go on a date with this man. the same, confident and attractive man that had jumped your car and saved your day. the same man who's age and job you couldn't quite detect.
you: okay
joon: i'll pick you up
don't overthink it
you rolled your eyes, smiling.
you: too late
joon: i know
and just like that, with one text conversation, it definitely was more than just a street thing.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you almost regret saying yes the moment you hear a car pull up outside, engine rumbling lowly outside your apartment window.
not because you didn't want to go, of course. but because now, it's real.
you check yourself in the mirror one last time, smoothing the bumps in your hair and coating your lips with gloss one last time. simple, but intentional. something that said you tried... but didn't try too hard.
your phone buzzed.
joon: i'm outside
when you step out, you see the car first. the same sleek and clean car that had pulled over in front of you on that busy highway engulfed in heat.
then him.
leaning slightly agains the driver's side door, towering over the car with his sleeves pushed up, looking like he's only been there for a minute—but completely settled anyway. he wore a costly-looking dress shirt, glimmering chain around his neck and a sparkling watch wrapped around his built arm. you swallowed hard.
his eyes flick up from the ground immediately when he notices you. and for a second, he just looks at you. completely, unashamedly taking you in with his eyes slowly.
"yeah..." he says lowly, dragging his lips ever so quickly along his lips as you approached him, heels clicking beneath you. "you're going to be a problem tonight."
you couldn't ignore the heat that sent down your spine, but you simply peered up at him, batting your eyelashes innocently. "aren't i always?"
"i haven't seen you always," he replied.
you rolled your eyes, but a small smile pulled at your lips anyway. then, he stepped back, opening the door for you. you don't the miss the way he does it without hesitation. and when you sit inside, you don't miss the way his gaze burns into you before closing your door.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
the drive was easy, music low in the background, city lights coming to life as the sun started to dip below the horizon.
namjoon doesn't fill every silence—and somehow it makes it easier for you to talk.
"so where are you taking me?" you ask eventually.
"you'll see," he says casually, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested between you.
"that's not helpful."
"it's not supposed to be."
you shook your head, smiling out the window. he pulls up to a restaurant that sits right by everything—the beach, the water, and the city. it was definitely upscale, but nothing intimidating.
inside, the lighting is warm yet dim, swift music playing and low conversations humming.
you were seated quickly. no waiting or confusion. you didn't quite realize the line of people who were standing for a table, and how you and him were able to breeze right past it.
when you arrive to your seat, it's right in front of the window, city lights and palm trees stretching on the glass in front of you. he pulls your seat out for you, helping you take off your coat and placing it along your chair.
after you place your orders, the conversation flows faster this time. less guarded, and more natural.
"so," he says, leaning back in his chair slightly. "what do you actually do?"
you sigh softly, like you already know the answer isn't impressive, even compared to his incredibly vague one. "i’m a waitress," you say. "nothing exciting."
he watches you for a second. "you keep saying that."
"because it's true."
"or because you think it's supposed to be."
that made you pause. "it's not exactly... impressive," you admitted.
he shrugs lightly. "most things that are don't matter."
you let out a small breath, like you didn’t expect that answer. “you always talk like that?” you ask.
“like what?”
“like you know something i don’t.”
a small smirk pulls at his mouth. “sometimes i do.”
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you and namjoon are laughing a few minutes later—about something small and stupid—and it feels easy. too easy.
the song currently playing comes to an end and the music shifts. a different song comes on—smooth, familiar, something that's even playing everywhere recently.
you perked up immediately. "oh my god, i love this song."
he stills ever so slightly. it's quick and barely noticeable, but there's a flicker of something across his face. he glances down at the table, then back up at you. "yeah?" he asks, casual.
"yeah," you nod, smiling. "it's so good."
he hums in response, leaning back in his seat like it's just background noise. "not bad."
you narrow your eyes slightly. "not bad?"
he shrugs. "it's alright."
you laugh. "you're impossible."
and he doesn't argue. but there's a faint smirk but he doesn't fully hide this time.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
the dinner stretches longer than you expected. because neither of you seem to be in a rush to end it.
by the time the check comes, you reach for it instinctively. because at the cafe, he said he would let you get it this time.
but he's faster. of course he is.
"you don't have to—" you start.
"i know."
"that's not fair," you protest.
"it doesn't have to be," he said.
you sigh, but you're already smiling again.
as he hands the card over, the server pauses. "sorry," the server says, almost hesitant. "are you... are you—namjoon—"
namjoon already knows what's coming. he exhales softly, not annoyed at all, just used to it. "yeah," he says with a polite smile. you blinked.
"sorry- i thought so. i didn't want to assume."
he gives a small, reassuring nod.
"do you think i could-" the server gestures awkwardly. "just like, a quick autograph? my brother and i are huge fans."
you completely froze.
fan?
huge?
he doesn't make it a big deal. "yeah, no problem," he says, like it was normal. like this happens all the time. because it does.
he signs something quickly, hands it back with a polite smile.
"thank you—i appreciate it. you two have a great night," the server said before walking off.
silence settled between you for the brief a second. you were completely staring at him now, trying to control your facial expressions as you processed what just happened.
"you didn't tell me that happens to you," you said.
"i didn't think it mattered," he replied casually.
"well," you said slowly. "what exactly do you do?"
there it was. the question he definitely couldn't avoid this time. he leans back slightly, studying your expression. it was curious, but not intimidated or totally impressed. just curious.
"i told you," he said. "music."
you shook your head. "no, you said behind the scenes."
he huffed a small breath, close to a laugh before he paused. "i produce," he said finally. it was simple and direct—no bragging or boasting.
you blink again. "like... that song?"
a beat passes for a small moment before he nods once. "yeah."
and now, the air between you shifted. because now you knew; he wasn't just some guy who stopped to help you on the side of the road.
and somehow, it almost made things worse. because now, you had to figure out why he's here... with you.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
the air outside feels cooler than before. or maybe it’s just because of the way everything shifted inside.
namjoon pushes the door open for you, stepping slightly to the side to let you walk out first—but as you pass, his hand settles lightly at the small of your back.
guiding. not grabbing or lingering too long. just there, resting on your back. it's subtle, but you can feel the intention seeping through you, especially in the way it instantly sends a shiver up your back.
your steps slow for half a second—not enough for him to comment on, but enough for you to notice yourself.
but he notices too.
you both walk a few steps in the parking lot in silence. it wasn't awkward, it was just both of you recollecting the entire night—including who he really was.
“so,” you say finally, glancing over at him, tone light like nothing’s changed, “you’re kind of a big deal, namjoon.”
he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “no.”
“that guy literally asked you for an autograph.”
“that happens sometimes.”
you narrow your eyes. “that’s not normal.”
“it is for me,” he says simply. it wasn't cocky or defensive, just the honest truth. it should've been intimidating. but you didn't let it land that way.
you shrugged slightly. "okay. but that still doesn't mean i'm impressed."
there's a pause before he looks at you—really looks this time. and something shifts in his eyes, subtle but sharper. more interested and intrigued by the young woman standing before him.
"good," he said lowly.
you blinked. "good?"
“i’d be a little concerned if you were.”
your lips press together slightly, trying not to smile. “you’re unbelievable.”
“i’ve been told.”
you both reach his car, but neither of you move to get in right away. he leans back against it slightly, arms relaxed and eyes fixed on you.
you cross your arms again. not closed off, just grounding yourself under his gaze. "so you just... make songs people know?"
"sometimes," he said with a shrug.
"ugh, that's such a non-answer."
his lips fought a smile at your remark. "it's an accurate one."
you shook your head, a small laugh escaping you. "you're so annoying."
"but you keep talking to me," he points out.
you finally glance up at him fully, and for a second, the eye contact lingers for a moment too long. it causes you to look away first, pink tinting your cheeks.
and namjoon notices everything.
the way you're holding eye contact a little less now. the way you're slightly more aware of yourself. the way you're trying not to let it change anything. but it doesn’t turn him off—it only pulls him in more.
“you got quiet,” he says.
“i didn’t.”
“you did.”
you look away for a second, then back at him. “i’m just thinking.”
“about?”
you hesitate. “nothing,” you say.
he tilts his head slightly, unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. instead, he steps a little closer. not enough to crowd you, but enough to spark the energy in the space between you even more.
“you’re doing that thing,” he comments quietly, eyes trailing up and down your figure.
your brows knit. “what thing?”
“trying to act like nothing changed.”
your stomach flips—annoyingly and immediate. “because nothing did,” you said.
a pause fills the air. he studies your face, like he’s deciding whether to call it out further. “alright,” he says finally.
you exhale softly. “you’re not going to say anything else?”
“i don’t need to.”
“that’s so—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head.
he watches you, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth now. “say it,” he murmurs.
you look at him, trying not to react to the way his voice dropped slightly. “it’s just… a lot,” you admit.
your answer was too honest for your liking, yet he didn't laugh or dismiss it. "yeah," he said quietly. "it can be."
a beat passed. "but i'm still the same guy you had coffee with," he said softly. and those words land, harder than anything else he's said.
you study him for a second, searching for something—ego, arrogance, anything that would make this easier to categorize.
but you don’t find it. instead, you're only able to find that same calm, steady version of him. the one who stopped his car for you. the one who let you decide whether to text him. the one who didn’t even bother to impress you.
“…okay,” you say finally. and you mean it.
there was a small shift in the air between you, the tension softening— but not totally disappearing.
“so,” he says, pushing off the car slightly, “you still letting me drive you home?”
you raise an eyebrow. “do i have a choice?”
“you always have a choice,” he said. a beat passes. "but i’d prefer if you said yes," he confessed playfully.
you huffs out a quiet laugh. “you’re very subtle.”
“i try.”
and for the second time that night, namjoon opens the passenger door for you. and this time, when you got in, it felt different; reality swirling around you and settling into your head.
the drive back was quieter than the one there. it wasn't awkward or empty—just filled with unspoken words and incredibly thick tension.
his gaze was fixed on the road, but you couldn't ignore the way you caught him glancing over at you multiple times in the corner of your eye. the music is low, humming softly through the speakers before another song comes on.
you glance over at the console, then over at him. "did you make this one too?" you ask, half teasing.
he doesn't look at you right away, a smirk pulling at his lips, leaving a sharp shadow along his jaw. "maybe."
you roll your eyes, fully smiling now. "you're never going to give me a straight answer, are you?"
"not all at once, pretty girl."
there it is again. not just the nickname that sent heat through your spine and in between your legs—but that confident, indirect promise of you sticking around long enough to unlock every thing about him.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you're looking out the window, surrounded by the kind of silence that makes everything feel more noticeable. but you're not really seeing or looking at anything, because you're too aware.
too aware of namjoon. the way he drives—one veiny hand on the wheel, relaxed but precise. the way the scent of his expensive cologne and shampoo made your knees weaken. the way he continues to glance over every now and then, quick, like he’s checking something without making it obvious.
you shift slightly in your seat every time he does.
suddenly, his hand moves from the wheel for just a second—resting briefly against the center console as he adjusts his grip. but through that movement, his large fingers brush lightly against your thigh.
he dragged them ever so softly on your thigh for what felt like forever—but only lasted two seconds—before moving his hand back to the center console. his fingers were barely there, not lingering or deliberate enough to call out. but it wasn't exactly accidental enough to ignore either.
your breath catches for just a second, but he doesn't react or apologize. he doesn't even look at you, and somehow that makes it worse.
you swallow hard, turning your head slightly towards the window again. but now you're even more hyper-aware of the space between you. your heart was doing something very annoying again, and you knew it.
he knew it.
he slows the car as you reach your place, parking smoothly before killing the engine. and just like that, everything went still.
neither of you moved right away. you looked down at your hands, then back up like you were about to say something. but you didn't.
he simply watches you for a second, less teasing in his eyes and more focus. he took in every inch of you, sitting so still and pretty in his car. looking at him like he was still the same guy who jumped your car, not like he was a guy who made every hit song. "you got quiet again," he says softly.
you let out a small breath. "you keep saying that."
"because you keep doing it."
you glance at him. this time, you don't look away immediately. "i'm just thinking."
"dangerous," he murmurs, pulling a small smile from you.
you reach for the door handle. "thanks for dinner," you say, like you're trying to keep it normal.
"yeah," he replies with a soft smile.
you open the door, stepping out thinking that the night is wrapped up. that he'll pull away and let you go. but then, you hear his door open too.
he rounds the front of the car, meeting you halfway up the short path to your door. he took his time not rushing—because he never did.
when you stop in front of your door, you turn to face him. and suddenly, it's close. closer than it's been all night. there wasn't a table, a center console, or any distractions now. just him, towering over you and filling your entire vision with nothing but him. his musky cologne quickly filled your nostrils, throwing your mind off balance.
"you don't have to walk me up," you say quietly, close to a whisper.
"i know," he says. but he doesn't step back.
a long pause fills the air, stretching long enough for the tension to feel intentional. his gaze drops briefly, to your lips—then back up to your eyes.
your breath catches again, softer now. but you were too close for namjoon to not notice it. "are you always this—" you start, then stop.
"this what?" he asks lowly, clenching his jaw ever so slightly at the mere sight of you fumbling with your words in front of him.
you shake your head slightly. "i don't even know."
a faint smile pulls at his mouth. "good." he took another step closer, not enough to trap you, but enough for the warmth of his body to wrap around you.
then, his hand lifts, hesitating for half a second before gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. he does it carefully, like he was giving you all the time in the world to pull away. but you didn't.
"you're overthinking again," he murmurs, low eyes scanning every inch of your face.
your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "you keep saying that like it helps."
"it does," he suggests casually.
"how?"
he leans in barely. he doesn't completely close the distance between you, but it was enough to send a bolt of warmth down your body. "because you're still here."
you tilt your head up just a little, before he leans in just a sliver more. and for a second, the moment is right there, sitting heavy in the little distance there was between you.
and then, he stops. just barely, coming to a small still when you could practically feel his breath on you. just enough that it didn't happen.
your eyes flicker across his face, confused, a little breathless. he watches your reaction carefully, low eyes trained onto your every movement.
and suddenly, there's that faint smirk again—but it's softer; barely there and more restrained than usual in a way you almost didn't catch.
"goodnight, doll," he said lowly. "sleep well."
like nothing had almost just happened.
he steps back, ripping the thick air that had just sat between you like a third person. breaking it and leaving you there standing with it.
“you’re—” you start, but you don't even know what to call him.
he tilts his head slightly, licking his lips and averting his gaze down you one last time. “what?”
you exhale half-laugh and half-frustration. “annoying.”
he smiles, dimples pulling at his cheeks. “i know," he says, before turning around and walking back to his car.
from the doorstep, you watch him get in, turn on the engine, and leave. leaving you there with more thoughts than your racing heart could keep up with and a miserable dampness in your panties.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
namjoon's place is quiet again. too quiet.
he tosses his keys down, walks a few steps in, then stops—like his body forgot what he was about to do.
because his mind was entirely somewhere else.
it was still at your door. still immersed into that moment.
he leans back against his kitchen counter, exhaling. he's replaying everything now, like dinner—the way you didn't switch up when you found out what he did. you weren't suddenly impressed or started asking the wrong questions.
you stayed the same. maybe you were a little quieter, a tad bit more aware. but you didn't completely fold.
that absolutely sat under namjoon's skin now. he was completely enamored by you, and didn't want to pull a girl like you into his chaotic world. didn't want you to adjust to him because of who he was, like most people did.
but you didn't. you just took it in, and kept going. you stayed exactly the same—you still called him annoying and told him he wasn't impressive.
he looks at his phone sitting a few feet away. he already gave you control once. he let you decide whether or not to text him, to decide if it was going to go anywhere or not.
but he wasn't going to do that tonight.
him: you always look at people like that or was that just for me?
he sets the phone down, but not far. because you've consumed every inch of his mind again without even trying to. he thinks about the your eyes dropped to his lips, the way you didn't pull away.
his jaw tightened slightly. he knew he was in trouble.
his phone lit up again.
her: like what?
he lets out a quiet breath, a smile pulling at his lips. the way you played it off, like you always did, made him only want more. made him think that maybe he should've kissed you right then and there—should've forgot about being a man and taking his time with you and—
he slowly took in a deep breath through his nose, dragging a hand across his face.
him: like you were about to do something you'd regret
her: don't know if i'd call it regret
namjoon liked that a little too much, licking his lips and leaning back. because now, he knows you felt it too.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
a few days and several text conversations later, namjoon sends you a text on a night he knows you're not working. no question or explanation, just;
joon: be ready at 7
when he picks you up, the air already shifts when you walk outside. it was in the way he looked at you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn't hiding it at all anymore. he takes his time, eyes trailing from your shoes, to the way your skirt falls, the jewelry at your wrist, to your face.
"you always dress like this, doll?" he asks lowly, stepping closer to you.
you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way the name made your brain feel like mush. "like what?"
"like you knew exactly what you were doing when you picked that."
your lips pressed together slightly, trying not to smile. "maybe i did."
a faint smirk pulled at his lips. "yeah," he agreed. "i think you did."
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
the driver is longer, along the coast again. his tinted windows are cracked, music low with the sky fading into the darkest blue that only happens by the water.
you and namjoon talk, but it's far from that careful, first date way. the conversation flowed between you easily. you interrupted each other, went off on tangents. doubled back to things you both said earlier. like you both have done this together longer than you actually had.
when you arrive, the place is even more secluded than last time. a quiet overlook with soft lights and the ocean extending endlessly in front of you. the sound of waves clashed below in a way that was steady and grounding.
it felt private, like the rest of the world didn't exist here.
you and namjoon sit closer this time without question. dinner stretches and the conversation flows. you don't even discuss all the big things, but it's the way you talk about the small ones that makes it feel different.
you tell him about what hobbies you have, about your job—how it's routine, how people underestimate it, and how sometimes you feel stuck. and he doesn't brush it off or give you empty encouragement like most people did.
"you're not stuck," he corrected you firmly.
you scoff every is slightly. "that's easy for you to say."
"it's not about me," he replies softly. "you just need to find what you want."
you pout slightly in a way that makes his heart falter. "and you have?"
he pauses for half a second. "yeah." that same confidence remained in his tone, and for a second it felt like he might have been talking about something else.
at some point, his hand settles at the back of your chair. but this time, it stays. it wasn't touching you directly, but it was close enough to make you aware of it. aware of him.
you shift slightly and his slender fingers brush at your shoulders. they rest there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back. his warmth and his actions sent an unbearable heat between your legs.
after dinner, you both step away from the table, walking along the edge of the overlook. the night air is cooler now, ocean breeze slipping through you. you and him walk a little closer than before, shoulders lightly brushing with every few steps.
you wrapped your arms around you slightly, and his jacket is already around your shoulders before you can say anything.
you glance back at him, stopping in your steps to look at him properly. "you know... you're very sure of yourself."
"that bothers you?"
"no," you admit honestly. "it's just—different."
he pauses for a small moment. "from what you're used to?" he asks.
you nod slightly. he studies you for a second. "you're trying to figure out how old i am again."
your eyes widen slightly. "i'm not—"
"you are."
you exhale. "okay, maybe a little."
he lets your confession sit in the air before he nods slightly toward a couple walking past you two—a generation older than you, quieter, and settled. "you think i'm closer to them, or closer to you?" he asks.
you look back at the couple, then back at him. you really look at him, thinking about the way he carries himself. the way he speaks. the way he doesn't rush anything.
your expression shifts. "...okay," you say slowly. "how old are you?"
he pauses for longer than just a few seconds. "thirty-three," he answers finally.
you can't help but blink. once. twice. "...really?"
"yeah."
you study him again, like the answer didn't quite align with what you were seeing. "you don't look thirty-three."
"i know," he answered casually.
"that's kind of unfair," you said playfully.
he smiled softly. "i've heard that."
a quiet beat passes as namjoon watches you carefully, curiously watching your expression.
you shrug slightly. "okay."
he tilts his head. "that's all?"
"what?" you ask. "were you expecting something else?"
"most people... adjust," he stated.
you look at him deeply, peering up at him through your eyelashes. "well i'm not most people."
he steps closer, lightly closing the space between you. his scent filled your head once again, making your breath catch.
"yeah," he said lowly. "i noticed."
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
later, when you leave the restaurant together, you don't rush out. you never do.
namjoon walks slightly behind you first as you both headed towards the entrance, one hand finding its way onto the small of your back. it became natural now, something you didn't react to—externally, at least.
his hand was there, guiding you carefully down the steps.
two hostesses near the front glance up. then they glance at namjoon. then to you, then back at him.
a quick look exchanged between them followed by a few whispers and positive smiles. he catches it immediately. of course he does.
namjoon doesn’t look directly at them—he doesn’t acknowledge it—but there’s the faintest change in his expression. then his hand presses just slightly firmer at your back.
a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. not to show off. just to keep you close—and slightly focus the attention on you.
you don't notice the whispers, but you do notice the presence of his hand grow warmer. "what?" you ask, glancing back at him.
"nothing," he says easily.
the lights from the restaurant glowed behind you, the cool night air and a soft breeze coming off the water hitting you all at once.
there's a small set of marble steps leading down towards the parking area. you start down them without thinking—mind entirely captured by namjoon—and suddenly your heel catches slightly.
it's quick—barely a stumble, but it's enough to throw you off balance slightly. his large hands instantly find their way to your waist firmly, tightening his grip and steadying you before you could even process anything.
"careful, baby," he murmurs, low and close. the name slipping out like it had always belonged there.
you freeze for half a second, breath catching slightly before you steady yourself, hand instinctively brushing against his arm.
"I'm fine," you say, a little too quickly, beginning to continue a careful ascend down the steps and ignoring the heat on your cheeks.
namjoon however, doesn't move his hands right away. they linger on your waist a second longer than necessary, making sure you're fully balanced. "i know," he says calmly.
you look up at him, trying to play it off. "you don't have to—"
"i know," he cuts in softly.
and when you reach the bottom of the steps, his hand doesn't leave your back. it stays there, steady, guiding you towards his car like you're already part of his space.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
the drive back is quiet, the low vibration of the music and the city lights and palm trees flickering past practically lulling you to sleep.
and namjoon's presence, of course.
his large hand rested on the wheel, the other on the center console. close enough. by the minute, you swear it continues to get closer.
"tell me about him," namjoon says suddenly, the deep baritone of his voice making your thighs press together slightly.
you frown slightly from confusion. "about who?"
"your ex."
it catches you off guard. "...why?"
he shrugs lightly, sharp eyes still on the road. "i'm curious."
you hesitate before sighing. "he was..." you trailed off, trying to find the right word. "lazy."
half a second passed. "immature," you added. "didn't really pay attention to me unless it was convenient."
and as you talk, namjoon's jaw tightens slightly. it's subtle and controlled in a way you don't notice, but it's there.
"he just-" you shook your head slightly, looking out the window. "i don't know. it felt like I was always asking for the bare minimum."
for a long second, silence fills the car. namjoon's fingers tap once against the console. then, they shift. his hand moves unhurriedly, eventually finding its way to rest against your thigh, making a sharp bolt of warmth shoot down your body.
"yeah," he says finally, voice low and rough. "that sounds about right."
you glance at him. "what does that mean?"
he paused for a second. "guys your age," he continues, calm but edged with something sharper now. "they don't know what to do with a woman like you."
your stomach flips in a way that is impossible to ignore. "and you do?" you ask teasingly, trying to keep your tone steady.
his thumb shifts slightly against your thigh slightly. butterflies erupted in your stomach and your thighs shifted in a way you couldn't help, trying to disregard the heat between your legs.
"i wouldn't ignore you," he says simply.
the air in car seems to shift as you swallow hard, glancing out the window before looking back at him. "you barely know me."
"i know enough," he answers.
your breath catches slightly. namjoon's hand stays sat on your thigh steadily, like he knows exactly what it's doing to you.
"and i definitely wouldn't have you asking for anything," he adds. his words land deeper than they should, etching themselves into the back of your mind without asking.
you let out a quiet, almost nervous laugh. "you're very confident."
"i'm honest," he says. he pauses for a moment. then, his voice drops just a little—"big difference."
you look at him again, thoroughly scanning his face this time. "you always talk like that?" you ask.
"only when i mean it."
another silence settles between you, this time sitting thick; heavy with everything both of you haven't said. his hand finally shifts, but not away from you. it only slides higher along your thigh before settling again.
"relax, doll," he murmurs softly, voice low and deep.
you exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. "you're doing that on purpose."
"doing what?"
you shake your head slightly. "you know exactly what."
a faint smirk pulls at his lips. "yeah," he answers. "i do."
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
suddenly, the rest of the drive feels too short.
namjoon pulls to your curb, parking swiftly with one hand before cutting the engine. silence fills the space, neither of you reaching for the door immediately.
you look down at your hands, then back up, like you're about to say something—but the words don't come as easily now. because everything, from the restaurant, the drive is still sitting in between you. his hand, his voice. doll.
"you got quiet again," he says softly.
you let out a small breath. "you make it hard not to."
he stills ever so slightly, like your words had pulled something out of him. "do i?" he asks.
you look at him, holding his intense gaze this time. "yeah."
he pauses for longer than normal, eventually moving his hand before his mouth. he starts slow—not to your thigh this time—but higher. his fingers lift, brushing lightly along your jaw. just the tips, tracing the line like he needed to memorize it.
your breath catches immediately, peering up at him through your eyelashes as you seemingly couldn't look away from his face. he tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction closely.
"you always look like this when you're thinking?" he murmurs.
your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "like what?"
his thumb lingers beneath just beneath your chin for just a second. then it shifts slightly, guiding your face just enough so that you're looking directly at him and nothing else.
"like you're trying to figure out if this is a good idea," he says.
your heart practically stumbles. because he absolutely was right. "and?" you ask quietly.
a small smirk pulls at his mouth. but this one was softer, like it was more certainty than teasing. "i think you already decided," he murmurs. his gaze drops briefly, down to your lips, then back up again. this time, he doesn't even try to hide it.
"you're dangerous, you know that?" you say, barely above a whisper.
he leans in slightly, his scent taking over your lungs. "yeah?"
your breath is uneven now. "yeah."
his gaze drifts again, over your face, slower this time. fully taking you in. "you still thinking about the age thing?" he asks.
"no," you respond, holding the burning eye contact.
he studies you for half a second, like he's deciding if you're telling the truth. then, he exhales quietly, almost amusedly. "yeah," he says. "didn't think you would."
his hand lifts from your chin before resting lightly at your waist, thumb pressing just slightly before easing.
"probably better for you," he adds, voicer lower now, teasing but grounded in something real and deep, "if you didn't get used to someone like me."
your stomach flips instantly. "who says i'm getting used to you?" you shoot back, trying to play it off.
a smile tugs at his lips. "doll," he murmurs, softer and closer, the warmth of his breath hitting your neck. "you're already here."
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
a few days later, namjoon sends you an address located in the corner of a private street in LA telling you to meet him there. telling you that he wanted to show you something.
a building tucked slightly off the main road, close enough to the water that the air already feels different when you step out of the car.
you hesitate for a half a second before going in. not nervous, but just a little too aware of what you were walking into. with a few instructed taps on the door buzzer, you were let in.
inside, the hallway light is dim, soft lights lining the walls that were decorated with award cases, album posters, and framed vinyls. the floors were sleek and bass echoed through the walls.
you followed the sound the sound down the hallway, until you find a studio door that's slightly open. the gold plate on it reading, "kim namjoon" then below it, "head executive producer."
you exhale softly, heart slightly stopping at that and swallowing a little too hard before you push it gently, and that's when you see him.
sitting at the main console, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting near the soundboard. one hand adjusting a dial, the other resting against his chin like he's listening too closely.
he was so immersed that he hadn't noticed you yet.
the room was lowly lit—colored LEDS instead of overhead lights, the glow from the equipment reflecting softly against his face.
and there's something about him like this—focused, quiet, and completely in his element—that hits differently, making your stomach twist into a knot.
his sleeves are pushed up again, glistening watch catching the light as he moves his hand. a chain rests below his collar, barely visible, but sparkling in the light.
everything about him is so simple, but it fits him all too well. you don't mean to stare, but you definitely do.
and then, like he felt it—namjoon finally glances up. your eyes immediately meet, and you swear you felt a spark flash through your body.
for a split second, he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, gaze taking you in deliberately.
then, he licks his lips so lightly you almost don't catch it. "you just going to stand there," he says, voice low and soft. "or are you coming in?"
you blink, snapping out of your trance slightly. "i-i didn't want to interrupt."
"you didn't," he replies easily. but his eyes linger on you for a second longer, almost like he knew you were watching him.
you step inside, softly closing the door behind you. the white lighting from the hallway had disappeared now, fully engulfing you into his world—his studio, his creative space—the place where he made every hit even possible. the big room suddenly felt smaller now, more private.
you look around, taking it all in. the walls are boarded with soundproof panels, and large speakers are placed around the sleek equipment. there's two chairs, a beanbag, and couch with folders of music sheets and lyrics scattered on the floor and on counter tops. "this is... really nice."
"mm," he hums, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs slightly. "it works."
you glance at him. "you say everything like that."
"like what?"
"like it's not a big deal."
a faint smirk. "it's not."
you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. he gestures towards the seat next to him. "come here." it wasn't a question.
you walk over, sitting beside him—closer than expected, immediately greeted by his warmth and the musk of his cologne.
he turns towards the console, grabbing a pair of high-end headphones. "listen to this," he says. he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before carefully placing them over your head.
music plays—smooth and layered. it had no lyrics, but it was already catchy. you hummed in delight. "it's really good," you said softly, gently taking the headphones off.
"i know," he replies casually.
you laugh. "you're insufferable."
he glances at you, a smirk forming. "you're still here though."
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
after a few minutes of namjoon showing you some buttons, he glances at you. "you want to try something?"
you look at him, a bit hesitant. "like what?"
he shifts slightly, turning your chair just enough so that your angled more towards the board. "come on," he says, nodding towards the controls. "i'll show you."
"...i feel like i'm going to mess something up," you say.
"you won't."
"how do you know?"
he leans in slightly, his breath hitting your neck ever so slightly. "because i'm right here."
your stomach flips again. he reaches around you slightly, one hand bracing lightly against the edge of the console near you, the other guiding your hand toward a dial.
“turn this,” he says, voice lower now, near your ear.
you try to focus. you really do. but namjoon is close. too close. his warmth spilling all over you, hitting you in all the places that made your thighs pull closer together.
you turn the dial slowly—and immediately the sound distorts in a ridiculous way. you both pause.
"...was that supposed to happen?" you ask.
he stares at the board for a second before a short laugh escapes him, dimples tugging at his cheeks. "no," he says.
you burst out laughing. "i told you!"
he shakes his head with another laugh, reaching forward to fix it, his arm brushing yours again. "you didn't break it," he says. "relax."
"i definitely did something."
"you did," he replies with a smile. "just not what i said."
you laugh again, softer this time.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
you're standing now, not sitting anymore.
because namjoon told you to.
“stand here,” he said, guiding you lightly by the waist until you were in front of the soundboard. no asking, just placing you there. you stiffened under his touch that sent a light shock through you.
"relax, doll," he murmurs behind you. the deep baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.
you exhale slowly, trying to focus on the board in front of you—but it's hard when you can feel him right behind you. he steps in closer, practically pressing you together.
one hand reaches around you, bracing against the console. the other finds yours, fingers sliding over yours, adjusting your grip on one of the controls. "not like that," he says, low. "too quick."
"i'm not doing anything fast," you defend weakly, trying your best to sound steady.
you hear a quiet, almost amused exhale behind you. "yeah?" he murmurs deeply.
his chest brushes lightly against your back as he leans in closer, guiding your hand again—slower this time. "you rush when you're nervous."
"i'm not nervous."
"mm," he hums, unconvinced. his hand tightens slightly over yours, turning the dial with you. the sound shifts, smoother this time. "like that," he says.
but he doesn't move away, not even a little bit. you swallow, your body hyper-aware of every point of contact. his hand over yours, his chest behind you, his voice vibrating your ear. and you definitely tried to ignore something hard resting against your ass.
"you do this with everyone?" you ask.
"no," he answered simply.
at to that, your heart stumbled. his hand left yours, but only came to settle at your waist, firm and steady. in his grip he turned you slightly—not fully, but enough to turn your attention away from the board and onto him. "you're distracted again," he murmured.
you let out a soft breath. "you keep saying that like it's my fault."
a smirk pulls at his lips, one that you can practically hear in his voice. "doll," he says lowly, "you haven't been focused since you walked in."
your stomach flips as you turn your head slightly, giving just enough space to look back at him—but it's a mistake. because he's already looking at you, his face much closer than expected and barely any space left between you now.
"you always get like this?" he asks softly.
"like what?"
his gaze drops slowly, then back up again. "quiet." he pauses. "...when you feel something."
your breath catches. "you act like you know me," you say.
"i do," he replies casually. those words shouldn't hit you as hard as they do, but they do anyway—causing your heart to leap.
he shifts you fully this time, making you fully face him as his large hands still rested at your waist, thumbs pressing in ever so slightly.
"or maybe," he adds, voice quieter now. "you're just not used to someone who pays attention."
your chest rises slowly. "and you do?"
"to you?" he asks quietly, something flickering across his eyes. "of course i do."
a small pause. "i wouldn't ignore you," he mutters in your ear, breath hot down your neck in a way that makes your hairs stand up. his hand tightens slightly against you. "not like they did."
his words land, striking the base of your heart deeply. "and i definitely wouldn't have you guessing where you stand."
your breath is uneven now, but you can't seem to look away. "confident," you murmur.
"experienced," he corrects simply. his voice and his head dips lower just slightly—"difference is...i know how to treat a woman like you properly."
and suddenly the last thread holding you steady is already gone. you exhale softy, almost a laugh, but not quite. "you always talk like this?"
"only when i mean it."
silence fills the space around you, heavy and close. one of his hands lifts from your waist slowly before coming to your jaw and tracing along it deliberately, just like he did before.
his thumb sits at your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. it takes everything in you for your knees to not buckle right then and there, taking in his low, piercing gaze.
"you keep looking at me like that," you whisper.
"like what, hm?" he asks, voice low as he tilts his head lower, leaving little space between your noses. you felt like your whole world was spinning, trying to ground yourself properly without clinging onto him.
"like you're about to do something."
he pauses for a split second, licking his lips while his eyes practically swirled with darkness. then—low and certain—"i am."
and this time, namjoon doesn't stop himself. he leans in, fully closing the last bit of distance between you, crashing his lips onto yours. it's immediate—but not rushed. he kisses you slow, deep, like he's been holding it back for too long and finally had decided he was done.
you respond quickly, completely melting under the contact and moving your lips into his. your breath catches against his, one hand instinctively finding one of his big arms, while the other gripped on his shirt to steady yourself— because it hits you all at once.
the way he pulls you closer against him, one of his hands firmly settled at your waist while the other holds your head possessively, gently tilting your head at an angle that allowed him to kiss you deeper.
you lean into him without thinking—and he feels it, of course. he hooks his fingers around the belt loop of your denim skirt, pulling you even closer. the kiss deepens—but it isn't overwhelming. it's certain, like he wanted to take his time with his lips against yours.
your fingers tightened against him, causing him to exhale quietly against your lips, like he had been waiting for that exact response from you.
when you both pull back, you barely move an inch. foreheads close, breath uneven, and neither of you pulling away. his hands remain at your waist, yours still on him.
and after a second of catching your breath—namjoon leans in again. not because he's testing it anymore, but because he wants it—no, he needs it again. and you seem to meet him there just as fast.
his lips capture yours for the second time that night, practically taking your breath with him. your thighs press together slightly as you kiss him back, your hand sliding higher along his arm, gripping his bicep and pulling him closer without even realizing it.
his grip tightens slightly. "don't start something you can't finish, doll..." he murmurs quietly against your lips, voice rough.
the kiss suddenly shifts, not messy or rushed—but hungry. namjoon's hand slid shamelessly down your waist and onto your ass, sliding up and down its curve like it was already his.
that pulled a gasp out of you, and he saw it as the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. you allow him, opening your mouth more to let him further explore it with his tongue. your lips practically molded together, saliva mixing as he swirled his tongue around yours.
"look at you..." he mutters, barely pulling back, his thumb brushing your jaw again. "so responsive."
your stomach flips more times than you can count. "don't—" you start, breath uneven, but you can't even finish the sentence before you feel dampness between your legs.
"don't what, baby?" he asks lowly, smirking faintly against your lips. "don't notice you?"
he kisses you again before you can answer. his hand slides up from your ass, up your waist to your side—slower and more deliberate, before settling it there again, like he's grounding you there with him.
your grip on him tightens, deepening the kiss without intending to. "doll..." he murmurs, quietly now like it's a warning.
but he doesn't stop, and you most certainly don't want him to. all of a sudden namjoon is moving, guiding you back without breaking the kiss, step by step, until the back of your legs hit the couch.
you exhale softly in surprise—before you're sitting and he is too, pulling you with him. now, you find yourself on his lap—straddled on top of him with his hands firmly gripping your thighs and with everything much closer.
your hands find his broad shoulders, this time holding onto him like you desperately need to steady yourself, leaning into him once more. and namjoon notices, like he always does.
a low exhale leaves him, almost like a quiet laugh. "not pulling away anymore, are you, baby?" he murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw slowly while his big palms drag up and down your thighs.
his plush lips trace the line of your jaw, littering soft kisses and your head tilts slightly to give him space without even thinking about it. "good," he praises quietly against your skin, lips trailing their way down your neck.
as he presses soft kisses along your neck, one of his hands presses a little firmer into your thigh, keeping you against him as the other rested gently at your neck—not enough to put pressure—but enough for your mind to go blank and make your thighs noticeably shift.
your breath hitches just above him, and his other hand soothes slowly against your thigh to steady you. "you have no idea..." he murmurs, lightly digging his teeth into your skin, making you shudder. "how hard i was trying to take my time with you."
your fingers tighten against him, struggling to ignore the unbearable ache in your core. "then why aren't you?" you manage softly, voice weaker than usual, knowing you didn't want that.
he paused for a moment, the warmth of his breath tingling down your neck and through your spine. his voice comes lower this time, but steadier. "because you stopped me from wanting to."
he pulls back just enough to look at you again, dark and low eyes trailing every inch of your face. his hand comes up, brushing your hair behind your ear slowly, slower than before.
"you're trouble, princess," he says lowly, another nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. "but i like it."
your breath is still uneven, your heart racing faster than your mind—but you don't look away. "good," you murmur.
namjoon's jaw tightens slightly at that—not in frustration, but in complete restraint. what's left of it, at least.
his hand that rested along your neck slid up, tilting your chin upwards with his thumb once again, making sure that you were really looking at him. "you sure about this, doll?" he asks lowly.
you nod without hesitation. "yes."
a small pause fills the thick, small space between you, but his smoldering gaze doesn't leave yours. his gentle hold on your jaw tightens ever so slightly—not to harm you, but to ground you into the moment. "you understand...i'm not the kind of man you forget after this."
your breath catches, but you don't pull back. "i know," you say softly, holding his gaze.
his hands return to your waist, firmer this time, pulling you just slightly closer to him—close enough that space barely existed anymore. "yeah..." he murmured, his thumb tracing lightly along your skin. "then stay with me."
you nearly shuddered from his words, the warmth of his body on yours surrounding you and making your skin tingle. "i will," you nearly whispered, praying that he couldn't feel the dampness between your legs at the thought of never leaving his side.
"good," he grunted in your ear, hot breath spilling down your neck. he pulled back just slightly before closing the space between you once again, tilting your head with his thumb and pulling your lips in with his unhurriedly.
you immediately softened into him as you moved your lips together, your chest immediately becoming flush against his and practically folding underneath his touch. his hands left your waist, finding their grip lower and onto your ass, holding you steadily against him while his tongue explored you once more.
his lips left yours to litter your neck with kisses—sloppy and open-mouthed this time, sucking harder and marking a trail of red marks down to your collarbone. you whimpered with every suck, thighs noticeably shifting against his legs.
namjoon's slender fingers found their way underneath your top, sliding it up slowly—like he was waiting for you to stop him—but you never did. you only complied, lifting your arms up. and in one swift motion, your top was off, and his lips already found themselves on your cleavage.
"so beautiful, baby," he murmured into your skin, tongue lightly lapping against the mark he had just made on top of your breast.
suddenly you felt his big palms on your waist once again before he manhandled you—lifting you up and lying you gently across the couch before his large figure quickly filled your vision and filling up your entire view.
all you could see in the ambient light of his studio was his broad shoulders, his low, piercing eyes, and glimmering chain now hanging in front of your face before he captured your lips again. you practically moaned into it, fingers gripping tightly into his shirt like you needed more.
"fuck," he murmured against you between kisses, intertwining his long fingers with yours, dragging your palm deliberately up his chest. your hands moved before your mind, tugging him closer by his shirt and immediately fumbling with the buttons.
he smirked, large hands moving to help you take it off. once he tossed it somewhere in the room, your hands danced around his body greedily, trailing over his abs, from his chiseled chest and to his swell back.
"should be taking you to my house like a fuckin' man. should fuck you in my bed slow 'n proper. but i've lost my patience with you, doll," he breathed lowly, licking his lips with hunger.
you could only bring yourself to whimper, as namjoon's big palm creeped around your thigh, trailing every so slowly inwards before stopping. your legs couldn't help but twitch helplessly underneath his touch, causing him to let out an amused breath of air.
"but you don't want that, do you?" he asked lowly in your ear, the desire in his voice making your core ache with unbearable need. his hands trailed closer to your heat, dragging his fingers leisurely against your inner thigh.
you shook your head desperately, but that wasn't enough for him. his fingers hooked around your skirt. "wanna hear you use that pretty mouth of yours, baby."
"i—yes—" you blurted breathlessly, struggling to find the words. "i want it—want you. here, joonie. right now."
his cock strained even harder against his pants. "good girl," he muttered before pulling your skirt down. when it was disregarded, namjoon's hands found your thighs again and you suddenly felt his long fingers trace against slowly against your sopping heat barely shielded by your lacy thong, sending a shiver down your entire body.
"wet for me already and i haven't even started with you," he smirked, finally hooking your panties to the side and letting your soaking core be hit by the cold air. your thighs instinctively went to clamp shut, but he quickly stopped them with his big hands.
"so sensitive, doll," he murmured, placing one big thumb just above your clit while the other fingers outlined your inner thigh. "guys your age don't take their time like this, do they?"
you shook your head immediately, whining out before his fingers glided up slowly against your wetness, his index finger swiping in between your folds. his thumb rubbed your clit in a long circle, pulling out a desperate whine out of your mouth.
finally, he pushed one long finger in between your folds, sliding into your hole that sucked him in, your wetness gushing his fingers. you whined loudly as he dragged it along your walls before plunging back in.
namjoon closed the distance between your faces, capturing your lips in with his and sucking on your bottom lip as he inserted another finger, thrusting into you at a steady pace while his thumb remained on your clit.
when he pulled away, it was only to align his face at your entrance. his hand firmly gripped onto your thighs, holding you in place. his fingers slowed inside of you as his nose came close to your core, the warmth of his breath directly hitting your pussy and making you twitch underneath him.
a small smirk pulled at his lips before he poked his tongue out, licking a light, gentle stripe against your folds. "mm, taste so sweet, baby."
you reacted immediately, thighs clenching around his head in a way he enjoyed a bit too much, his free hand wrapping around your leg firmly as he lapped delicately at your entrance.
you moaned his name, legs finally relaxing under his grip as he took his time with soaking your taste on his tongue. namjoon couldn't help but smirk against your folds, his plump lips completely enveloping your pussy into his mouth and sucking your wetness in hungrily.
it wasn't long before you felt his tongue greedily prying through your entrance, crying out in breathless moans. his two fingers stretched open your walls to allow more room for him to explore you with his tongue.
namjoon was absolutely driving you over the edge—his tongue plunged through your tight walls like no other, slender fingers stroking your insides while his thumb massaged your clit vigorously. he ate at you like he had starved for this—your back immediately curving off of the couch as you felt unbearable pressure twine into your stomach.
"that's it, doll," he cooed against your folds, his nose sitting on top of your clit. then, his voice dropped lower—"cum for me."
and so you did—completely letting go as your first orgasm tore through you like lightning. your legs shook around namjoon's head, his free hand rubbing against your thigh gently while his two fingers slowed inside of you. his tongue moved against your folds slowly, taking in every last drop of your release between his lips.
when your body was finally at ease from the state of euphoria he took you to, namjoon trailed kisses from your stomach and up, his hands gently caressing your sides.
"look at you taking me so good," he murmured between kisses, lips on yours now. "think you're ready for my cock, hm, baby?"
you nodded quickly, practically squirming beneath him. "yes joon—need it so bad." your fingers found his belt loop—his large hands finding yours immediately, helping you take off his pants entirely.
it was then when you saw the largest imprint strained tightly against his boxers, making you swallow hard without even realizing. his fingers looped around the hem, taking them off in a swift motion as he stood up.
his cock sprung out in front of you—thick, long, and angry with pre-cum glistening at the end. you sat up straight, jaw slightly slack without even realizing. namjoon's lips fought a smirk as he hovered over you, large shoulders swell and thick member curving up.
his low eyes looked down at you, clouded with darkness. he wrapped his large hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking slightly while taking in the sight of you in front of him.
"fuck," he grunted, "don't got any condoms, baby."
"it's okay, joon," you replied softly.
"you sure, doll?" he asked, tracing his fingers lightly against your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him fully.
you nodded. "wanna feel all of you," you said almost shyly.
"have no clue what you're doing to me," he responded lowly, almost to himself. then namjoon leaned down, grabbing your hips and lifting you up swiftly. you yelped in surprise as he sat down, bringing you back on top of his lap. only this time, you were skin to skin, your arousal miserably smearing onto his legs.
but he didn't seem to care. his large hands rubbed softly down your sides as he licked his lips. "you're so small, baby," he muttered in your ear, his thumb pressing into the side of your hip. "might break you."
"that's okay," you whispered, peering up at him with big, needy eyes.
"yeah?" he asked darkly, like your response had just snapped the last bit of restraint left in him. he held onto your hips firmly as he pulled you up, aligning your entrance with his cock. "gonna ruin you then, baby."
your hands gripped onto his broad shoulders immediately to steady yourself, his fat tip pushing through your folds and breaking into your tight entrance. you moaned out in a mix of pleasure and pain, feeling every inch of his width pushing slowly into your walls as you sunk down fully on his lap.
his grasp on you became tighter as he guided you further down, hissing in pleasure as he split you open widely with his cock. your eyes shut tight as your inner thighs kissed his. slowly, the tip of his member found the back of your walls, your head throwing back from the overwhelming stretch.
namjoon held you against him firmly, allow you to fully adjust to his length before he captured your lips into a kiss. "it's okay, doll," he murmured against you. "you're taking me so well."
after a minute of soft, warm coos in your ear—namjoon began to slide you up and down his vast length slowly with his large hands, emitting a loud whine from your lips. soon, he picked his pace, his cock repeatedly kissing the deepest part of your hole. "good baby... that's it," he praised lowly.
your head was filled with nothing but the thought of you, him, and his fat cock curving up inside of you and exploring your walls. he took you to a pure state of euphoria as he thrusted up in you. his hold was firm on you as he bounced you up and down his cock.
your eyes fluttered at your view, melting under his piercing gaze— his jaw tightened in pleasure and concentration, low eyes scanning your fucked-out expression hungrily. you nearly screamed in pleasure.
"such a good girl for me," he grunted in your ear, one large palm trailing up your sides before resting along your neck. his fingers wrapped around it slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to apply pressure that made your mind dizzy and your pussy clench his member tightly.
his other hand came firmer around your waist before suddenly you were moving—your head being guided back down on the couch while your body was being manhandled by namjoon while he kept his cock buried deep inside of you. one hand settled beside your head while the other remained grazing your throat lightly.
once you both fully adjusted to the new position, namjoon continued to thrust in you, roaming your pussy at an entirely new angle. your wetness gushed around his cock sloppily, filling the room with lewd slapping noises. "you fit around me so well, doll," he muttered breathlessly, breath shooting down your spine as he littered messy kisses along your neck.
his hand traveled from your throat down to your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing it softly. you were a moaning mess beneath him as he fucked you relentlessly now, tip slapping messily against the spongiest part of your walls, making your mind go blank.
his palm found its way around your thigh, lifting it above his shoulder. he closed the distance between you two, cock greedily marking a place inside your hole in a way no one had ever done before as his chest pressed against yours.
he rutted his length inside of you, making your eyes roll back and the couch move back and forth with every movement. "gonna fill you up tonight, doll. gonna make you mine," he murmured. "what do you think, baby?"
you could only moan in response, lost in the feeling of his cock buried so deeply inside of you. "nuh uh," namjoon ticked lowly, his thrusts becoming brutal. "wanna hear that pretty voice of yours, baby."
"mmph—yes~ make me yours, joon," you whined breathlessly.
you cried out—heat coiling unbearably in your stomach, pure bliss clouding your mind as namjoon picked up his pace, feeling your walls hugging him in tightly. "yeah... right where you belong baby," he muttered. "taking me so good like this."
your second orgasm of the night hit you even harder this time—ripping through you like a monstrous ocean wave. he fucked you through your high, your legs shaking violently against him; release spilling all over his cock as you moaned out his name breathlessly.
"that's it, baby," he grunted lowly as he made his final, slower thrusts, burying himself inside you as deep as possible before releasing his hot seed into your walls. "come on my dick, pretty girl."
your vision was practically filled with stars as your body became limp under his grasp. he milked his cock deep in your walls before he pulled out with a sharp hiss, laying down beside you—lengthy body half on the couch and half off of it.
you both laid there next to each other breathless, chests moving up and down in sync as you processed what had just happened.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
suddenly, the studio is quiet again.
it wasn't completely silent—just the low hum of equipment filling the room with one of his tracks still looping quietly in the background.
clothes half-on, curled against him on the couch with his large arm around your waist, holding you close against his chest like he had no intention of letting you drift away.
for awhile, neither of you say anything. namjoon's fingers moved slowly against your side, absentmindedly tracing soft patterns into your skin. the movement only grounded you into him more.
then finally, a low exhale left namjoon's lips. "c'mere," he murmurs softly, even though you were already pressed against him. his big hands slid higher along your back, pulling you in even closer anyway until your head was resting properly against his chest.
it only made your cheeks flush a bright red—the moment feeling possessive in a way that was ever so gentle. like he just needed to make sure you were still there. now, you can hear his heartbeat. it thumps steadily now against his large chest.
"you okay?" he asks quietly.
you nod against him. "yeah," you reply softly.
then his lips brush lightly against the top of your head, placing a soft kiss that lingers. "good," he murmurs.
something about the way he said it made warmth spread through your chest again. his hand settles at your waist once more, thumb brushing lightly beneath the fabric of your top. "you still overthinking?" he asks after a minute.
you let out a small laugh against his chest. "maybe a little."
a quiet hum leaves him. "don't."
you tilt your head slightly to look at him. his expression is softer now. his gaze still intense—because he always looks intense when looking at you—but softer. "you regret it?" he asks gently.
you shook your head immediately. "no," you replied, meaning it with everything in your chest.
at your words, something in namjoon's expressions shifts. it wasn't surprise, it was only something deeper. his hand moves to your jaw, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.
"good," he says again, quieter this time. then, like his confidence had just made a return—"would've been a problem if you did."
you laugh softly, cheeks warming again. "you're crazy, joon."
"for you?" he murmurs. "starting to think maybe."
your stomach flips all over again. namjoon studies you for a second, gaze moving slowly across your face like he's memorizing it. like he still can't believe that you're here. with him, and in his arms.
his hand slides along your thigh gently. this time, it isn't teasing. instead, it feels familiar and warm. "come back to my place," he says quietly.
you hesitate for maybe half a second, but only because your heart is racing faster than your mind. his thumb brushes lightly against your leg. "you don't have to leave, doll," he murmurs.
"you sure?" you ask quietly. because in your past, once guys were done, they were done with your presence for the night—or even forever.
"of course," he says. then, a faint smile touches his mouth, voice dropping a little. "i'm not doing being around you."
and it only seemed that you weren't exactly done being around him either.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
two months later, being with namjoon feels easy. and it wasn't because he was simple. it was the exact opposite.
he's still intense, but still composed. he still walks through every room like he owns it without needing attention from anyone in it. but with you? he's soft in all the places it matters.
namjoon becomes part of your life so naturally it almost scares you sometimes.
mornings tangled up in his expensive sheets while sunlight pours through the massive windows of his house that overlooks the city. his large hand resting on your waist while he scrolls through emails lazily with the other. his bright smile on display every time he made you laugh or blush.
in his free time, he'd show up to your work with your favorite dinner meal. sometimes, he'd sit at a table in your section and order food just to be able to talk to you any chance you'd get.
afternoons where he pulls you into his lap while he's working on music. he'd barely let you sit more than a foot away from him before he was already touching you again somehow.
his fingers through your hair, your legs draped over his. his mouth against your temple when he quietly tells someone important over the phone that he'll "call back later."
and of course, he spoils you constantly. it wasn't in a loud way either. it was more like taking care of you and putting a smile on your face had just become his instinct.
he buys you things you casually mention liking once. he leaves designer bags on the bed like it's nothing. he'd get annoyed when you'd check price tags. he would sneakily place things in your basket at sephora as he trailed behind you, filling it up with everything you simply picked up and looked at.
you even tried to avoid going shopping with him sometimes because you never happened to pay for anything again.
"doll," he murmured one night, pulling your back against his chest, wrapping his large arms around you while you stared at a pair of brand new, christian louboutin red bottoms that he bought you. "if you like them, they're yours. stop thinking so hard."
and god, he hated it when you worked too much. he hated it even more when work stressed you out.
"you should call out," he tells you one morning, voice rough from sleep while you're leaving his bed for work.
you laugh softly. "some of us have to work, joonie."
his buff arms loop around your waist, pulling you back into the mattress effortlessly. "i know," he murmurs against your neck, nuzzling his nose into your warmth. "that's the problem."
eventually, namjoon starts saying it more seriously.
"quit," he says.
you look at him like he's insane every time. "be serious, joon."
"i am serious."
his hands slide along your thighs as you stand between his knees while he sits at the edge of the bed, looking up at you with that same, calm certainty he’s always had.
“i’ll give you whatever you need,” he says simply. “why are you stressing yourself out when you don’t have to?”
and the craziest part of it all to you, was that he meant it entirely. it wasn't because he wanted control—it was because taking care of you pulled at his dimples and his heart more than anything else ever had.
somewhere along the way, you became each other's favorite part of life. people notice too and eventually, the internet catches on.
a photo of you two start surfacing of you leaving restaurant in west hollywood, his hand firm at the small of your back. then, photos of him opening the door for you. and photos of him looking at you instead of the camera.
one set of paparazzi pictures blow up incredibly fast—you climbing into his car while he stands beside you in sunglasses and all black. one hand casually resting against the roof above your head, the other firm on your thigh as you settled into the seat.
neither of you comment on it, not publicly at least. but namjoon doesn't hide you either. because if anything—he loved being seen with you.
you noticed it in the small moments. the way his hand settled on your thigh more confidently when people recognized him on a date. the way he pulled you closer when cameras appeared. the way he looks almost amused by attention instead of irritated.
it was like he was always thinking, yeah, she's with me.
namjoon flexed you more than the music plaques on his wall or the collection of sleek cars in his driveway.
because throughout his entire career, no success, no hit record, or no amount of money—had ever made him look at proud as you do sitting beside him.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
4 months later~
the city outside namjoon's windows is glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky, soft music playing quietly somewhere in his giant house.
you're curled against him on the couch in one of his hoodies. legs across his lap while he scrolls lazily through something on his phone with one hand resting absentmindedly along your thighs.
you both had been like this all evening. quiet and comfortable; surrounded by the kind of silence that only exists when two people know everything about each other completely.
honestly, it could scare you a little. because somewhere along these four months, you and namjoon had stopped feeling temporary. it stopped feeling like some kind of whirlwind or fling.
instead, it just started feeling right. it just felt like you and him and nothing else completely belonged.
you looked over at him. observed the sharp line of his jaw that was softened by the warm lighting. the expensive watch sitting around his wrist. the reading glasses he only wore at home that sat low on his nose while he checked emails.
the realization hit you about a month ago so hard and your chest had felt tight ever since. you were completely, undeniably, and utterly in love with him. but now, you couldn't seem to hold it in anymore.
"you're staring again."
your heart jumps slightly. namjoon doesn't even look up from his phone when he says it. you roll your eyes. "you're obsessed with yourself."
a smirk touches his lips. "no," he murmurs calmly, finally looking over at you. "just obsessed with you."
you look away before he can see your flushed face, but of course he already noticed it. because there simply wasn't a thing he didn't notice about you. his phone turned off immediately. "hey," he said gently.
your eyes lift back to his. immediately his expression changes into something softer, but more serious. his hands slide up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you a little closer across the couch until you're practically in his lap. "what's going on in that head, hm?" he asks.
"nothing."
"liar."
the words are gentle, affectionate in a way. you laugh softly, but it comes out nervous. he catches that too. one hand comes up, brushing lightly along your jaw. "talk to me, doll."
you swallow. your voice comes out quietly—"what if... i love you more than you love me?"
the room goes completely still. namjoon stares at you for seconds that stretch far too long, like you had just said something completely. unbelievable.
his brows pulled together. "baby," he says softly, confused, "what?"
your heart pounds instantly at the name. you try to laugh it off, suddenly embarrassed now. "i don't know, i just—"
"no," he cuts in, hands tightening gently at your waist. they weren't harsh, but it was enough to stop you from spiraling away. "no, don't do that."
you looked back at him. and the way he was looking at you now—god. like this mattered. like you mattered.
"you really think you're ahead of me here?" he asks quietly, eyes boring into yours.
your breath catches as namjoon shifts closer, forehead resting lighting against yours. "i've been in love with you for a while now," he admitted softly.
for a second, you felt like you actually stopped breathing. his thumb brushed slowly against your cheek. "you just took longer to realize it."
a shaky laugh leaves you instantly, eyes burning now. namjoon smiles softly at that, an expression you only ever get to see.
"i love you," he says again, quieter this time. but it was certain, as if it were the most obvious thing it the world.
and suddenly every fear you had—about the age gap, about his fame, about his feelings for you—had totally disappeared. because this man—this calm, confident, impossible man—loves you so deeply that he didn't even hesitate to say it.
your eyes fluttered in disbelief, laughing away the butterflies in your stomach. "i love you too."
the smile that breaks across is face is small, but almost disbelieving. but it was unquestionably proud, like he had just won something prized. after that, he kissed you slowly. he enveloped your lips with his tenderly, soaking in all of your warmth beneath him.
"there you are," he murmurs softly. like you were always meant to end up here with him.
and somewhere between the side of the road and his arms, your little street thing had become everything.
‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.
a/n : hope u guys loved this as much as i do eee! sorry there was so much relationship building... this is the longest bts fic i've made (on this app at least) omg..but joon is actually so sexy i could die.
read part two here
love u guys sm <3 read more of my joon fics here !!
Summary - For years, they existed in the space between friendship and love, too close to be platonic, yet never enough to be real. He treated her like she was his in private, only to pull away the moment things became too serious.
The night she finally chose to walk away from the man who once consumed her entire world, she carried something else with her too.
Two years later, a little girl, or fate perhaps—bring them back to each other.
Genre : second chance romance, unrequited love (at first), slow burn, accidental pregnancy, Friends → strangers → lovers, angst, fluff
Themes : emotionally unavailable! Jungkook , unlabeled relationship, friends with benefits(kind of), fear of commitment, one-sided devotion, accidental pregnancy, absent father (he doesn’t know), girl dad! Jungkook, second chances, yearning, found family, angst with happy ending
Chapters :
Chapter1 - The Gravity Between Them
31.05.26 wc: 4.7k
Chapter2 - In Another Life.
04.06.26 wc: 4.2k
Chapter3 - The Life She Built
10.06.26 wc: 10k
Chapter4 -
Chapter5 -
Taglist : Taglist is closed!
Note : Hii! so happy to be back:) How are you guys doing? This story might flop but it is what it is. I hope you all like it.🫶🏼
The loud bass pulses through the sidewalk before you even reach the entrance—a black metal door. The club sits in a neighborhood that looks like it’s been forgotten on maps, or one people are too afraid to step foot in.
The pavement, covered with cigarette butts, old oil stains, and torn flyers, makes it feel like a ghost town. A few people stand outside the building, chatting and smoking. Old vehicles—only a handful, easy to count—are parked in the distance, looking almost abandoned under the dim streetlights.
With each step closer, the music’s beat grows heavier and lower, like your own heartbeat. There’s no reason to be scared—just cautious—as you sneak a glance at a bald, muscular man who looks intoxicated and ready to chew someone’s head off.
This is no fancy club. There are no velvet ropes, no long lines, no excitement lingering in the air. At least, not for you.
If it weren’t for a twist of events, you would never come here voluntarily. Your outfit says otherwise, though.
You stand close to your friends, practically glued to their sides, as the man who looks like a straight-up junkie moves toward the club’s door. Oh, he’s the bouncer.
As he eyes all of you with empty orbs, part of you wishes he would turn you away and not let you enter this place. Your wish isn’t fulfilled. The bouncer gives Mario a curt nod, and that’s all it takes for your friend to lead the way.
As soon as the door opens, the music becomes sharper and clearer. There’s only a small space before it leads downstairs to the basement. This place is everything a mother would tell you to avoid.
Good thing you don’t have one.
Neon lights grow more visible with each step, covering the floor in flickering electric pink, acid green, and colors you don’t even get to notice as they shift too quickly. As you make it down to the main room, your mouth drops—and so does your heart.
The place is packed, so much so that it makes you question if it’s really that good. The exterior alone—the entire neighborhood—is just not it. How does Mario even know a place like this? How does he even know this part of town?
You make a mental note to question him later, because he sure as hell didn’t mention any of it. All he said was that the booze is cheap and the place is fine. If leaving means paying more for the few shots you’re about to have, so be it.
From the looks of it, everyone else is on board and follows him.
The air is thick with a mixture of scents you can’t even name. There’s a distinct smell of cigarettes, weed, and perfume—the rest, you’d rather not identify. By the time you’re out of here, you’ll reek of this place and probably have to burn the nice dress you’re wearing.
Mario promised he was only dropping something off, so this should be quick— in and out. It should be quick enough for you to grab a drink and hopefully head somewhere else.
El leans closer, her shoulder bumping into yours as she tries to be heard over the pounding music. Her voice still barely cuts through it.
“What is this place?”
You follow her gaze—and that’s when you see it.
Ahead of you, past the blur of bodies and neon light, there’s a ring. Not the kind you’d expect. Not clean, not professional. A fence cages it in completely, metal bars rising high enough to make it feel less like a sport and more like containment. Like whatever goes in there isn’t supposed to get out.
It looks barbaric. Primal. Like it was built for animals.
And the people gathered around it—too many, too eager—aren’t just passing by. They’re waiting.
You swallow, leaning in so El can hear you.
“It looks like a nightmare.”
El lets out a short breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. She tilts her head, eyes scanning the ring with something closer to curiosity than concern.
“I’ve been to worse.”
For once, you don’t question her.
El’s always been the one to drift into places like this without hesitation, coming back with stories she tells like they’re nothing—like they didn’t happen. You used to think she exaggerated.
Now, standing here, you’re not so sure.
The crowd shifts, tightening around the fence as if pulled by the same invisible string. Someone shoves past you, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to them. Another voice shouts something you can’t make out, swallowed whole by the bass.
You glance around for Mario, but he’s already a few steps ahead, carving a path like he belongs here.
That doesn’t sit right.
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, the fabric of your dress suddenly feeling too thin, too out of place in a room like this. The air presses in, thick and suffocating, buzzing with anticipation.
Whatever is about to happen in that ring—
You’re not sure you want to see it.
But the crowd isn’t leaving.
And neither are you.
Mario weaves through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times, barely checking if you and El are still behind him. You push through shoulders and elbows, the press of bodies tightening the closer you get to the fenced ring.
He finally stops, gesturing toward a narrow stretch of space wedged between a rusted railing and a couple already arguing over something you can’t hear.
“Here.”
Seats is a generous word. It’s more like a claimed patch of ground—third row, if you had to guess. Not close enough to touch the fence, but close enough that whatever happens in there won’t be easy to ignore.
You glance toward the ring again.
Up close, it’s worse.
The ground inside looks… wrong. Like it’s been scraped clean over and over again. The surface is uneven, rough in places—but there are faint traces that didn’t quite disappear. Darker patches. Stains that the dim, flickering lights can’t fully hide.
Your stomach tightens.
Mario claps his hands once, like he’s wrapping something up. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Your head snaps toward him. “What do you mean stay here? What the hell is this place?”
He sighs, but it’s not sharp or annoyed—more like he just doesn’t have the energy for this right now. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring, then back to you.
“I’ll get you your drinks,” he says, already half-turning away. “What d’you want?”
You hesitate, glancing around again—the crowd, the fence, the floor inside the ring.
“I’m not sure I want to drink anything from this place.”
El snorts beside you, loud enough to earn a glance from someone nearby.
Mario rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a snob.”
You scoff immediately. “I’m not—”
“We’ll have vodka,” El cuts in, waving a hand like she’s sealing the deal.
Mario nods once, like that settles everything, and disappears back into the crowd before you can argue further.
For a second, it’s just you and El, the noise, the heat—
And then the music cuts.
Just like that.
A sharp hum of feedback cuts through the silence, and a man’s voice follows, loud and grating through the speakers.
“Alright, alright—eyes up!”
You look toward the ring.
The man holding the microphone steps into the light, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should take him seriously. He looks like he’s somewhere in his forties, head completely shaved, his clothes hanging off him like they don’t belong to him—too big, too worn, sleeves slipping past his wrists. The kind of outfit that looks like it was pulled from one of those street donation bins, the ones meant for charity but always picked through before anything gets there.
He has that same look, too.
Like the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid.
But here—here, he owns the room.
“Welcome, you animals!” he shouts, grinning wide enough to show crooked teeth. “You came hungry tonight, yeah?”
A laugh almost slips out of you.
It’s not even that funny—but something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’s not talking to the crowd but about them, hits in a strange way. Humor, sharp and dry, cuts through the unease curling in your stomach.
Because you already have a feeling what that ring is for.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
The reaction is instant.
The crowd erupts—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. It slams into you from all sides, so intense it makes you flinch. It’s not just cheering. It’s something rougher. Hungrier.
You hadn’t realized how many men were packed into this place until now. Your stomach twists.
The man laughs into the mic, feeding off it. “That’s what I like to hear!”
He paces along the edge of the fenced ring, dragging the moment out before throwing one arm toward the entrance on the opposite side.
“Let’s not waste time. Get ready for your first fighter of the night—give it up for…” he pauses, milking it, “…Blue Viper!”
The name hits, and the crowd roars again.
A man steps into the ring.
He’s lean, all sharp lines and defined muscle, abs catching the harsh lights as he moves. Royal blue shorts hang low on his hips, matching gloves already strapped tight around his hands. He lifts his arms the second he steps inside, like he’s already won, soaking in the noise like it belongs to him.
It probably does.
“What the fuck,” you mumble under your breath.
Beside you, El swallows, eyes fixed on the ring.
“How does Mario even know about this place?” you add, quieter now, like saying it too loud might make it worse.
But there’s no time to think. The man with the mic raises his hand again, the crowd slowly settling—not quiet, never quiet, just waiting.
“And his opponent…” he continues, voice dropping just enough to build it back up, “—ah, this one doesn’t need much of an introduction.”
A ripple moves through the crowd. You feel it before you understand it.
“He’s your favorite,” the man grins. “Your undefeated—your JK!”
For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up.
And then—
The crowd explodes. Louder than before. Wilder. People shouting, pushing forward, fists hitting the fence.
The fence door screeches as it’s pulled open.
And then he steps in.
JK.
The noise swells instantly, people pressing closer, shouting his name like it means something—like he means something. But he doesn’t even acknowledge it. Not a glance, not a flicker. His focus is locked straight ahead.
On his opponent.
He moves like he already knows how this ends.
Every step is controlled, deliberate. His body shifts under the harsh lights, all muscle and definition—abs tight, arms flexing with even the smallest movement. There’s no wasted motion in him. No nerves. Just quiet, coiled readiness.
His opponent tries to hold his ground, but you catch it—the slight tension in his stance, the way his shoulders tighten under JK’s stare.
Like he already feels it.
Up close, you catch more of him. A sharp jawline, clean and defined, his expression unreadable. When he turns slightly, the line of his back comes into view—lean, strong, every muscle moving under his skin like it’s carved there.
You hate to admit it.
But—yeah. He’s hot.
And apparently, you’re not the only one who noticed.
You glance at El, and—
Right. Of course.
She’s staring at him like she just found religion, eyes practically sparkling.
“Holy fuck,” she breathes. “Suddenly I like being here.”
You snort, shaking your head, even though your own attention has definitely sharpened.
Still…
Your gaze drifts back to the ring, to the fence, to the crowd pressing in like this is the only thing that matters. You’re not sure you like this.
Because it’s obvious now. This isn’t just some weird club attraction. This is underground fighting—illegal, brutal, the kind of thing people don’t talk about in daylight.
And somehow, Mario brought you here.
Of all places.
Your brows pull together slightly as you scan the crowd again, unease settling back in.
Mario has always had… questionable connections. The kind you and El never really asked about, choosing instead to ignore whatever didn’t fit into your version of him.
Mario slips back beside you like he never left, pressing a cold glass into your hand. “What’d I miss?” he asks, far too casually.
You turn to him immediately, irritation rising. “What the hell is this, Mario? What are we doing here—and how did you think this was a good idea?”
He exhales, already looking like he doesn’t want to deal with this conversation, but you don’t let up.
“Seriously. This place—this isn’t normal.”
El doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is locked on the ring, eyes sharp with interest, like she’s already decided this is worth watching. You, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about the cage, the crowd, the way everyone seemed to be waiting for something violent to happen.
“What is this place?” you ask again, quieter now, but no less firm.
Before he can answer, a sharp bell rings out, cutting through the noise and pulling every ounce of attention back to the ring.
The fight starts instantly. The other guy lunges first, throwing a punch that should land—but JK shifts just enough for it to miss, his movement so subtle it almost looks lazy. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK slips past them with controlled precision, like he’s already mapped out every move before it happens.
You don’t even realize your grip on the glass has tightened until your fingers start to ache. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—smooth, efficient, completely unbothered. He doesn’t rush or panic, doesn’t even try to overpower. He just watches, waits, and lets the other guy wear himself down.
For a moment, it almost feels intentional, like he’s letting him try.
Taunting him.
The thought settles just as the other man commits to another strike, stepping in harder this time, putting everything behind it—and that’s when JK finally moves forward. His fist connects cleanly, the impact sharp enough to echo even through the roar of the crowd, sending the man stumbling back until his body slams into the fence with a harsh metallic rattle.
The reaction around you is immediate and overwhelming, the crowd exploding with noise that makes your brows pull together as it crashes into you from all sides. But your focus stays on the ring, on the thin line of blood already slipping from the man’s nose, stark against his skin.
Your stomach twists, but not enough to make you look away.
Without thinking, you lift the drink Mario handed you and down it in one go, ignoring the burn, the taste, the suffocating thickness of the air. Your eyes stay locked on the fight, tracking every movement, every shift.
And somewhere in the middle of it, you realize your attention isn’t just caught—
it’s hooked.
The fight doesn’t slow down—it shifts entirely in JK’s favor.
Once the other man hits the ground, something in JK changes. Whatever restraint he had disappears as he follows him down without hesitation, delivering punch after punch with the same controlled force. Each hit lands with a dull, sickening impact, the sound carrying even through the roar of the crowd.
The man barely manages to get his arms up, but it doesn’t do much. Blood spreads quickly—across his face, down his chest, soaking into the already worn surface beneath him. Those faint stains you noticed earlier are no longer subtle. They’re fresh now, darker, undeniable.
JK’s gloves are black, thick. The color hides most of the blood, swallowing it instead of putting it on display, but not entirely. A darker sheen clings to them, catching under the harsh lights every time his fists rise and fall.
Your stomach tightens as the noise around you grows louder, more aggressive, feeding into every hit instead of pulling back from it. It starts to feel like too much—too close, too real, too far past the point where someone should have stepped in already.
“Mario,” you say, leaning toward him, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the chaos. “Is there—do they have a restroom or something?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his attention still fixed on the ring, jaw set like he’s invested in how this ends. For a second, you think he didn’t even hear you, but then he glances over, quick and distracted. “Yeah. Down the hall, to the left.”
You nod, already shifting your weight as you turn to El. “Come with me.”
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at you. Her eyes stay locked on the ring, her expression sharper than before, completely absorbed in what’s happening. It catches you off guard, enough that you pause for a second, staring at her like you don’t quite recognize this version of her.
“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, but she doesn’t react, and it leaves you standing there alone with the noise pressing back in.
Because the fight wasn’t bad at first—it was controlled, almost impressive in a way you didn’t expect—but this is different. This is something else entirely.
Your gaze drifts back to the ring despite yourself, catching the way the man on the ground jerks under another hit, a broken grunt slipping from him as he tries to move, to shield himself, to do anything at all. No one steps in. No one even looks like they’re thinking about it.
A cold thought settles in as you watch.
You hope this isn’t one of those fights—the kind that doesn’t end until someone doesn’t get back up—because the way that man looks right now, barely moving, barely holding on, makes it hard not to think he’s already getting close.
Before you can see anything else, you’ve had enough.
You don’t care how dodgy this place looks anymore—only that you need a second to breathe. The thought crosses your mind, sharp and unwelcome, that walking out alone probably isn’t the smartest idea. A single woman slipping away from a crowd like this doesn’t exactly scream safe. Still, you push it aside, stand up, and follow the direction Mario gave you.
The further you move from the ring, the more the place reveals itself—and none of it is reassuring. The air is thick with alcohol and weed, clinging to the walls, to your skin, to the back of your throat. The dim lighting doesn’t help, casting everything in a dull, grimy glow that makes even the hallway feel like somewhere you shouldn’t be.
You tug your dress down instinctively, suddenly too aware of how short it is, how out of place you feel. The red lipstick you put on earlier now seems like a mistake. If only you had known where you were coming.
The restroom is worse.
One look inside is enough. The smell hits first, then the stained tiles, the flickering light, the general state of neglect that makes your stomach turn. You don’t even consider using it. Instead, you step up to the sink, eyes lifting to the mirror.
You look… composed.
More than you expected, at least. Even with the frown that’s probably been stuck on your face since you walked in, you don’t look shaken. Not on the outside.
You turn on the tap, rinsing your hands out of habit more than anything, the faint taste of vodka still lingering on your tongue. Somewhere in the distance, even from down the hall, you can still hear it—the cheers, muffled but persistent, like a reminder that whatever is happening in that ring hasn’t slowed down.
You don’t want to be here.
But you also don’t want to be left out.
The thought pushes you into motion again. You dry your hands quickly and head back out, picking up your pace as you move down the hallway, unease settling deeper with every step. The walls are lined with old posters, most of them ripped or peeling, leaving behind only fragments—faces without names, events long gone, nothing fully readable.
It only adds to the feeling that you shouldn’t be here.
You’re halfway down when it happens.
You nearly stop in your tracks.
He’s there.
The man from the ring—the one who was just getting beaten—walking toward you like nothing happened. Up close, it’s worse. Blood still clings to him, smeared across his face and chest, his steps uneven, his body barely holding itself together.
And behind him—
The man with the microphone follows, saying something you can’t quite catch.
Your attention snaps forward again.
Because coming straight toward you—
JK.
He’s already out of the ring, moving fast, like the fight meant nothing. The gloves are gone, replaced by white wraps around his hands, slightly darkened in places. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin glistening under the dim lights as he closes the distance without slowing down.
For a second, you freeze.
Then instinct kicks in and you step aside quickly, pressing yourself against the wall just as he passes. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t acknowledge you at all.
It’s like you’re not even there.
Like if you hadn’t moved—
He would’ve walked straight through you.
Your thoughts barely have time to settle before they’re cut off.
“El—?”
She rushes into view, nearly colliding with you, her expression completely different from the one she had just minutes ago. Whatever excitement she had is gone, replaced with something far more overwhelmed, almost frantic.
“I need the bathroom,” she blurts out, slightly breathless. “Like, right now. I had—shit—I had like three shots in five minutes.”
You blink at her, still catching up. “Where’s Mario?”
El glances back over her shoulder, like she expects him to magically appear behind her. “He said he needed to go too. Just disappeared into the crowd.”
You frown immediately.
Of course he did.
You bite back the first thing that comes to mind, irritation flaring as you glance past her, half-expecting to spot him somewhere down the hall. Nothing. Just the muffled noise from the main room and people moving around like nothing just happened.
Great.
You’ll definitely have to curse him out later—for leaving you alone earlier, even if the whole crowd had still been focused on the fight. At least then, everyone’s attention had been locked on the ring. Now? The fight is over, the tension is shifting, and you don’t even know how to guess who won.
Worse, El could’ve gotten lost in that mess.
Or someone could’ve—
You cut the thought off as your attention sharpens.
Because you can feel it now.
The looks.
They weren’t as obvious before, not when everyone had been too distracted, but now that the focus has broken, it’s different. There aren’t many women here—you’ve noticed that much—and the way some of the men look at you now makes your stomach twist. Lingering stares. Slow, knowing grins that feel far too comfortable.
You scoff under your breath, disgust curling in your chest as you turn back to El.
“The bathroom’s a nightmare,” you warn her. “Like, seriously not usable.”
El groans, clutching her stomach slightly. “I don’t care. My bladder is about to explode.”
Yeah. No arguing with that.
You nod, stepping aside to let her move past you. “Fine. Go. I’ll stay right outside.”
She doesn’t hesitate, already pushing the door open.
You stay put in the hallway, crossing your arms loosely as you position yourself near the wall, trying to look like you belong there more than you feel like you do. The noise from the main room is still there, dulled now, but enough to remind you you’re not completely alone.
Still—
You really hope no one tries to talk to you.
You don’t have to wait long before something shifts again.
Footsteps echo down the hall, heavier this time, more purposeful. A guy comes into view—blonde, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an oversized shirt that hangs loose over a pair of worn jeans. There’s nothing particularly threatening about him at first glance, but the way he carries himself makes people move.
“Get lost,” he says, voice flat, like he’s said it a hundred times before.
The men lingering too close—too interested—pause. You hadn’t even fully clocked how near they were getting until now. One of them mutters something under his breath, low and irritated, but before anything can escalate, a woman slips up beside them. She leans in, whispers something quick into one of their ears.
The reaction is immediate.
Their expressions shift, something greedy lighting up in their eyes, and just like that, they back off, leaving without another glance.
You feel your stomach turn.
Disgust settles in deep as you press your lips together, forcing yourself not to react more visibly. Whatever she said—it worked too easily.
You take a few steps further down the hall, needing the distance, the space. Behind you, the noise from the main room is starting to die down, the chaos thinning out into something more controlled. It sounds like they’re clearing people out, or at least resetting the space for whatever comes next.
That thought alone makes your skin crawl.
Ahead of you, the blonde guy reaches a door—one you hadn’t paid much attention to before—and pushes it open without hesitation.
And for a split second, you see inside.
It’s a medium-sized room, dim but cleaner than the rest of this place, like it serves a different purpose. Your brain barely has time to process the layout before something—someone—snags your attention completely.
Mario.
Standing there like he belongs.
Your breath catches, surprise hitting first, sharp and immediate. So much for the bathroom. He didn’t even come this way—the toilets are further down, you know that now.
But the shock doesn’t stop there.
Because sitting in one of the chairs—
JK.
Up close, under better light, he looks just as composed as he did in the ring, even now. Someone—a young guy, too young if you’re being honest—is crouched in front of him, carefully unwrapping the white tape from his hands. The fabric is stained in places, and as it comes loose, you catch glimpses of reddened skin underneath.
The kid works quickly, like he knows what he’s doing, like this is routine.
Of course it is.
Nothing about this place is legal. Nothing about it is normal.
Your eyes flick back to Mario, disbelief settling in heavier now. He lied. Not even well—just enough to get away from you and El without questions.
Before you can take in anything else, the door swings shut.
You’re left staring at it, mouth slightly open, like your brain hasn’t caught up to what you just saw.
Mario. In there. With him.
“El?”
She comes back a second later, pushing the bathroom door open with a relieved sigh. “Ready?”
You turn to her, still half-stunned. “I—there’s a room down here. Mario’s in it. And… the guy who was in the ring is in there too.”
El freezes. “What?”
“And some kid—like, actually a kid—is cleaning him up. I don’t even—” You shake your head, trying to piece it together. “This is weird.”
El blinks a few times, processing, then shrugs slightly. “Maybe Mario just knows people here?”
You stare at her. “That doesn’t make it less weird.”
She hesitates, glancing between you and the closed door. “So… what are we doing? Waiting?”
You frown, something in you snapping into place. You’re done waiting. Done being brushed off, lied to, dragged somewhere without knowing why.
Without another word, you step forward and push the door open.
The reaction is immediate.
Conversation cuts off mid-sentence. Every head in the room turns toward you, like you just walked into something you weren’t supposed to see.
Mario looks the worst out of all of them—caught, completely unprepared. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.
Your gaze shifts past him.
JK is still sitting, his hands half-unwrapped, the young guy working on them pausing mid-motion. For a second, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. His eyes stay lowered, focused on his hands—
Then he looks up.
Your eyes meet, just briefly. Long enough for something to register—sharp, assessing. His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before his expression tightens slightly, like he’s already decided you don’t belong here.
“And what are you doing here?” the blonde man asks, voice flat, almost tired, like this is an inconvenience.
El hovers just behind your shoulder, peeking in, her eyes going wide the second they land on JK. “Fuck,” she whispers, not nearly as quiet as she probably thinks.
You don’t react to her.
Your attention is locked on Mario now. “I should be asking you that.”
He winces slightly, like he expected that, but still doesn’t have a good answer.
The men in the room don’t miss the tension, the way your eyes narrow, the way Mario shifts under it. Something clicks between them, unspoken.
The blonde man exhales sharply, already over it. “Listen, you have no place being here.” His gaze flicks to Mario. “Take your bitches out of here.”
“Excuse me?” you scoff immediately, offense flaring hot and fast. The word hits wrong—too casual, too familiar, like it’s something he says often.
He doesn’t even react. If anything, he looks bored, like he’s seen this exact reaction a hundred times before.
Maybe he has.
“Look, just—give us a minute,” Mario cuts in quickly, stepping forward like he’s trying to manage damage control. “I’ll come out and explain, okay?”
“And wait out there? With all the junkies?” you shoot back, anger creeping in sharper now. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
Your patience is gone.
Before Mario can respond, movement pulls your attention again.
JK stands.
The shift in the room is subtle, but it’s there. He rolls his shoulders once, flexing his hands slightly as the young guy quickly gathers the bloodied wraps and cotton, tossing them aside.
“Take this outside,” JK says, voice low and steady, carrying easily through the room.
It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It lands heavy anyway.
He doesn’t look at anyone again.
Just walks past, disappearing through another door without a second thought.
Silence lingers for a second after he’s gone.
Then the blonde man steps forward slightly, already done with this entire situation. “I’ll be in touch,” he says curtly, though it’s clearly meant for Mario. His gaze flicks back to you and El, sharp, unimpressed. “Out.”
He gestures toward the door, not even pretending to be polite about it.
It’s not an offer.
It’s an order.
You let out a sharp scoff, already drawing breath to snap back at the blonde man—because who the hell does he think he is—but El is faster. Her hand wraps around your wrist, fingers tightening in warning, and at the same time Mario steps in, grabbing your shoulders and steering you back.
“Hey—” you start, but he’s already pushing you out.
The door shuts behind you with a dull thud.
You turn on him immediately.
“What the actual fuck, Mario?”
He exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “Not here.”
“Oh, not—” you scoff, ready to go off, but he’s already moving, heading down the hall like he expects you to follow.
You do. Of course you do.
El stays close, unusually quiet now, her earlier excitement completely gone. The hallway feels different on the way back—emptier, colder somehow. By the time you reach the main area, it’s almost unrecognizable. The crowd is gone, replaced by only a few people cleaning up like nothing ever happened. Trash is being swept, bottles collected, and in one corner, you catch a glimpse of a stack of cash being counted and shoved into a duffle bag.
That’s enough.
You don’t say anything as you follow Mario out, but the second the cold air hits your skin, it’s like everything snaps back into focus. You step forward quickly, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stop.
“Speak,” you demand.
He looks at you—not angry, not defensive. Just… tired. Defeated, almost.
“Not here, please,” he says quietly. “Let’s just go back to my place.”
Your eyes narrow immediately. The way he glances around, quick and subtle, doesn’t help.
Alarms go off in your head.
You don’t agree, not really—but you don’t argue either. Not yet.
The car ride is silent. Tense. The kind of silence that presses in on you, heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. El sits beside you, staring out the window, unusually still, like she’s replaying everything in her head. You don’t interrupt. You’re doing the same.
By the time you reach Mario’s building, the quiet hasn’t lifted.
It follows you all the way into his apartment.
The door closes behind you, and just like that, the outside world is gone—but the tension stays, thick in the air, waiting.
Mario moves first, like he needs something to do with his hands. “Tea? Or—something?” he offers, already heading toward the kitchen.
Anything to stall.
You don’t answer right away. You just watch him, arms crossed, expression unmoving. Eventually, you nod once, more out of impatience than acceptance, and take a seat on the couch beside El. She sinks into it quietly, still not saying much, her usual energy replaced with something more withdrawn.
Mario brings the cups over a few minutes later, setting them down carefully in front of you both. You don’t thank him. You don’t even look at the tea.
You just look at him.
He takes the chair opposite you, exhaling slowly before running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would escalate like that.”
You cut him off immediately. “What did you think, Mario? That we’d just be okay watching that?” Your voice sharpens. “Did you genuinely think we’d enjoy an illegal fight?”
He blinks, caught off guard for a second. “How do you even know it’s illegal?”
You stare at him, almost incredulous. “Are you serious? Nothing about that place screams legal.”
He doesn’t argue.
So you keep going.
“I thought we were going to a club,” you say, your frustration spilling over now. “And then you change plans last minute, and suddenly we’re standing next to a cage, watching a guy get nearly beaten to death?”
The words hang heavy between you.
Mario exhales again, slower this time, and there’s something in his expression that finally cracks—guilt, maybe. Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “I really am. I just… I had to deal with something, and one of my friends was there. I thought it’d just be a fight. I thought you two might—” he hesitates, then shrugs weakly, “—I don’t know. Enjoy it. You like boxing, right?”
That lands badly.
Because whatever that was—wasn’t just boxing.
You lean back slightly, exhaling through your nose, but the tension doesn’t leave your body. If anything, it settles deeper.
“Why do you even hang around people like that?” you ask, your tone quieter now but no less pointed.
Mario winces a little at that, like he expected it. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really am. I won’t bring you there again. Hell, I probably won’t even go back myself. It was a stupid idea.”
You study him for a second, trying to decide if you believe that.
Then you sigh, some of the edge in you softening, just a little. “I didn’t feel safe there,” you admit. “And it’s a good thing nothing happened to us.”
Your fingers curl slightly around the warm cup, grounding yourself before you add, “What even is that place?”
Mario hesitates, like he’s choosing how honest to be. “It’s… yeah, it’s illegal,” he finally says. “But it’s one of the fastest ways to make money. People go there to bet. Not just that—they go because they like the fights. They want to see something real.”
You let out a quiet scoff. “We clearly have very different ideas of what a good fight is.”
He nods, accepting that. “Listen—it’s usually not like that. It gets stopped before it goes too far. Yeah, some guys don’t look great after, but tonight… tonight was intense. I didn’t know JK was gonna be the one fighting. Usually it’s more… controlled.”
You blink at him, stunned. “Oh my god. How many times have you been there?”
“Not that many,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Seriously. But I know it’s not usually like this. There had to be a change of plans when JK showed up. That’s why it was so packed. I should’ve known. I should’ve just left with you the second I realized.”
You shake your head slightly, still trying to process. “Who even is he?”
Mario shrugs. “Just a guy that got popular there. He fights well—really well—and people like watching him. That’s why it gets so crowded when he’s around.”
Your stomach turns at that. “People enjoy watching him beat someone nearly to death?”
“There’s a lot of money involved,” Mario replies, his tone quieter now. “And for some of those guys… it’s easier to earn money that way. One good fight can get you more than a regular job.”
You frown, not convinced. “I don’t get it. I mean, boxing isn’t a bad thing—but when it’s legal. What we saw? There’s a reason that’s not allowed.”
Mario exhales, leaning back in his chair. “The world’s a lot rougher than you think. That place—it’s just one of those corners where people make money however they can.”
You don’t respond to that. Not really.
Instead, you shift your focus, needing something else. “Did you at least deal with your friend? The one you said you had to meet?”
“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s done.” He pauses, then adds again, “And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t drag you into something like that again.”
You study him for a moment, then let out a small breath, deciding not to push it further. “Let’s just… hope we’ll laugh about this in twenty years.”
El makes a small sound beside you—half a scoff, half a sip of her tea—and you glance at her.
“Why are you so quiet?” you ask.
She shrugs, staring into her cup for a second before looking up. “I mean… yeah, it was weird. And I definitely wouldn’t go there alone.” She pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “But it was kind of interesting to see.”
You drop your head back slightly. “Oh my god.”
El rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile there now. “I’m not saying I want to go back. I don’t. I’d rather we stay far away from that place.” She nudges your arm lightly. “Next time, though? We’re going to an actual club. A good one. We finally convince you to go out, and this is where we end up?”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself, some of the tension finally easing. “Fine. You pick the next place, and I’ll consider going.”
“That’s a yes,” she says immediately.
“It’s a maybe,” you correct, but you’re smiling now.
The night winds down after that, the heaviness of it lingering but not as sharp. You stay over at Mario’s place like usual—nothing new there. You and El take the bed, while he crashes on the couch without complaint.
It should feel normal.
Familiar.
But as you lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep doesn’t come easily.
Because every time you close your eyes, you see it again.
The ring. The blood. The crowd.
And him.
Those dark, steady eyes that barely looked at you—yet somehow linger anyway, slipping into your dreams as the night stretches on, replaying everything like a broken movie you can’t quite turn off.
Life moves on.
Or at least, it pretends to.
In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.
And for a while, neither does that night.
It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.
Still, sometimes it creeps in.
A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?
You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.
The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.
But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.
It becomes just a faint memory.
Something that happened.
Something you don’t talk about.
Life moves on. Or at least, it tries to.
In the days after that night, everything slowly slips back into place. You fall into your usual routine—meeting El for junk food runs, sitting in dimly lit bars, catching up on the kind of small, meaningless things that make life feel normal again. Work, gossip, random complaints. The kind of conversations that don’t carry weight.
And for a while, neither does that night.
It starts to feel distant. Unreal, even. Like something you watched in a movie rather than something you actually stood in the middle of. You avoid that part of town completely, not even entertaining the idea of going near it. The building, the people, the noise—it all becomes something you push to the back of your mind.
Still, sometimes it creeps in. A thought here and there. A question you don’t really want answered. How many people got hurt that night? How often does that happen?
You learn not to follow those thoughts too far.
The first week is the worst. Your dreams are restless, filled with flashes of the ring, the sound of fists hitting skin, the roar of the crowd. It’s like your brain is trying to process something it only ever expected to see on a screen, not up close, not real.
But after a couple of weeks, even that fades.
It becomes just a faint memory. Something that happened. Something you don’t talk about.
Lately, you’ve been seeing El more often. Mario’s been busy, which isn’t unusual. He’s always had something going on, mostly revolving around cars. Buying them, fixing them, flipping them. Old ones, newer ones—it doesn’t really matter. He calls it an investment, says the money always comes back if you know what you’re doing.
And apparently, he does.
Between the cars and whatever connections he’s built over time, he’s become the guy people call when something breaks. You’ve done it yourself. The last time your car had an issue, he fixed it in a day and saved you from dealing with overpriced repair shops and all their nonsense. He’s reliable like that.
Just not always honest.
Tonight, it’s just you and El at one of your usual bars, tucked into a booth that’s a little too worn but familiar enough to feel comfortable. You didn’t feel like drinking, so you’ve been sticking to soda while she’s had a couple of shots.
It reminds you of a phase you’ve already gone through—back when you were younger, figuring out your limits. These days, you don’t really care for it.
El, though, seems off.
At first, you assume it’s her ex. She spent way too long getting over him, and for a moment you wonder if she slipped back into that. But then she checks her phone again. And again. And again.
You watch her for a while before finally speaking up. “Okay, something’s up.”
She barely looks at you. “Nothing’s up.”
“You’ve checked your phone like ten times in five minutes.”
“I’m just waiting for a message.”
“From who?”
She shrugs too quickly. “No one important.”
You don’t buy it, but you don’t push right away. The feeling lingers, though, settling in your chest.
Something’s not right.
By the time the waitress tells you they’re closing, it’s already close to ten. You both gather your things and step outside, the cooler air a relief after the stuffy bar. You start telling her something about work—some pointless drama—but she barely reacts, her attention drifting back to her phone.
Then she checks it again.
You stop mid-sentence and look at her. “Okay, you have one minute. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m dropping you off and going home.”
She laughs nervously, scratching her cheek. “Don’t be mad.”
You roll your eyes. “Just say it.”
“I know where Mario is.”
You blink. “Okay? He’s probably working.”
She exhales, muttering, “He’s gonna kill me for this.”
“El.”
“Okay—he went back there.”
You frown. “Back where?”
Her voice lowers. “The ring.”
You stare at her, still trying to process it, the memory of that place snapping back into focus like it never really left.
“What do you mean, the ring?”
“He’s there. Right now.”
You let out a slow breath, disbelief settling in. Of course he is. After everything he said. After promising he wouldn’t go back.
“Unbelievable.”
El shifts slightly, her grip tightening around her phone. “The thing is… he was supposed to text me. And he hasn’t. It’s been, like, four hours.” She glances at the screen again, like it might suddenly light up. “He promised he would.”
You frown. “Wait—did you know he was going there?”
She hesitates, then nods, a little ashamed. “Yeah. He told me.” She quickly adds, “And he made me promise not to tell you.”
You scoff. “Of course he did. He didn’t want to hear my ‘smart remarks’ again. He probably thinks I’m his mom at this point, pestering him.”
“That’s not it,” El says, shaking her head. “He knows you worry about him. We both do. And honestly? You have a reason to.” She exhales, then continues, “I only agreed because he said he’d text me the whole time. Just so I’d know he’s okay.”
You cross your arms. “And?”
“The last message I got was around seven,” she says, her voice tightening. “He said he was going in.”
You glance at the time. It’s way past that now.
“What was he even doing there?” you ask.
El shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. He just said he had some business to take care of. That it’d be quick.” She lets out a quiet, uneasy breath. “Clearly it’s not.”
Silence settles between you for a moment, heavier this time.
“I don’t want to panic,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “but after what we saw there… the kind of people that were around…” She swallows. “I’m scared something happened to him.”
That lands.
Because yeah—Mario’s not small. He’s got height, some lean muscle, enough to handle himself in most situations.
But that place?
That’s not most situations.
He’s still your friend.
And something about all of this doesn’t sit right.
El looks at you, worry written all over her face. “What are we gonna do?”
You sigh, already knowing the answer.
“What else?” you mutter. “We have to go back and find him.”
Her expression tightens. “What if he’s not there?”
“Then we hope he made it there and someone saw him,” you reply, already turning and heading toward your car. “And we figure it out from there.”
You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.
El hurries after you, sliding into the passenger seat as you start the engine. For a brief second, you just sit there, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual.
You had hoped you’d never go back.
But just like that—that hope is gone.
You park a little further down the street, not wanting to pull up right in front like last time. The engine dies, and for a moment neither of you moves. The place hasn’t changed at all. The street still feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like it’s been deliberately erased from everything around it. You glance at El, and she looks just as uneasy as you feel.
“Let’s go,” you mutter, pushing the door open.
You both walk toward the entrance, slower this time, more cautious. When you reach the door, El tries to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. She turns to you, brows knitting together. “What now?”
Before you can answer, the door creaks open from the inside. The same bouncer steps into view, and for a second you don’t recognize him. Then it clicks—the same sharp, heavy-lidded eyes, the same detached, almost stoned expression. It feels like no time has passed. His gaze drags over both of you, slow and deliberate, lingering a little too long on your bare legs, and you instantly regret dressing up for the bar tonight.
“You’re late,” he says, voice rough. “Let people in an hour ago.”
You don’t bother arguing. You reach into your purse, pull out a bill, and press it against his chest. He catches it easily, glancing down before tucking it away. A smirk pulls at his mouth. “Would’ve preferred you in my arms,” he mutters. You grimace, not even hiding your disgust this time, while El’s grip tightens around your hand as the door opens wider and you both slip inside.
The moment you step down the stairs, the noise hits—loud, heavy, suffocating. The smell follows right after. Sweat, weed, alcohol. It’s exactly how you remember it, maybe worse. The main area is completely packed, even more than last time, bodies pressed together so tightly it feels impossible to move. You barely even glance toward the ring. That’s not why you’re here.
“Room,” you remind El, leaning closer so she can hear you.
She nods quickly, already following your lead as you both start pushing through the crowd, weaving between people with purpose. You keep your focus forward, mentally retracing the path from last time. The stairs. The hallway. That door. That’s where you last saw Mario, and right now, that’s the only place that matters.
“El—this way,” you say, tugging her slightly as you manage to break away from the tightest part of the crowd and angle toward the stairs. There are still people gathered there, but it’s easier to move, easier to breathe. “We check the room first. If he’s not there, we’ll figure something else out.”
The microphone cuts in, sharp and loud, but you don’t stop. The announcer’s voice blends into the background as you keep moving, slipping past another group, already stepping toward the hallway. You’re close now, close enough that you can almost see the door in your mind.
“…and tonight,” the voice drawls.
You ignore it.
“First time in the ring—”
Still moving.
“—and bold enough to throw down a challenge—”
You’re already turning, already heading for the hallway.
“—challenging JK himself—”
The crowd reacts loudly, but it barely registers. You’re focused on getting there, on finding him before anything else can go wrong.
“And let’s hear it for—”
You don’t slow down.
“Maaaario.”
El stops so abruptly it almost throws you into her back, your steps catching at the last second as the name echoes through the space. For a moment it doesn’t register—not fully. It stretches out in the air, swallowed and amplified by the crowd’s reaction, like your brain refuses to connect it to anything real.
Then it hits.
Your body goes still as your mind catches up, the realization crashing in all at once. Around you, the crowd erupts, louder than before, excitement surging like this is exactly what they came for. El doesn’t move in front of you, her posture rigid, and your hand tightens slightly where you’re still holding onto her.
Neither of you says anything.
Because you both heard it.
And suddenly, finding Mario doesn’t feel like a question anymore.
It feels like a problem.
The countdown starts somewhere above the noise, the announcer stretching each number out like he’s feeding the crowd. It barely registers at first, your mind still stuck on the name you just heard, but then the final number hits and everything erupts at once. Before you can even think, the fight begins.
You and El move at the same time without saying a word. There’s no hesitation now, just urgency as you push into the crowd, forcing your way through bodies that don’t want to move. Shoulders slam into you, someone curses, another shoves you aside, but no one really stops you. They’re too focused on the ring, too caught up in the fight to care about anything else. The noise is overwhelming—yells, cheers, fists hitting metal—and it makes your chest tighten because you can’t see anything. Not knowing what’s happening somehow feels worse than seeing it.
El takes the lead, using her strength to pry a path open, her grip tight around your wrist as she drags you forward. You stumble after her, trying to keep up as she forces space where there isn’t any. It feels endless, like you’re stuck in a wall of bodies that won’t break, but eventually it does. You reach the ring, not close enough to touch it comfortably, but close enough to see.
And what you see makes your breath catch.
Mario is on the ground, one hand pressed to his face as blood spills from his nose. He looks disoriented, struggling to steady himself, and for a second it doesn’t even register as a fight. It looks like damage, like something that’s already gone too far. Your fingers slip through the fence without you thinking, gripping the cold metal as your eyes dart to his opponent.
JK is circling him.
Not rushing, not pressing—just waiting. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, controlled and calm, like he already knows exactly how this ends. He lets Mario struggle, lets him try to get up, almost like he’s giving him space on purpose. Like he’s drawing it out.
Your stomach twists as you try to make sense of it. Can’t he just stop it? Can Mario tap out? Are there even rules here?
You don’t know.
“Oh my god,” El whispers beside you, her voice tight with fear.
“Come on,” you say under your breath, gripping the fence harder. “Get up. Get up.”
There’s no way he can hear you through the chaos, and yet somehow he moves. Mario pushes himself up, unsteady, barely holding his balance as he spits blood onto the ground. The sight makes your stomach churn, but he lifts his hands again, trying to reset, trying to fight.
He throws the first punch, driven more by instinct than skill. It’s messy, desperate, lacking control, but it’s something. JK avoids it easily, shifting just enough for it to miss. Another swing follows, then another, each one missing by inches as JK moves around him like it’s nothing. There’s no panic in him, no rush. Just patience.
Then he strikes.
It’s quick. Sharp. Clean.
The first hit snaps Mario’s head to the side, the second lands before he can recover, and the third sends him stumbling backward. JK doesn’t overextend, doesn’t waste movement—every punch is calculated, deliberate, landing exactly where it needs to. Mario tries to hold his ground, but it’s obvious now. He’s outmatched.
One more hit lands, harder than the rest, and it drops him.
You gasp, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it as Mario hits the ground again. His face is already swelling, one eye starting to close, blood spreading across his skin in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully.
“Mario!” you shout, panic rising fast. “Get up!”
El is yelling too now, her voice breaking as she calls his name, the two of you pressed against the fence, desperate, urging him to move, to stay conscious, to do anything. The fear settles deep in your chest because what if he doesn’t get up this time? What if this doesn’t stop?
Mario shifts slightly, barely lifting his head, and then his gaze turns. Not toward JK, not toward the crowd—but toward you.
People cheer.
The sight of his face makes something in you twist. Swollen, bloodied, barely recognizable, and still he finds you in the chaos. Your breath hitches as you realize he sees you here.
JK notices.
It’s subtle at first, just a shift in his focus, the way his eyes narrow as he follows Mario’s line of sight. And then he looks at you. Really looks, his gaze locking onto yours in a way that feels too direct, too aware.
For a second, everything feels still.
Then he moves.
He crouches beside Mario, and your stomach drops as his hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Mario’s hair. The grip is tight, controlling, forcing his head up despite the lack of resistance. Mario barely reacts, his body too weak to fight back, and panic spikes in your chest.
JK doesn’t look away from you. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, his skin barely marked compared to Mario’s. Like this fight hasn’t cost him anything.
And then he smirks.
Your chest tightens as his grip tightens with it, lifting Mario’s head just enough—
Before slamming it back down against the ground.
The sound is sickening.
It cuts through everything.
Mario goes limp.
And for a second, you don’t breathe, don’t move, don’t think. You just stare, because something in you knows that whatever line there was before, it’s gone now.
The sound crashes back all at once, loud and overwhelming, like nothing just happened. Like what you just saw is entertainment, nothing more. JK steps back, the win clearly his, and the fence is already being opened for him as if it was expected. Of course it was. He walks out without a glance back, already moving on while the crowd feeds off the aftermath.
You don’t.
You can’t.
Two men enter the ring almost immediately, grabbing Mario under his arms and hauling him up. His body hangs between them, limp, unresponsive, his head lolling slightly with the movement. The sight knocks the air out of your lungs.
You force yourself to move.
Your throat tightens as you swallow hard, shaking yourself out of the daze as you grab El’s arm. “Come on,” you manage, your voice barely steady, your eyes locked on Mario as they carry him away.
You follow them.
They move fast, cutting through a path that clears easier for them than it ever did for you. When you and El catch up, one of the men glances back, clearly annoyed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. El’s panicked whispers don’t help.
“Oh my god… Mario, we’re here. You’re gonna be okay—”
“Hey,” one of the men snaps. “You can’t—”
“He’s our friend,” you cut in quickly, your voice sharper than you expect. “We’re staying. Where are you taking him?”
They don’t look like they want to deal with you. Not now. Not with this. The two of them exchange a look, something silent passing between them before one sighs, clearly deciding it’s not worth the argument.
“He’s getting treated,” he says shortly, already turning away.
You don’t ask by whom. You just follow.
The hallway feels tighter this time, the noise from the main area fading behind you as they lead you into one of the rooms. It’s smaller than you expected, cramped and worn, with dented lockers lining one wall and a narrow bed in the center that looks like it once belonged in a hospital.
They set Mario down without much care. His body barely reacts, his head rolling slightly to the side, and something in your chest twists painfully at how still he is.
You and El move immediately, stopping just short of touching him, both of you hovering, afraid of making it worse.
The door opens again.
A young man steps in, probably in his early twenties, maybe a bit older, his build lean but steady. He’s dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows—and there’s a certain efficiency in the way he moves, like he’s done this too many times to think about it. His hair is slightly messy, falling into his eyes as he pulls on a pair of gloves, his expression focused rather than concerned.
“What do we have this time?” he asks, glancing over Mario with quick, practiced eyes.
“Probably a broken nose. Maybe more,” one of the men replies.
The young man exhales quietly, stepping closer to the bed as he tilts Mario’s head slightly, inspecting the damage without hesitation. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Another one who thought he could last longer than he actually could.”
Mario gets treated like you and El aren’t even there.
The young man moves around him with quiet efficiency, cleaning the blood, checking his nose, pressing gauze where it’s needed. The two men who carried him in linger for a moment before stepping aside, talking in low voices, completely unfazed. It’s like this is routine. Like people getting carried in half-conscious isn’t anything out of the ordinary.
You can’t stand still.
You start pacing the small room, your steps short and sharp, your arms crossed tight over your chest as your thoughts spiral. No matter how hard you try to focus on Mario, your mind keeps dragging you back to the ring—to that moment. The way JK looked at you. The way he made sure you saw it. That last hit.
The way Mario just… stopped.
Your jaw tightens.
Even when Mario lets out a low groan, shifting slightly on the bed, it doesn’t pull you out of it. El is at his side immediately, her voice soft but urgent as she leans closer. “Mario? Hey—can you hear me?” He mumbles something incoherent, his words slurred, barely forming, and El glances up, worry etched all over her face. “Doesn’t he need a hospital?”
The young man doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “If he goes to a hospital, questions get asked,” he says flatly. “Police get involved.”
“Maybe they should,” you cut in sharply, stopping your pacing to look at him. “Maybe that would finally shut this place down.”
That gets his attention.
He shoots you a look, sharp and unimpressed. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, tone edged with something colder now, “but your friend would be the one in trouble. This is illegal. He signed up for it.”
You don’t care.
You don’t care what he says, what excuses they have, what twisted logic they follow in this place.
Your anger is already too far gone.
“Where is he?” you ask suddenly.
The room stills for a second.
“Who?” one of the men asks.
You look at him like it should be obvious. “JK.”
They exchange a glance, something unreadable passing between them. “Why?” the other one mutters.
You don’t answer that.
You just look at El. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him.”
She blinks at you, clearly trying to figure out what you’re about to do. “Wait—”
But you’re already moving.
You leave before she can stop you, before anyone can question you further, your steps quick and determined as you head back down the hall. You don’t even know if he’s still there, if he went back to that room or somewhere else entirely, but you don’t stop to think about it.
You’re too angry to think.
You reach the door and push it open hard.
Empty.
The room looks exactly the same as before—the couch, the chair, the faint trace of something cleaner in the air compared to the rest of the place—but he’s not there. You step further in, scanning it anyway, like he might suddenly appear.
“Where the hell—”
The door opens behind you and you turn immediately.
JK stands there.
He doesn’t look surprised to see someone in the room. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed, like you’re an inconvenience he didn’t feel like dealing with tonight. His hair is wet, strands sticking to his forehead, steam still curling faintly from the doorway behind him—bathroom, you realize. He’s changed, now wearing a pair of dark cotton shorts, a towel in his hands that he uses once before tossing it aside onto the couch like it doesn’t matter.
Like nothing matters.
He doesn’t even acknowledge you.
That’s what sets you off.
Before you can think, you’re already moving toward him, anger taking over completely as you shove both hands against his chest. The contact is solid—his skin still warm from the shower, heat lingering under your palms, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath your push. It’s like trying to move a wall.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snap, your voice sharp with fury. “You could’ve killed him!”
He barely moves.
Just stands there, looking down at you as if you’re something mildly irritating, one brow lifting slightly as your hair falls out of place from the force of your movement.
“You done?” he asks.
The words hit harder than they should.
You freeze for half a second, caught off guard—not just by how close he is, not just by hearing his voice directed at you for the first time, but by how little he seems to care.
“Not entirely,” you snap back, your anger flaring again as you move to shove him once more.
This time, he catches your wrist.
Effortlessly.
His grip is firm, stopping you mid-motion like it’s nothing, like you weren’t even a challenge to begin with.
“You’re a piece of shit,” you tell him, your voice tight.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, slow and unimpressed. “And yet,” he replies coolly, tilting his head slightly as his grip doesn’t loosen, “your friend stepped into the ring with me anyway.”
“Let me go,” you snap, yanking against him.
For a second, he just watches you, completely unimpressed, like this is nothing new to him.
Then he lets go.
Abruptly.
You stumble back a step as he pushes you away, not rough enough to hurt, but enough to put distance between you, like he’s brushing something off.
“Careful,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “you’re gonna hurt yourself before you even get close to hurting me.”
The arrogance in his tone only makes your blood boil more.
“You’re an arrogant prick,” you snap without hesitation, your voice sharp enough to cut through whatever calm he’s pretending to have. “Do you feel good about it? Almost killing people for a bunch of money?”
Something shifts.
It’s subtle, but it’s there. The smirk fades just enough, his eyes darkening as he looks at you, really looks this time.
“Out,” he says.
You don’t move. You don’t even consider it.
“You’re in no position to tell me what to do,” you fire back immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify himself.
That only makes it worse.
You step closer again, closing the distance, your finger lifting as you point it toward his chest. “You don’t get to act like this is normal. Like you’re not the problem here.”
His hand moves before you can react.
Fast.
Your wrist is caught again, but this time there’s no patience behind it. No casual ease. Just control.
“You’re pushing it,” he says, voice low, edged with warning.
“Good,” you snap, trying to yank your hand free. “Maybe someone should—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
In one swift movement, he turns you, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud before you can process what just happened. Your breath catches as he pins your arms behind you, one hand locking both of your wrists in place, the other braced near your shoulder, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
The shift is instant.
You’re not in control anymore.
Your heart jumps, adrenaline spiking as you struggle against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s stronger, faster, and far too used to this kind of contact.
He leans in slightly, just enough for you to feel the heat still radiating off his skin.
“You talk a lot,” he mutters, his grip tightening just enough to keep you from trying anything else, “for someone who has no idea what she just walked into.”
His hand still holds your wrists behind your back, and now his other arm shifts slightly, boxing you in. The heat from his body hasn’t faded yet, his skin still warm under the dim light, his breath just brushing near your ear without quite touching.
Your pulse spikes despite yourself.
“Yeah?” you manage, your voice tighter than you’d like. “What did I walk into?”
There’s a beat.
Short.
Deliberate.
Then—
“A place you don’t belong,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, right by your ear.
No hesitation. No explanation.
Just fact.
His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he’s still in control.
“And a fight you can’t win.”
He lets go of you.
The shift is sudden enough that you almost stumble forward before catching yourself. You turn on him immediately, your chest rising and falling too fast, your pulse still racing from the proximity, from the grip, from everything. For a second, you just stare at him, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold onto the anger that brought you here in the first place.
“Leave,” he says.
Just like that. Flat. Dismissive.
You blink at him, still catching your breath. You don’t even know what you expected coming here—an apology, a reaction, something—but all you got was this. Him. Unbothered. Untouched. Like what happened in that ring meant nothing.
You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—
The door swings open.
A blonde woman steps in, her energy shifting the moment she notices you. The grin she walked in with disappears almost instantly, her eyes flicking between you and him, lingering a second too long on the fact that he’s still shirtless.
The air changes.
“Who’s this?” she asks, her tone edged, curious but already leaning toward annoyed.
Jungkook doesn’t rush to answer. He doesn’t even look at her right away. Instead, he grabs an oversized shirt, pulling it over his head like this conversation doesn’t concern him in the slightest.
“She’s leaving,” he says, like that’s enough.
You let out a sharp scoff. “The hell I am.”
That gets a reaction. Not from her.
From him.
It’s subtle—just the corner of his mouth pulling into something that almost resembles a grin, like he finds you more entertaining than anything else. It’s not warm. Not kind.
Provocative.
The blonde woman shifts her weight, clearly irritated now, her gaze narrowing slightly as she looks at you again. “I think you heard him.”
You don’t move. Not an inch.
“I heard him,” you reply coolly. “I just don’t care.”
Her annoyance sharpens, visible now, but Jungkook doesn’t step in. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t repeat himself. If anything, he looks more interested now, watching the tension build like it’s something worth his time.
The woman steps further into the room, and now that you actually look at her, it’s obvious. The red dress clings to her body, cut far too short to be anything but intentional, the fabric hugging her curves like she walked in here knowing exactly what she came for.
Not the fight. Him.
You almost snort at the realization.
She barely spares you another glance before her attention shifts fully to Jungkook, like you’ve already been dismissed. “You were incredible tonight,” she says, her tone smoothing out into something softer, almost impressed. “I was here. Watched the whole thing.”
Jungkook doesn’t react the way she expects.
He doesn’t even look at her.
“Good,” he says simply, already reaching for a bag that looks like his, slinging it over his shoulder like the conversation means nothing.
The woman doesn’t seem discouraged.
If anything, she leans into it.
She steps closer, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s used to getting attention this way. And maybe she is. But this time, there’s something else in it too—something sharper. When she shifts closer to him, her gaze flicks to you for just a second.
Oh. There it is.
She sees you as a problem. A threat perhaps.
The realization makes something in you click—and instead of being bothered, you grin.
Actually grin.
You shake your head lightly, almost amused now as you look between them.
Her hand brushes lightly against his arm, her voice dropping as she says something under her breath, something meant just for him.
JK finally looks at her.
Not interested. Not even tempted.
“Not tonight,” he says flatly, pulling his arm away without hesitation. There’s no softness in it, no apology. Just a quiet finality that lands harder than anything else.
It’s enough.
Her expression tightens, the confidence slipping just slightly as she straightens, clearly not satisfied with the answer. For a second, it looks like she might push it, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply, shooting you one last look before turning on her heel and walking out.
The door closes behind her.
Silence settles for a beat.
Then his attention shifts.
Back to you.
And this time, there’s no amusement left in it.
Just irritation.
“You’re still here,” he says, like it’s a problem that hasn’t fixed itself yet.
You let out a sharp breath, disbelief mixing with the anger that never really left.
“I can’t believe you,” you say, your voice tight, almost shaking. “You just walk out of there like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t even happen.”
He doesn’t respond.
That only makes it worse.
“Mario is in there,” you continue, stepping closer again, your frustration building all over again. “Barely conscious, coming in and out of it—and you’re just… here. Moving on. Like this is normal.”
Your eyes flick briefly to the door, then back to him.
“And what, now it’s back to this?” you add, your tone sharper. “Girls lining up because you won? Like that’s all this is to you?”
His expression barely shifts.
If anything, it hardens.
He doesn’t react the way you expect.
No apology. No defense.
Instead, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick fold of cash, and before you can even register it, he grabs your hand and forces it open, pressing the money into your palm.
“Enough?” he asks, tone flat. “Or you gonna keep talking?”
You stare down at it for half a second, disbelief hitting first, then anger flooding right after.
You’re about to throw it straight back at him—
But he speaks again.
“Give it to him,” he adds, nodding slightly toward the door. “Call it… a consolation prize.”
There’s a pause, just enough for it to land.
Then, quieter, with that same careless edge, “For getting dropped that fast.”
Your fingers tighten around the money without you meaning to, your jaw clenching as the insult settles heavy in the air.
Before you can react—
He moves.
It’s quick. Too quick.
His hand comes up, and his thumb brushes over the corner of your lips, slow enough to feel deliberate, wiping at something you didn’t even realize was there. The touch is brief, but it lands heavier than it should, heat lingering where his skin just was.
You freeze.
Not because you want to. Because you didn’t expect it.
He pulls his hand back, glancing at his thumb like he’s checking the faint smear of red before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.
“Fix yourself,” he says, voice low, edged with something mocking. “Wouldn’t want you going back to your guy looking like that.”
His eyes flick back up to yours, that same faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Lipstick’s smudged, Red.”
And just like that, he’s done. He grabs his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks past you without another glance, like the conversation never mattered to him in the first place, like you never mattered enough to leave an impression. The bag shifts as he moves, heavy, the faint rustle unmistakable—you don’t even need to look twice to know it’s stuffed with cash. Easy money. Hard-earned in all the wrong ways. He carries it like it’s nothing.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and the shift is immediate—the room falling into a stillness that feels almost unnatural after everything that just happened.
The silence presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. The faint trace of his cologne lingers in the air—something sharp, clean, expensive—cutting through the stale mix of sweat and smoke that clings to everything else in this place. It doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t fit the cracked walls, the worn furniture, the quiet evidence of violence that lingers in every corner. And somehow, neither does he, even though he clearly owns it.
You don’t move right away. Your hand is still loosely curled around the cash he forced into your palm, your other lifting without you realizing it, fingers hovering near your lips where his thumb had brushed just moments ago. The sensation is gone, but not really. It lingers in your head, in the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up, and that alone is enough to make your jaw tighten.
Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s worse now—faster than it was before you even walked in here, louder in your ears, harder to ignore. You swallow, forcing your hand to drop, grounding yourself, dragging your focus back to something real. Back to why you came here in the first place.
Because whatever that was, whatever just passed between you and him, it doesn’t matter.
Mario is still down the hall, hurt, barely conscious, and this place hasn’t changed just because you stepped into one room and out of another. It’s still exactly what you thought it was—a place where violence is entertainment, where people walk in and don’t always walk out the same, and where no one stops to care what happens once the fight is over.
a/n: okay so this happened in the last 24 hours, don't ask me how I still can't believe this story happened lmaooo but I have had so many story ideas in my head and I genuinely missed writing, just something for fun, something fresh. I also wanted to do boxer jk for the longest time!! hope you guys enjoyed the surprise and I can't see what you think of this ♡
— summary: you stopped expecting anything from love a long time ago. four years on your own taught you that much until you crossed paths with jungkook at yoongi’s birthday party. what begins as a chance encounter quickly becomes something real. and now, are you ready to close your eyes and trust him?
— pairing: jungkook x fem. reader
— genre: strangers to lovers, ceo au, biker au, slow burn, angst, fluff, and smut
— total word count: 50k in total
— author’s note: soo this happened... this started completely naturally, i never expected to write a fanfic this soon, but i've been having so much fun working on it, and i wanted to share it with you all 🥰 i'm still working on it, but as i've been writing a lot the past few days, i already know that by mid-may both parts will be over. jungkook was used as a visual only on the fic, as this had no chosen member at the beginning 🤗 i guess this puts some kind of an end to my hiatus (still not sure though), and i hope you'll enjoy this as much as i'm enjoying writing it ❤️ thank you so so much for your support guys!! means always so so much ❤️
18+ | warnings listed in each part
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PART I
⤷ meeting jungkook at yoongi’s birthday was unexpected, but in less than twenty-four hours, he made you feel more alive than you have in years. letting him into your life felt just natural, but that doesn’t mean it’s simple. as you slowly get to know him, you find yourself trusting him more… but should you really? or is he hiding something from you?
PART II
⤷ finding out about his secret from someone else hurts more than expected. you’ve always hated lies, and he knew it, which made it even harder. his intentions were never meant to hurt you; he just wanted to be seen for who he truly is. despite it all, your heart burns for him. you’ve never loved anyone this intensely, but are you truly ready to trust him again?
you gained a lot from university; a law degree catching dust in your attic, countless arguments with your roommate about laundry schedules, and a best friend whose biggest fear in life is commitment. in essence, jungkook's world gets flipped upside down when you take a trip to london and he finally realizes his feelings for you...only to find out you've come back with a fiancé.
pairing: jungkook x (fem) reader x namjoon
genre: fluff, angst, smut, f2l au, strangers to lovers au, love triangle au, bestfriend!jungkook, fuckboy!jungkook, baker!reader, photographer!namjoon
rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !
w/c: 63k
warnings: chaotic meet cute, lots of friendly banter, emotional constipation from jk, impulsive decisions made by oc and joon, BRITISH NAMJOON, some unrequited love at one point (right person wrong time), jealousy jealousyyyy, jk does some questionable things for love LMAO, fear of dying alone, some emotional cheating, yearninggggg, crashing a wedding, explicit sexual content; two separate sex scenes, kissing, dirty talk, handjob, oral (m. & f. receiving), breastplay, bigdick!joon, sub!joon, lightdom!jk, switch!reader, unprotected sex, wedding night sex, cowgirl, missionary, creampies.
a/n: FINALLYYYYY HALLELUJAH IT'S HERE Y'ALL 😩😩😩 this fic took me longer than i anticipated but i'm really happy with how it turned out and i hope you all love it as much as i do !!!! it's super duper long and i had to split it into four because of the 1k block limit (which is annoying but it's okay) so sit back and grab some popcorn y'all !! these characters are all a bit flawed and that's okay so please bear with them 🙂↕️ i'd love to hear all of your thoughts and opinions on moh pleassse send all your lovely asks so we can chat because i always love interacting with you guys. and don't forget to like, comment, reblog and ENJOY !! i love you soooo much !!! & banner creds to the lovely and talented @voyter 🫶🏼
main masterlist moodboards spotify playlist moh extras
It's Halloween night on campus, which means three things: a really loud, obnoxious party filled with really loud, obnoxious people, drunk hookups that no one will remember in the morning, and you've locked yourself in your room to avoid all of the above.
The entire university is pulsating with the energy of drunk frat boys in capes, girls dressed in skimpy lingerie calling it their costume, and at least three professors who are far too old to be dressed up amongst the students. You, however, are in your true element: large hoodie, fuzzy socks, a half-eaten Snickers bar on your nightstand, and a thick law textbook open in front of you.
Parties aren't your thing. You'd rather be sued than make small talk with a guy dressed as a ketchup bottle. While your roommate, Jieun, spent hours hot-gluing rhinestones onto her platform space boots for her "sexy astronaut" outfit, you politely declined all invitations and instead declared war on your midterm readings. The only spooky thing in your life right now is the growing realisation that you don't actually want to be a lawyer, the thought that you'll probably die single, and knowing you'll be buried in student debt by the time you graduate.
And honestly? That's still more appealing than the campus party.
You take a break from studying around 2am and finally decide to turn off the light and get some rest. Until the door of your dorm room creaks open.
You pause, blinking your eyes open in the darkness of your room. Maybe Jieun forgot her phone. Maybe she brought back a stray alien from the party. Either way, you don't move, not until the unmistakable dip of the mattress under your legs almost sends your soul flying from your body.
Someone just climbed into your bed.
Your eyes widen to the size of saucers, your heart racing in your chest. It's pitch black, the only light coming from the little slit under the door.
"Jieunieee," the voice whispers, smooth and far too seductive. "Are you ready for the best dick of your life?"
That's it.
You scream as loud as you can, springing straight up. You grab the bottle of Chanel perfume on your nightstand and spray it directly into his eyes.
"AHHH—WHAT THE F—!"
The stranger falls out of your bed with a loud thud, hitting the floor dramatically like he's been shot in a Western.
"What the hell?!" he groans, writhing on the floor with a hand covering his eyes and the other holding his head. "You maced me!"
"That was perfume!" you yell, feeling your heart in your throat, the perfume clutched tightly in your hand, holding it out in case you have to spray him again. "And why are you in my bed, you psychopath?!"
"I was looking for Jieun!"
"You can't just crawl into beds like a raccoon in the night!"
"I thought this was her bed!"
"Do I sound like Jieun?!"
He blinks rapidly on the floor, his voice strained through his agony. "I don't know, it's dark and I was promised a sexy astronaut!"
You switch on the bedside lamp with the force of a woman ready to kill.
And there he is.
Black leather pants. Tight black shirt. Fake bruises and cuts on his face, presumably made with makeup. An eyebrow piercing. Tousled hair. Ridiculously attractive even while clutching at his eyes like he's just been gassed in battle.
Your brain fills in the blanks before he even says it.
"You're Jeon Jungkook, aren't you?"
He lowers his hand just enough to smirk at you. "And you're ___. The infamous roommate I've heard so much about."
You sigh, flopping back against your headboard in disbelief. "Of course she's hooking up with you of all people."
Jungkook is a campus legend. The boy whose reputation includes at least two streaking incidents, three girls who dropped out of the university due to their heartbreak, and a tongue that's done unspeakable things according to the word on the street.
And now he's on your floor, still very much looking like the kind of man your mother warned you about even after being sprayed in the eyes with perfume.
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "For the record, I've had a lot of entrances, but that was definitely my worst."
"You scared the crap out of me!" you exclaim, tossing your pillow at him. "Who just walks into a dorm and climbs into an unfamiliar bed?!"
"I didn't walk," he scoffs, catching the pillow with an insufferable grin. "I strode."
You glare at him.
He grins wider. "Come on, that was funny!"
"You have a concussion, don't you?"
He wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms, settling on the edge of your bed. "Honestly? If you weren't so terrifying, I'd be impressed."
"Excuse me?"
"You're terrifying," he deadpans. "You sprayed me in the eyes and insulted me all within five minutes. That's worse than most of my Tinder dates. Not by much, but still."
You fold your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him. "Maybe don't go crawling into beds with strangers."
"Technically, you're the stranger," he quips, pointing a finger at you. "And you've maced and verbally abused me. That's a lot for a first impression."
You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Unbelievable. Are you always this irritating?"
"I like to think of myself as…persistently charming," he smiles.
You give him a dry look, your eyes narrowing. "You're the human equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic."
"Oof," he winces, placing his hand over his heart. "Okay, that one hurt. But also...kinda hot that you're this mean."
You blink at him. "Do girls actually fall for this crap?"
"Usually," he shrugs.
"Well, congratulations," you scoff. "You've officially found the girl who's immune to your bullshit."
He holds up his hands in surrender, laughing softly. "Okay, you've made your point. I'm sorry I invaded your bed. I didn't mean to scare you like that. I apologise."
Your face softens ever so slightly, giving him a curt nod. "Thank you."
"But also," he adds, leaning back on his hands, "you're hilarious. And clearly not afraid to defend your space. We should be friends."
You stare at him. "What?"
"Friends," he repeats, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You and me. I'm serious."
You narrow your eyes once more. "You literally came here to hook up with my roommate."
"Which clearly isn't happening anymore," he sighs, lounging on your bed like he's at a beach club. "But now I've met you. And I like you."
You scoff. "You don't know me."
"I know you don't care about going to a hot party and hooking up on Halloween night, and would absolutely tase someone if you had the chance. Right?"
You pause. That…is not incorrect.
"I also know that girls like you usually avoid guys like me. Which is fair. But still…" He swings his legs off the bed, standing up. "I want to be friends."
"Why would we do that?" you ask, genuinely curious.
He grins. "Because you're the first girl who's actually told me I'm full of shit to my face."
You open your mouth, then close it again, and he takes that as a win.
"Anyway, I'll see you around," he smiles, walking toward the door. "If Jieun asks, tell her I tested positive for an STD or something."
You roll your eyes. "Get out!"
He's halfway out when he turns back and winks. "Nice meeting you, ___."
"Likewise, Satan," you grumble, gesturing for him to shut the door.
He laughs, loud and boyish, and disappears down the hall. And just like that, your quiet Halloween night turned into something totally unexpected.
You met Jeon Jungkook. And he wants to be your friend.
God help you.
The library is dead silent, but your soul is screaming.
You've been staring at the same paragraph in your property law textbook for the past eleven minutes and it's starting to feel unbearable. You've underlined the phrase "freehold estates" three times in three different colours, and it still means absolutely nothing to you. Your highlighter is on life support, your brain is fried, and you'd sell your soul for caffeine.
But instead of caffeine, you get Jungkook. Perfect.
"Hey, bestie."
You flinch so hard your pen skitters off the desk.
He slides into the seat across from you like he owns it, as if you invited him. As if this is a casual meet-up instead of a sacred study bubble you built with blood, sweat, and overpriced stationery.
"Why," you whisper, your eyes narrowing, "are you here?"
He blinks innocently, shrugging. "Checking on my friend. You did say we'd be friends."
You raise a skeptical brow.
He leans in closer, his voice mock-offended and far too loud for the library. "Which is interesting, because I've texted you three times this week and you haven't replied once."
You open your mouth, then close it, unable to come up with a valid excuse.
"I had to force you to give me your number last week when we ran into each other in the cafeteria," he continues, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do you always ghost your friends, or am I just special?"
You groan, rubbing your temples. "I've been busy, Jungkook."
"You probably didn't even save my contact," he mumbles dramatically. "I'm still just a number. I feel so objectified."
You blink at him, fighting the chuckle threatening to bubble up your throat. "You're so dramatic."
"And you're so avoidant. Classic enemies-to-friends arc," he muses. "We're already ahead of schedule."
You roll your eyes, glancing back down at your textbook. You really don't have time for this, but Jungkook props his chin on his hand and looks at you with that annoyingly charming smile of his, like he's got nowhere else to be. Like being here, distracting you, is the most important thing in the world.
You hate how disarming it is.
"You done soon?" he asks.
"I have a property law test tomorrow," you mutter dryly. "So, no. I will never be done. I will die in this library and haunt the footnotes of this stupid textbook."
He laughs loudly, earning a 'shhhh!' from a student two tables away. "What if I bribe you with coffee?"
You look up, contemplating it for a second before going back to the dreaded textbook.
"Not interested," you mutter lowly, though it's not even convincing to your own ears.
"You're clearly tired," he scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "And cranky. And there's a weird twitch in your left eye. Come on, ___. Take a break with me."
You purse your lips, letting out a deep sigh. The twitch is real. And your head is pounding. And caffeine does sound like heaven right now.
"You're really annoying," you mutter. "I mean it."
"I've been told," he grins, rising from the chair like he's already won. "Come on. Twenty-minute coffee break. Your brain cells will thank me."
Against your better judgment, and possibly because you might actually fall asleep in your chair, you shut your textbook and drag yourself to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"Fifteen minutes," you grumble. "If I fail this test, I'm blaming you."
"Fair," he shrugs, grinning as he holds the library's door open for you. "But at least you'll have had the best coffee of your life, so it'll be worth it."
The café is warm and noisy, filled with the comforting smell of espresso and baked goods. Students sit hunched over laptops. A barista is arguing with the espresso machine. Someone's crying in the corner over what sounds like an econ midterm.
You're halfway through the line when Jungkook turns to you, holding two fingers in front of the glass display.
"Okay," he huffs dramatically. "Crucial decision. Strawberry muffin or banana cinnamon walnut?"
You blink up at him, your eyes narrowing. "What?"
"I can't decide," he confesses, peering at them like they're ancient artefacts. "I want both but I can't get both. That's too much sugar and fat and I'll lose my abs. A girl licked whipped cream off my abs two days ago. I need them."
You snort, taking a step forward as the line starts moving again. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm serious," he whines. "Pick one for me. I trust your judgment for some reason."
You sigh in resignation. "Do you want nuts?"
"I don't like nuts," he mutters with a grimace. "But I also don't like not liking things. Feels like I'm limiting my potential."
You stare at him like he's actually insane.
He stares at the muffins.
"Banana walnut it is," you nod.
He looks at you like you just sentenced him to death. "Really? I was kinda hoping for strawberry."
"You said you don't like not liking things. Expand your horizons. Live a little. Face your fears. Eat the nut muffin."
He lets out a groan like he's being tortured. "If I hate it, this is on you."
"Oh relax, you'll live," you scoff, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
"What if I die?"
"If you die, I get that expensive laptop of yours."
He nods solemnly. "Deal."
After a long wait that's most definitely over fifteen minutes, you sit down at a corner table by the window, both of you nursing warm drinks. He watches you take the first sip of your mocha like you're some sort of science experiment.
"You were desperate for this, huh?" he chuckles.
"Don't judge me."
He laughs and takes a bite of the banana walnut muffin. He chews slowly, his face unreadable.
You watch him, waiting for the verdict.
He swallows, licks a crumb off his thumb, and looks pleasantly surprised. "…Woah. This is amazing."
You smile, sipping your coffee. "Told you."
"Who knew I liked nuts?"
"I did. You're welcome."
He leans back in his chair and smiles over at you. It's soft, genuine, not the usual grin he uses when he's being annoying.
"I'm starting to think we're meant to be," he quips.
You nearly choke. "Over a muffin?"
"Yeah. You just made a decision that changed my life. This is fate."
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up nonetheless.
He nudges your foot gently under the table, slowly sliding the muffin over to you to taste.
"Thanks for coming with me."
You take a little bite of the muffin, nodding at the taste. "Thanks for the invitation."
And just like that, it starts. A small, insignificant tradition that might mean more some day, but for now, it's just comfortable and easy.
Just…friendship.
—
The kitchen is a mess. There's flour on your cheeks, frosting on your elbow, and a criminal amount of cupcake batter missing from the mixing bowl. Your cousin asked you to bake a batch of vanilla cupcakes for her bridal shower and of course, the new pain in your ass decided to come over to your dorm to 'help'.
"Jungkook," you warn, pointing your spatula at him, "if you eat one more spoon of raw batter, I will throw you out. And no, that's not a threat, it's a promise."
"I'm not eating it," he mumbles, his mouth full. "I'm...quality testing."
"You're gonna get salmonella and die."
"I'll die a happy man because this batter's really good," he grins.
You sigh, scraping the last of the creamy batter into the cupcake liners while Jungkook leans against the counter, licking the spoon you gave him to keep him busy. He has cake batter on the corner of his mouth, and somehow he still looks good. Ridiculously good. Stupidly, unfairly rude levels of good. You pretend not to notice.
"You're supposed to be helping," you sigh.
"I am helping," he says proudly. "You said these are for your cousin's bridal shower. What better way to show my support of the union than selflessly sacrificing my digestive system?"
"You don't have a logical bone in your body."
He grins, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, helping a friend who desperately needed me."
"You invited yourself," you deadpan. "As usual."
He shrugs. "You didn't say no."
You sigh and slide the tray of cupcakes into the oven before setting the timer. The warmth of the kitchen hums around you. It smells like vanilla and feels like a comforting hug in the midst of exams and stress and the impending doom of early adulthood.
Jungkook hops onto the counter, swinging his legs to entertain himself now that the fun part—eating raw batter and watching you stress over quantities of baking powder—is over.
"I still can't believe you made all this from scratch," he murmurs, looking genuinely impressed. "These are, like…actual, professional cupcakes."
You wipe your hands on a dish towel, chuckling. "My cousin's paying me, so that's kinda the point."
He tilts his head, watching you intently. "You're really good at this."
Something in you blossoms at the compliment. He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like it's a fact. It feels good, something you're not sure you've felt before.
You smile faintly and sit down at the little table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mess around you; edible flowers, mixing bowls, an empty packet of cupcake liners.
"It's what I love," you murmur softly, a look of tenderness blooming in your gaze.
He raises a brow. "Baking?"
"Yeah," you nod. "Always have. Even when I was a kid. I used to make these terrible little chocolate chip cookies that were more like…burnt rocks...but I'd still force everyone in my family to eat them."
He laughs.
You don't.
"I used to dream about owning a bakery," you add, your voice a little softer, more vulnerable. "Still do, I guess."
There's a pause. He watches you, remaining quiet, waiting for you to elaborate without making a silly comment. You don't look at him, but you can feel it, the shift, his attention going from teasing to genuinely trying to understand you a little deeper.
"But…" you sigh, leaning your chin on your palm. "My parents want me to be a lawyer. That was always the plan. It's respectable. Stable. It makes sense."
"Do you want to be a lawyer?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.
You hesitate, letting out a deep sigh. It's as if a gate has opened inside your chest because you don't seem to hold anything back.
"No," you scoff. "Not even a little."
The confession feels heavier than you expected. It feels like you're finally being honest with yourself, which is far scarier than being honest with him. You can ignore his teasing remarks, but you can't ignore that little mocking voice in your head that tells you your dreams probably won't work out anyway.
Jungkook doesn't say anything right away. He just keeps swinging his legs slowly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter.
Finally, he asks, "Then why are you doing it?"
You roll your eyes, looking anywhere but his eyes. "Because…I'm good at it apparently...and they expect it. I don't want to disappoint them."
He nods slowly, his eyes downcast.
"You know what would be more disappointing?" he murmurs, his smile barely reaching his eyes.
You tilt your head, looking over at him.
"Waking up ten years from now and hating your life," he deadpans. "And never even trying."
Your chest tightens, your head racing with endless possibilities of a future you thought was already set out for you.
"You're so good at this, ___," he smiles, gesturing to the cupcakes in the oven, the kitchen, the part of you he wants to explore further. "Like, actually good. Not just hobby-good. This is your thing."
You swallow thickly, remaining silent. You don't usually tell people this stuff. You don't usually let yourself say it out loud because then it feels too real. Too scary. But for some reason…with him, it doesn't. You've come to realise he makes you feel seen, which is weird, considering he usually forgets girls' names and faces after a single encounter. This is different, though. You're not a girl he wants to sleep with. You're ___, the girl he wants to hang out with at 2am just because. You're the girl he genuinely wants to spend time with because he enjoys your company, your friendship. You like that. It makes this all feel more genuine.
There's a long beat of silence before you begrudgingly admit the thoughts plaguing you. "You can be really sweet when you're not being an idiot."
He laughs, his nose scrunching up in that way that makes your stomach feel tingly and fluttery. "Don't spread that around. I have a specific brand to maintain."
You laugh, loud and sincere.
"I think you'd make a great bakery owner," he murmurs softly, flicking some leftover flour in your direction.
You wave him off like it's nothing and check your cupcakes, but for the first time since you started studying law, you finally believe you're capable of more than settling, all thanks to the boy on your counter with flour in his hair and sincerity in his eyes.
—
It's almost midnight when Jungkook's phone buzzes on the nightstand. He's half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, one sock missing. He squints at the screen through bleary eyes, seeing your contact name.
He's awake in an instant.
"Hello?" he croaks, already sitting up, his hair sticking up in all directions. He hears the catch in your voice before you even say a word.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, sniffling. "Did I wake you?"
His heart drops. "Are you okay?"
"...Seungcheol...he cheated on me."
Jungkook is already pulling on sweatpants before the word 'cheated' leaves your lips.
Of course. Fucking Seungcheol. You weren't even really looking for love when you met him. He was just a friend of a friend in one of your classes—a smooth talker who carried around a leather briefcase like he was already a full-time lawyer instead of a sleep-deprived undergrad. Jungkook never liked him, always thought he was a bit pretentious, but of course he wouldn't burst your bubble. Looks like he was right about the dick after all.
"I'll be there in ten."
You open your dorm door in your pajamas, eyes red, nose pink. Your expression crumples the moment you see him, and he doesn't hesitate, just wraps you up in his arms, no questions asked.
Even after just seven months of friendship, you cling to Jungkook like a lifeline, like he'll put all your broken pieces together again. Sure, your relationship with Seungcheol only lasted two months but that means a lot to an eighteen-year-old, so there are still a lot of broken pieces nonetheless.
"He said he didn't mean to," you mumble against his chest while you lie in bed together, willingly this time. "Like that makes it better. Like I should be grateful that it only happened once."
Jungkook exhales hard, like he's trying not to yell. "He's a fucking idiot."
"He said I made him feel…small. That I was trying to outsmart him. That I was too independent. That I...made him feel like he couldn't 'be the man', whatever that means."
Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes fierce, his hands cupping your face.
"You are smart. And independent. And so beautiful. And funny. And you make the best desserts in this entire goddamn city. If he couldn't handle that, it's not because you were too much. It's because he just wasn't enough."
Your eyes well up again, tears silently slipping down your cheeks.
"He cheated with a really pretty girl. Blonde. Really big boobs," you grumble.
Jungkook's voice softens, his thumbs stroking your wet cheeks. "Don't compare yourself to some other girl. You are...so fucking gorgeous, by the way."
You snort, shaking your head. "Shut up."
"I'm serious." His thumb brushes away another tear. "You walk around like you're not insanely beautiful, and you think no one notices. But I do, ___."
You stare at him, stunned into silence.
He shrugs, pulling you closer to rest your head against his chest. "Just saying. Don't cry over some knock-off loser when you're literally you."
He stays wrapped around you for as long as you need, one hand gently running through your hair. You sniffle into his neck, your eyes eventually fluttering shut from the warmth and safety of it all.
Eventually, you fall asleep against his chest, breathing steady, a hand loosely clutching his hoodie.
Jungkook remains still, simply looking at you, admiring you in all your glory. Memorising the curve of your cheek against his collarbone. The way your lips part ever so slightly when you dream. The way your fingers curl, even in your sleep, like you're afraid to let go.
He's not the guy who stays for too long. Not the guy who commits. He's built his whole identity around not being that guy, but holding you like this, he kinda wishes he was.
He stares up at the ceiling and sighs, a quiet, hopeless sound.
"I wish I could be the man you need," he whispers into the dark. "But I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be."
And even though you're fast asleep, you still mumble something soft and unintelligible into his chest. You still hold on, and so does he.
—
Your dorm room is lit by a single lamp, the soft yellow glow contrasting violently with the hyper-pink DVD menu of Legally Blonde looping on your laptop. You've watched it a million times before but it's a Friday night and you're having a movie night with Jungkook, so naturally, you're introducing him to one of the classics.
Jungkook is sprawled across your bed, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand buried in a bowl of popcorn and the other dramatically thrown over his forehead as if he's on his deathbed.
"I swear I don't deserve this," he groans. "I mean...I know I call her Number Three but she didn't have to ghost me just because I wouldn't be exclusive with her. I was actually planning on seeing her again and then calling it off, like a gentleman."
You blink, glancing over at him. "Number Three?"
He sighs. "We've been over this, remember? The girl from the accounting party. Short. Cute. Gave me a hickey shaped like a continent. I think South America?"
You stare at him, slowly shaking your head. "You're insufferable."
He brightens. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"You say that," he grins, grabbing another handful of popcorn, "but I feel like you secretly admire my dedication to the craft."
"What craft?" you deadpan. "Being a man-whore?"
He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me."
"And you wound women," you chuckle.
"Wow. That hurt, ___."
You toss a pillow at him but he dodges like an athlete. Of course he does. Jackass.
Eventually, when the popcorn is half finished and your patience is half gone, you nod toward the laptop screen. "I'm honestly surprised you're not out tonight."
He blinks. "What do you mean?"
"It's Friday," you deadpan. "Your natural habitat is...I don't know...bars, random beds, broom closets. Anywhere but here watching Legally Blonde with me."
He pouts, actually pouts.
"Hey, I like hanging out with you. I cancelled plans to hang out with you."
You scoff, visibly unconvinced. You secretly feel very special and quite flattered, but that has to be too good to be true, right?
He continues casually, "I'm not completely heartless, you know. I have layers. I'm like an onion. A sexy onion."
You snort. "Please never say 'sexy onion' again."
"But it's true!" he insists, nudging your calf with his foot. "I really like hanging out with you. You're fun, easy to talk to, and you don't pretend to be someone else around me."
"And your other girls do?"
"They pretend to like whatever I like, dislike whatever I dislike. It gets boring listening to them just agree with whatever I say."
You roll your eyes. "Poor baby."
He rolls his eyes right back, as if you don't understand how hard it all is for him.
"You know what your problem is?" you ask, adjusting the laptop and pressing play.
"Oh, here we go."
"You don't believe in romance. Or in actual relationships. Or in…anything that requires feelings."
That's not entirely true, but he shrugs anyway. "Feelings are messy. Hookups are simple. Everyone wins."
"Not everyone," you mumble under your breath, your eyes trained on the laptop screen.
He tilts his head, his mouth stuffed with more popcorn. "What's that supposed to mean?"
You ignore his question and push on. "I just…I don't get it. How can you have meaningless sex with someone? Doesn't it feel empty?"
"Actually when I do it, they usually feel very full," he smirks.
You throw a balled-up pair of socks at his face and he catches it one-handed. What a show-off.
"Look," you clarify, sighing, "I'm just saying, I personally...want something real. Someday. Something that actually matters. A person who actually matters."
"Happily ever after, huh?" he teases.
"Maybe," you mutter, growing defensive. "Why not?"
He makes a face as if you just told him the Earth is flat. "Uhmmm...because that doesn't exist."
"You're so dramatic, yes it does."
"You're the dramatic one!" he argues. "You act like the universe is going to drop Prince Charming out of the sky."
"Maybe it will."
"It won't," he laughs.
You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. "You don't know that."
"I do. I know love ends in heartbreak ninety-nine percent of the time."
"So what? You avoid the one percent just in case it hurts?" you challenge.
"Yes," he chuckles carelessly. "And I'm thriving."
You stare at him for a long moment—this beautiful, aggravating, confusing man who can make you laugh until your ribs hurt and then say something that makes you want to shake him.
He has no idea what he does to people.
Especially you.
Especially because lately you've been catching yourself staring at his hands more when he gestures, or the way his hair falls into his eyes while he plays video games, or the sweet, sincere smile he gives you right before he ruins the moment and says something stupid.
You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Crushes on Jungkook are a disease, and you are absolutely vaccinated.
You distract yourself with the movie. Elle Woods is about to confront Warner. Great scene. Then—
His phone buzzes on the bed. Just once.
You don't mean to look but your eyes flick down instinctively while he rambles absentmindedly about the scene playing out on screen.
There's an unanswered text still waiting on the screen from his friend, Seokjin, asking about some business admin assignment. He didn't bother to respond yet. You're sure Seokjin is used to him taking forever to respond to texts, considering they've known each other since high school and now share a few classes together, which you found out on a tipsy Wednesday night when Jungkook decided to share his whole life story with you.
That's not the text that matters right now. The second text is the one that really catches your eye. The number isn't saved, but you don't have to be a genius to know that it's one of his hookups.
xx - xxx [10:32pm]: i had a lot of fun tonight. same time tomorrow ??
He slept with someone. He had sex with some girl literally right before coming over.
Your stomach drops. It shouldn't—not when you've known him for almost a year and you know him to be this way—but it does anyway. It drops because he said he cancelled plans to be with you, but it turns out you're just leftovers.
And now he's here, laughing with you, acting like you're such good company, when in reality you were the afterthought once again. The backup plan. The safe, comfortable option when he's done with whatever girl came before.
You clear your throat. "Your, uhm...your phone buzzed."
"Oh?" he mutters lazily, not even reaching for it. "Probably Jin. He's obsessed with me," he jokes.
You look back at the laptop screen before he can see your face. Your voice is neutral when you murmur, "You should probably respond. Maybe it's important."
"Nah," he shrugs. "I'm here. I'm hanging out with you."
You nod, forcing a smile.
Something inside you clicks—a silent, sharp realisation. This is who Jungkook is. This is who Jungkook will always be. He's funny, and charming, and a little bit addictive, if you're being completely honest.
But Jungkook will never be yours.
He will never be the perfect man for you. He will never be your one percent. So, you bury the tiny, blooming crush before it can grow roots, and you decide firmly, painfully, that a friend is all he'll ever be to you.
And you're sure you can live with that.
Ten years later...
If someone had told you back in university that the chaotic intruder you maced with Chanel perfume would become your favourite person, you would've recommended they seek help urgently.
And yet, ten years later, here you are.
Somehow, despite Jungkook's questionable life choices, endless line of women, and the fact that he once tried to microwave ramen without water, the two of you grew into something solid. Something constant. Something quietly threaded into every part of your adult life.
You grew up together.
Late-night study sessions turned into late-night grocery runs. His hangovers turned into your "you have to stop being so irresponsible" lectures. Your heartbreaks turned into his "give me his address" threats. You were there to celebrate with him when he landed his first high-paying corporate job and he was there to support you when you were grieving your dad's passing.
You became inseparable. A matched set. A pair of platonic soulmates. And in the past ten years, your life took a path younger you would've fainted over.
Sure, you graduated with your law degree and your family was proud, your grandmother bragged to her knitting group, and you spent several months pretending you were totally thrilled to be entering a profession that slowly devoured human souls.
But the truth? You hated it. The corporate offices. The endless contracts. The panic attacks you had in bathroom stalls pretending everything was fine. Law was stable and respectable, but it sucked the life out of you.
Your dream had always smelled like sugar, butter, and rising dough, so one day, with the determination your professors once called "excessive," you quit your job, emptied your savings, fought with your mom for a full year about your life choices, and opened the bakery you always wanted.
Honey & Hearth Bakery; your pride and joy, your entire heart with an overpriced oven attached. The tiny cake shop that eventually grew into a beloved neighbourhood spot with warm lighting, mismatched mugs, cozy booths, and the smell of fresh bread always lingering in the air.
And Jungkook? Well, he painted the walls baby-pink with you at 1am and drilled shelves with no prior experience. He showed up to your grand opening with an extravagant flower bouquet, three balloons that were far too big and dramatic for a bakery opening, and a promise to always support you and your happiness.
He's been your most loyal customer ever since.
Which brings you to now.
The bell above the front door jingles at 8 on a Thursday morning and you don't have to look up to know who it is.
"Morning, superstar," Jungkook calls out, his voice warm and annoyingly bright for a man who has a meeting to attend in an hour. Working in the corporate world isn't the most thrilling profession in life, but he earns the big bucks and he looks hot wearing a suit, and that's enough for him.
You grin without turning around, already whipping up his coffee. "You're late."
"It's 8," he scoffs, winking at a random woman that walks past him.
"Your usual time is 7:20."
"Sorry. Morning sex happened," he sighs, sliding onto his usual stool at the front counter. "That girl from the bar stayed the night and don't get me wrong, she's hot, but I had to explain the whole 'no overstaying your welcome' rule."
"Is that a part of your 'no back-to-back sex' rule?"
"Yes, exactly," he sighs.
"Isn't that basically the same thing as your 'no more than once a week' rule?"
"No, the 'no more than once a week' rule specifically only works from Monday to Friday."
You scoff. "Oh, so theoretically you could sleep with someone on Sunday night and it wouldn't break the rule if you slept with them again on Monday morning?"
"Now you're getting it," he nods.
You finally glance over your shoulder, listening to him go on a long tangent about his recent sexual endeavours. He's completely different from the mischievous boy who crawled into your bed a decade ago…yet somehow exactly the same. Older now, bigger, broader, jaw sharper, hair perfectly styled. Still stupidly handsome in that infuriating, effortless way.
"Pick one for me," he grins, looking over at the pastry case.
That little tradition certainly didn't end in university. In fact, it's become an every-morning thing. He comes in before work and insists you surprise him with a new pastry to try. Apparently it keeps him on his toes, which he believes is very important in life.
You lean against the counter, your arms crossed. "Hmm. What's your vibe today?"
"I don't know," he sighs, pretending to think. "Handsome. Dashing. Maybe a little mysterious."
"Delusional," you chuckle.
"See? This is why this works," he smiles. "You keep me humble."
"What about a slice of apple and cherry crumble?"
"Nah, I had that one last week," he shakes his head.
"Lemon butter cream cup maybe?"
"Not really feeling a cream cup today," he shrugs.
"Hmmm..." You scan the display of desserts, pursing your lips. "Pistachio croissant?"
"___, come on. You're losing your touch," he teases.
"Okay, okay, uhmmm..." You scan the display once more, picking a popular new item on the menu. "Okay, today you're getting the honeycomb and lavender custard tart."
He lights up instantly, like a puppy being offered a treat. "Yes. Excellent choice. I knew you'd pick that."
"You didn't know anything," you scoff, plating it for him.
"I had a feeling."
"You always have a feeling."
"And it's always right," he grins.
The bell rings at the front door and you quickly turn your attention to the cash register to serve one of your regular customers, Mrs. Park—an elderly woman who always makes pleasant conversation and compares you to her granddaughter. She's incredibly nice and always compliments you on the frilly dresses you wear.
"What will it be today, Mrs. Park?" you smile sweetly.
"My usual, dear," she chuckles warmly. "One of those lovely chocolate eclairs of yours. My daughter tells me I should stop eating them so much because of my blood sugar but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."
You chuckle, wrapping one up for her in a little pastel-pink box, taking her cash with a polite bow of your head. "My lips are sealed," you wink.
She laughs and takes the box before walking off with a little wave of her wrinkled hand.
That brings you back to the man waiting for his breakfast.
"Here," you murmur, sliding the plate and mug of coffee toward him. "Eat and try not to break anything. You already broke two mugs last month and I'm seriously going to start charging you for them."
He takes a big bite of the mini tart and groans in delight. "God, marry me."
"You literally just told me about how you were balls deep in some girl from the bar," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Besides, you fake-propose to me every morning."
"And I mean it every morning."
You snort. "Please. You'd never."
He leans an elbow on the counter. "Only because you'd divorce me for eating in bed and getting crumbs on the sheets," he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Correct," you nod, wiping down the counter. "I have standards."
He sets down his mug and straightens up, getting to what he's been meaning to discuss this morning. "So, you busy this Saturday?"
You shrug, mentally checking your schedule. "Not that I know of. Why?"
"Because I need you."
You pause. "You do?"
"It's an invitation actually."
"Okay…" you murmur sceptically, narrowing your eyes at him. "To what?"
"My father's engagement party. Shocker."
Your rag pauses mid-swipe across the counter. "Which one?"
"Engagement or father?" he grins.
"Both."
"Engagement number ten. Father number one."
You blink. "Ten?"
"Ten," he repeats, like it physically pains him. "She's twenty-three, gorgeous, has a skincare routine that could bankrupt nations. I think she was in diapers when my dad got married the third time."
You gape. "Wait, who's the one that sold protein powder on Instagram?"
"That was number eight." He takes another sip of his coffee. "This one does yoga retreats in Bali and says things like 'alignment is a mindset'. Ridiculous, I know. And she only wears bags that are made from real baby alligator, allegedly."
"That's disgusting and inhumane," you grimace. "So...why do you need me?"
"Because," he groans, "he's having some fancy dinner-slash-engagement party and he wants me there, and I am not suffering through that circus alone. And my dad likes you. And you make me look balanced and emotionally stable."
"That's a lot of responsibility for one woman," you tease.
He shrugs. "You used to handle lawsuits for fun."
"Yeah but I don't do law anymore," you deadpan.
"You still look like you could send someone to jail," he grins, taking another bite of his dessert. "Anyway, you know how these things go. Everyone's going to ask why I'm still single, and I'll end up getting irritated because my dad's fiancée—who's younger than me—insists on calling me 'sweetie'. I need backup. Please come, ___. I'll owe you forever."
You laugh softly, leaning across the counter. "You already owe me forever, Jeon."
"Yeah, but this time I'll actually admit it," Jungkook mumbles, meeting your eyes with that boyish half-smile that hasn't changed in a decade.
"Fine. I'll go," you sigh, tossing the rag into the sink.
Jungkook beams, and you pretend your stomach doesn't flip.
"You're amazing," he grins and claps once, pushing off the counter with a mouth full of custard tart. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Wear something fancy. And also maybe emotionally prepare yourself."
"For what?" You chuckle.
He grimaces. "Stepmom Number Ten is…a handful."
You chuckle. "Aren't they always?"
He points at you as he backs toward the door. "Exactly why you're coming with me."
The bell jingles again as he leaves, and your day continues with familiar customers while he rushes through the morning traffic.
Jungkook's father's estate is something you would never be able to afford even if you opened ten more bakeries. Calling it a house would be like calling the Titanic a canoe. There are fountains—yes, plural. There is a driveway long enough to train for a marathon. There's valet parking and a floral arch made of white roses that look like they cost more than your entire bakery.
And there are people. A lot of people. Champagne clinks in the air, soft jazz plays somewhere in the distance, and laughter rolls in every direction.
You exhale, adjusting the strap on your dress. "I always feel very commoner-in-the-palace when I'm here."
Jungkook tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, pulling you closer as he leans in, looking dapper in his black tux. "Relax. You're one of the only sane people here. That automatically makes you royalty."
"Does it?"
"Yes," he smiles confidently. "And when my father inevitably lets me inherit this place, which I'll force him to do, then I'll make you queen of the fountains."
You snort. "I don't want to be queen of the fountains."
"Too late. You've been coronated." He taps your forehead with his finger. "Boop."
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. He always does that; makes you feel like you belong wherever he is.
Inside, the party is in full swing. There are waiters weaving between people, guests mingling in glitter and silk, the future bride squealing in a voice that sounds like it's powered by helium and Mr. Jeon himself proudly showing off the engagement ring on her finger that could double as a murder weapon. There's even a towering cake on display, five tiers of gold-trimmed extravagance that you can't wait to recreate in your free time.
Jungkook grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands you one, taking a big gulp.
The moment his father spots the two of you, his entire face lights up.
"There's my favourite duo!" Jeon Jaehyun sweeps you both into a hug—more you than Jungkook. Jungkook gets a pat on the back like a border collie. You get an affectionate double cheek kiss and a squeeze.
"Mr. Jeon," you greet with a polite bow and a soft smile. You've always liked him. He makes questionable choices when it comes to women, but he's nice and he always treats you like you're a part of the family. It's also clear where Jungkook gets his good looks from, not that you ever look for too long or else he'd make you Wife Number Eleven.
"You look stunning tonight, sweetheart," he beams. "I tell you, if I were thirty years younger—"
"You'd still be making terrible decisions, dad," Jungkook cuts in, unamused.
Jaehyun clicks his tongue. "I'll have you know, son, that marriage is an unpredictable thing."
You glance at the fiancée across the room, who is taking a selfie with the champagne tower, not noticing that she's flashing half the guests.
"Unpredictable, huh?" you echo with a soft smile. Sure.
The fiancée, Seulgi—with a gorgeous face, waist-length extensions and breasts that defy gravity—bounces over.
"Kookieee," she sings. Her voice is airy, like her brain has never had to carry anything heavier than a single thought.
"Kookie?" you whisper.
He grimaces. "Don't."
"Oh my gosh, is this your girlfriend?" she asks, looking you up and down like you're a lost child she found at the mall. "I didn't know my future stepson has a special lady!"
"This is ___," he sighs. "My best friend. Strictly platonic."
Seulgi nods, smiling like she understands exactly none of those words, before turning her attention to her future husband. "Love-muffin," she coos, kissing Jungkook's father on the cheek. "The guests are asking when we're cutting the cake."
Jungkook leans toward you, whispering, "My dad's nickname for her is Sugarpuss."
You almost choke on your champagne. "No."
"Yes," he grins sarcastically.
His father pats her waist affectionately, grabbing your attention. "Isn't she wonderful?"
She smiles. "I got my nails done for today."
She wiggles her fingers in front of your face. They're pink and sparkly and probably cost more than your monthly grocery bill.
You smile, nodding. "Very pretty."
"Thank you!" she squeals. "I got them done at—oh look, champagne!" She wanders away mid-sentence.
Jungkook closes his eyes, groaning. "My latest stepmother, ladies and gentlemen."
Jaehyun gives you both an apologetic smile. "Listen, she's...youthful. Nothing wrong with that."
"She probably can't even spell 'youthful', dad," Jungkook deadpans.
Before Jaehyun can respond, another round of shrieking laughter erupts from Seulgi's direction. Jaehyun sighs deeply, chuckling.
You squeeze his arm, a soft smile settling on your face. "Congratulations. I really hope you're happy, Mr. Jeon."
He softens at that, looking between you and Jungkook. "With people like the two of you around? Hard not to be."
Jungkook, knowing how much of a sap you are, drags you away before you can tear up, but that doesn't stop you from clutching your chest like your heart might physically burst right through it.
The buffet tables are the size of actual battle stations. You and Jungkook each grab cake slices and slip outside, where fairy lights glow over small round tables. You sit at one, kicking off your heels with a relieved sigh.
"Vanilla for you," Jungkook says, sliding your plate over. "Chocolate for me."
"And we share," you remind him.
"We always share."
You scoop a bite of chocolate from his plate. He steals some vanilla from yours. It's instinctual.
While you eat, you glance out at the dance floor. Couples are slow dancing under the lights, chins tucked against shoulders, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something that makes your chest ache a little.
"I love that," you murmur softly.
Jungkook follows your gaze. "What? Dancing?"
"No," you scoff, taking a small bite of the vanilla cake. "The...closeness. The comfort. You know, two people who actually like being around each other."
He snorts, stuffing his mouth with cake. "Boring."
"You literally treat dating like a casual sport," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "You can't even do something as simple as cuddling."
"I could cuddle if I really wanted to," he mumbles defensively, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Jungkook, you once pushed a girl off your chest because she said your heartbeat sounded like a lullaby."
He points his fork at you. "Okay, but after I pushed her off of me, I played her an actual lullaby on Spotify, so..."
You laugh so loudly someone glances over at your table.
He leans back in his chair, studying you. "You should be more spontaneous. You fall in love too quickly and you assume every boyfriend is the one. You ever think maybe you'd have more fun if you didn't plan out every part of your life?"
"I'm not planning," you argue, eating a forkful of the chocolate cake. "I just...I like security and stability in life."
"Or," he counters, "you're waiting for this perfect man who doesn't exist."
You shrug, absentmindedly poking the cake with your fork. "I'm not looking for perfect; I'm looking for someone who sees a future with me, not a guy who 'goes with the flow' because he doesn't know how to commit. Someone I can build a life with."
He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. "One; that's kinda delusional. Two; you're twenty-eight, you still have time for all that later in life."
"Not according to my mom. She believes I should have been married and had babies by now."
"That's insane," he scoffs. "I'm thirty and I'm perfectly fine the way I am."
"We're very different people with very opposing views on relationships, Jungkook," you murmur gently. "And besides, I do kinda agree with her to a certain extent. I want to build something soon and not waste time dating men who only want a weekend. I'll die alone if I don't get a move on."
He softens, almost imperceptibly. "You don't have to rush. It'll happen with the right person when it's meant to be."
You nod down at your plate, dragging your fork through some frosting. "Yeah. I guess."
"Besides, do you want to get married just for the sake of being married? Look at my father who's on his tenth marriage and soon, his tenth divorce."
"Don't be so negative," you murmur with a faint smile. "Maybe this one will be his person."
"My mom was supposed to be his person," he grumbles, picking at the vanilla cake. "This one is just another mistake to add to the list."
"Jungkook," you smile. "Even if you know it's a mistake but it's not your place to intervene, you simply say, 'I'm happy you're happy' and move along."
"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs, bringing his fork up to his lips. "You're always right. I hate that."
You chuckle, taking another bite of his slice of cake. The moment settles between you, and you take it as an opportunity to share something with him that's been on your mind lately.
"Speaking of being spontaneous…"
"Oh no," he teases. "That tone is never good."
You chuckle, rolling your eyes. "No, it's not anything crazy, it's just...I've kinda been thinking about going to London for the summer."
His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes growing double its size. "London?"
"Mhm. For a short pastry course," you explain. "Three months at this prestigious culinary institute. It's kinda a dream opportunity."
Jungkook is silent, his fork gently clinking against the plate as he sets it down.
"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks softly. He's not upset, just very caught off guard.
"Just now," you shrug. "I was on the fence about it for a while."
"Wow," he swallows thickly. "Three months?"
You nod.
He forces a small smile, the kind of smile he uses when he doesn't like something but refuses to ruin things for you. It's a smile that tells you he doesn't know how to live without you for that long, but he'll pretend like he's totally fine.
"That's…wow, that's amazing, ___."
"Yeah." You pick at your cake some more. "But I don't know. It's expensive and I'd be away from the bakery for months, and I've never been out of the country alone before, and—"
"Hey," he smiles, softly nudging your knee under the table. "You can do it."
"I don't know," you mumble. "It feels like…a big jump."
"You like big jumps."
"No, you like big jumps. I like stable ground, a clear path and preferably a railing."
He grins. "I'll install a railing in London."
You glare at him but your laughter slips out effortlessly.
His smile softens even more. "Seriously. If you want it, go for it. The bakery will survive. The other staff can run it. And you should do things for yourself for once. You're always taking care of everyone else."
You open your mouth to argue, then shut it when you realise you don't have an argument. You hate that he's not wrong.
"I'll miss home," you mutter quietly.
"Home will always be here, ___, it isn't going anywhere," he shrugs. "Seoul will always be your home. Three months in London won't magically change that."
You want to tell him that you'll miss him as well, but saying that you'll miss home is close enough. It's one in the same anyway.
"And," he adds, "if you get lost, I'll fly over and find you."
You roll your eyes. "Right, because you're definitely responsible enough for that."
"Hey, I'd bring a GPS."
You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as warm air settles around you, the fairy lights flickering overhead and Jungkook licking frosting off his fork like it's nothing.
"You think I'll do well?"
"Of course," he smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's you. You're gonna shine. And I'll visit, or we'll video call...or I'll just break into the institute and steal you back."
You laugh, but your chest tightens. He's trying so hard to be happy for you. You can tell.
"You sure you'll survive without me?"
He scoffs dramatically. "If anything, I'll thrive. I'll become stronger, faster, a new man."
"Right," you chuckle. "You'll last three days before you start texting me pictures of pastries and asking which one to buy."
"I give it two," he admits in defeat.
You laugh, the last of the tension easing as the music swells in the distance. Your face slowly melts into a tender smile, your eyes softening ever so gently. It all feels so warm and intimate, and strangely bittersweet.
"Thank you for always supporting me," you murmur quietly.
"Always," he smiles before feeding you a piece of cake on his fork.
You're mid-bite into your cake when Jungkook's entire face suddenly drains of colour.
"Oh no," he whispers.
You pause, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What?"
He doesn't answer in words. Instead, he subtly tilts his head toward the patio doors.
You follow his gaze. A woman in a tight pencil skirt and glasses, hair in a too-tight bun, is clutching a binder to her chest like it's a bible and she's about to testify. Her eyes scan the place with an intensity that could cut steel.
"Uhm…who is that?" you whisper.
"One of my dad's senior analysts." He swallows, setting down his fork. "Her name's Yuri."
"She looks...friendly," you tease.
"She made a blog about me," he hisses.
Your eyebrows shoot up. "What?"
"A blog. It's called 'All Things Jungkook'. Can you believe that?"
You snicker, covering your mouth so you don't get cake everywhere. "You're kidding."
"I wish."
You laugh too loudly and Jungkook shushes you frantically before it can catch Yuri's attention.
"She wrote an entire essay analysing my facial structure," he whispers. "Like, paragraphs. There were diagrams."
You bite your bottom lip to keep from cackling, your face contorting with amusement. "Diagrams?"
"She compared my jawline to Renaissance sculptures," he mutters miserably. "Sculptures, ___."
You wheeze.
"At least she doesn't think my nose is too big or my arms are too scrawny," he adds under his breath, pouting.
You stop laughing, your smile fading.
"Who said that?"
He stares at you.
"You did," he scoffs. "Back in university."
You gasp. "I did not say that!"
"You did," he nods solemnly. "You also said my top lip is too thin."
You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified and amused all at once. "Okay, to be fair, I was an extremely critical eighteen-year-old who was drowning in law textbooks, so I didn't really have a nice thing to say about anyone."
He looks in Yuri's direction, who is still scanning the crowd like a Terminator. "She's gonna see me. She's gonna corner me and ask if I read her four-page analysis about my eyebrows."
You're already laughing again.
"___," he begs, grabbing your wrist. "Dance with me."
"Wait, what?"
"Please," he hisses. "If I'm on the dance floor with someone, she won't approach me."
You arch a brow. "You want me to publicly claim you as occupied?"
"Yes."
You chuckle faintly but stand anyway. "You so owe me."
The music has shifted to something smooth and slow—a romantic melody playing that makes older couples sway like they're reliving their youth. Jungkook places a hand lightly on your waist as you join the crowd. It's familiar but warmer than usual. Or maybe it's the champagne going to your head.
You rest your left hand on his shoulder and your right hand in his palm as you both begin to sway, your faces a lot closer together than they usually are.
"Okay," you smile, "which part of your face did she analyse the hardest?"
"My jaw," he mutters. "Apparently it has a 'mathematically perfect slope', or something like that."
You smile, letting him sway you to the music. "Well, she's not wrong."
He does a double take, staring at you like you said something completely crazy.
"What?" you chuckle.
"What did you just say?" he asks, leaning in closer.
"I said she's not wrong," you shrug.
He squints at you. "You used to call me a pretentious dick."
"That was also true."
He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."
You grin, then hesitate just a fraction, but he notices.
"What is it?" he asks softly.
You shouldn't say it. You really shouldn't say it, but the music is soft, and the lights are warm, and you're pressed just a bit too close to a man you trust more than anyone in the world, so you blurt it out before you can stop yourself.
"I always thought you were...cute. You know, back in the day. I might've...had a little crush on you..."
His entire body goes still, his eyes growing wide.
"You what?"
"It was a teeny tiny...stupid crush," you clarify. "Very small and insignificant. Microscopic, actually."
Jungkook continues to stare at you, his lips parting in disbelief. "You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"You..." he scoffs, smiling. "You had a crush on me?"
"Don't say it like that," you chuckle, growing flustered.
"No, I'm just..." He searches your face, bewildered and—although he tries to hide it—quite pleased. "I thought you hated me in university."
"Oh, please. If I hated you, I wouldn't have wasted my time insulting you."
He laughs, loud and delighted.
"So, all those insults were, what? You flirting?"
You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Calm down, Jeon."
"You secretly pined for me," he grins smugly, gently twirling you around until you're facing him again.
"Pined? Relax. It lasted, like, two weeks."
"Mhm, sure," he teases. "I bet you were doodling my name in all your notebooks and imagining what our children would look like."
You give him a deadpan stare. "Don't push it. That ship sailed a long time ago."
His smile falters just enough for you to notice if you're really paying attention, but he recovers quickly, tugging you a little closer as the music swells.
"Right, of course," he mumbles softly, looking past you while you sway to the music.
You clear your throat, feeling desperate to redirect the conversation before the air gets heavy.
"So…London," you murmur softly.
He hums, twirling you around once more before pulling you in close. "London."
"I think it'll be good for me," you admit. "A break. Something new."
He studies you—the bright excitement in your eyes, the uncertainty underneath, the hope, and something flashes in his expression that you don't catch, something soft and affectionate.
"Well," he smiles, his voice quieter than before, "I guess I'll have to see you off at the airport, huh?"
You smile, resting your cheek against his shoulder.
He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, his voice coming out just a tad louder than a whisper. "Fuck, I'm gonna miss you."
You roll your eyes, feeling a warmth bloom deep within your ribs. "You're a sap like me now."
He smirks, the earlier tension slipping away. "Don't tell anyone."
"Your secret's safe with me."
He dips you playfully, the two of you laughing, brushing shoulders, standing closer than friends should—close enough that the air between you buzzes with something you both feel.
Outside the dance floor, Yuri is still circling like a shark, but Jungkook doesn't look her way once. Not when he's looking at you.
Incheon Airport buzzes with summer chaos; children dragging suitcases bigger than their bodies, couples taking teary selfies, businessmen speed-walking like their lives depend on it. In the middle of it all, you stand with your luggage, passport, and a rapidly beating heart.
Jungkook is beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
"So…" he mumbles, rocking back on his heels, "I guess this is it."
You nod, clutching the handle of your suitcase. "Three months."
"Three months," he echoes.
There's a brief moment where the airport noise fades and it's just you and him and ten years of friendship sitting between you.
He reaches out and flicks a piece of fluff from your sweater, even though you're ninety percent sure there never was any fluff to begin with. "You'll text me when you land?"
"I'll text you as soon as I get WiFi," you nod.
"And you'll video call me?"
"Only if you don't answer while you're at the gym and make me look at your sweaty forehead again."
"That was one time," he chuckles.
You grin. He grins back, but his fades first.
"Go be brilliant, okay?" he murmurs softly. "London's waiting for you."
Your chest warms. "I'll miss you."
Something flickers in his eyes but he blinks fast before you can question it.
"Yeah," he sighs. "Me too."
You smile, lightly punching his arm. "I love you, idiot."
He rolls his eyes, his lips twitching at the corners. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too. Now go."
When you finally walk toward the gate, you don't turn around, but Jungkook stays in place, watching until you disappear. When he finally walks out of the airport, he tells himself the heaviness in his chest is pride, not anything else.
Definitely not. It couldn't be.
—
London greets you with fresh summer air, the faint smell of rain, and immediate sensory overload. The taxis are louder, the buildings older, and everyone talks like they're narrating a BBC documentary.
And you feel more alive than ever.
Your first day at the culinary institute feels like stepping into a whole new world. The kitchens gleam like they've been polished a thousand times. The finest plates await your creations. The ovens are fancier than anything you could ever dream of using.
You learn laminated dough, the perfect method for chocolate tempering, advanced patisserie techniques, all things you used to watch on YouTube while telling yourself you'd perfect someday.
Now 'someday' is here and it's better than you anticipated.
You snap pictures of everything—your flaky pastries, your fancy meringues, your messy apron—and send each and every one of them to Jungkook, even if he responds hours later because of the time difference or his busy schedule.
Between classes, you make the most of your London summer. You buy dresses and blouses that make you feel like a character in a Bridget Jones movie, you carry around flowers wrapped in brown paper that will sit in the middle of the coffee table in your hotel room, you sip tea at cute cafés and buy souvenirs for Jungkook every chance you get.
A vintage Beatles t-shirt.
A Big Ben keychain.
A tiny corgi plush.
Your classmates take you in immediately and within your first month, your nights are filled with dinners at pubs where everything is fried, rooftop wine with the funny Brazilian girl from your pastry group and late-night tube rides where you and the others fall asleep leaning on each other. You make memories that will last a lifetime, and at one point, you don't even think about everything waiting for you back in Seoul.
It's a quiet Saturday afternoon when you find yourself wandering through the sculpture gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum. There's a hush in the air, as if the marble statues are asleep and everyone else is just trying not to disturb them.
You stop in front of Canova's "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss."
It's breathtaking. It's delicate and romantic and heartbreakingly intimate, like stone brought to life. Cupid leans over Psyche, gently cradling her as if she might shatter. You've seen it in pictures before, but seeing it in person makes it that much better.
You step closer, completely mesmerised, but a shutter clicks beside you, catching you off guard and pulling you from your daze.
There's a man standing next to you, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark cardigan and round glasses that slide slightly down his nose. His hair is dark and frames his face, and a film camera hangs from a strap around his neck. He's just taken a photo of the sculpture, and when he notices you looking, he offers a warm, slightly sheepish smile.
"Sorry," he murmurs in a low, honey-smooth voice, the British accent doing something tingly to your insides. "Didn't mean to interrupt your moment."
You smile politely. "You didn't, don't worry about it."
He turns to look at the sculpture again, tilting his head. "It's beautiful, isn't it? There's something timeless about it." He glances back at you. "Makes you believe that it's worth it to wait for a love like that."
Your eyebrows raise, feeling a bit taken aback by the rather romantic stranger.
He laughs softly. "Sorry. That was…dramatic."
"No," you shake your head, smiling wider. "It was really nice...and true."
"I guess that means I'm not being overly sentimental."
"Or we both are," you smile.
"Could be worse," he shrugs. "I'd rather be overly sentimental than chronically indifferent."
You let out a soft laugh. "That's a good line."
"Thank you, I read it in a book once," he smiles down at the ground, fidgeting with his camera.
You both turn back toward the statue, standing in comfortable silence for a beat, watching how the late afternoon light casts golden shadows on the white stone.
"I'm Kim Namjoon, by the way," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.
"___," you smile, shaking it.
"You're not from here, are you?"
You shake your head. "Seoul, South Korea."
His eyes light up. "Really? Me too...well, kinda. My parents are Korean but they met here in England while they were both studying at Oxford. They moved back to Korea after getting married. That's where I was born, but we moved back to England when I was about five. I haven't been back in a while."
You nod, your interest piqued. "And now you…take pictures of sculptures for a living?"
He chuckles. "Not exclusively. I'm a photographer, mostly travel and editorial, but I come here a lot on my days off. It grounds me."
"I get that," you murmur. "Bakeries do that for me."
He looks over at you, his eyebrows raising. "You're a baker?"
You nod. "I own a small bakery back in Seoul. It's kinda why I'm here, actually. I'm doing a summer course at a culinary institute nearby to brush up on my skills. I'm only here for three months."
"That's incredible." His smile is genuine, his eyes shining under the museum lights. "Honestly, I think bakers are like magicians. You turn flour and cocoa into happiness. It's very impressive."
You laugh, nodding along. "That's very nice of you to say, thank you."
"You're very welcome, Miss ___."
He looks back at the sculpture for a moment, then turns back to you, a little more tentative this time.
"I know this is a bit forward, but…do you perhaps have plans after this?"
You feel your heart pound harder, your head shaking almost too excitedly. "No, not really."
He smiles, clearly a little nervous, like he's not used to doing this. "Would you maybe want to grab a coffee with me? I could show you around London if you'd like. There's a place just down the road; very tiny and unassuming but the coffee's good and they have these absurdly large cinnamon buns that are to die for."
He's handsome, has an accent that makes your thighs clench, and he wants to take you to a café. You don't even have to think about it.
"I'd love to."
His face softens, looking like he didn't quite expect you to say yes.
You chat while you walk out together, side by side, stealing one last look at Cupid and Psyche, and somewhere deep in your chest, you wonder if he is a part of the fresh start you've been craving.
—
It all starts with a simple coffee date.
After the museum, you and Namjoon tuck yourselves into a quiet corner of a café near Hyde Park, where he stirs his cappuccino with one hand and nervously fidgets with the strap of his camera with the other. He asks thoughtful questions, listens like he genuinely cares and laughs with the cutest expression that makes your cheeks flush every single time. He walks you home that night—hands brushing, hearts pounding—and from there, it all blossoms at the speed of light.
Your second date is dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant where you end up talking for hours, sharing pasta and trading childhood stories. He shyly admits he once cried when his favourite bakery shut down, and you know then and there that he's your type of person.
On the third date, you sit beside the Thames at sunset, barely an inch between you, and when your head falls against his shoulder, neither of you move. Your first kiss happens in the rain after a trip to a vintage bookshop, hesitant at first—until it isn't. Until his hands are warm on your waist and yours are in his hair, time melting into the taste of his mouth.
You start to crave his presence, his voice, his intellect wrapped in a British accent and kind eyes.
One night, after too much wine and too many loaded glances, you kiss him breathlessly in his hallway and let him lead you to his bed. It's slow and sweet, and he makes you feel like the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes upon. That happens quite often after the first time. You have sex in the shower, the backseat of his car, on the floor of your hotel room, and it's always better than the last.
By the start of August, Namjoon is a fixture in your London summer. He waits for you after class. He carries your shopping bags without a complaint. He reads books aloud when you can't sleep, chuckles at your terrible attempt at a British accent, and takes endless sneaky photos of you mid-laugh just because he loves the way you look when you're at your happiest. He even drives you out to the English countryside to have dinner with his parents.
Somewhere between the late-night talks and stolen kisses, you fall for him harder than you ever meant to. And the scariest part isn't how fast it happens…it's how disappointed you are that it's all temporary.
—
Namjoon unlocks the door to his flat, stepping inside with the same subtle confidence you've come to love. He holds the door open for you—always a gentleman, even when his fingers were just threaded through yours all the way home from the pub, even when his lips were pressed against your neck as you waited for your Uber, even when his voice had dropped into that low, breathy register that made your knees weak.
You step into the warmth of his space. It smells like him, which you've come to love as well. The lights are dim, a large bookshelf lines the wall, vinyl records stacked neatly near a player and a blooming houseplant stands tall in the corner.
He toes off his shoes and reaches for your jacket. "Here," he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.
You slip your jacket off your shoulders, your pulse jumping as he hangs it up with care. He rests his hands in his pants pockets, watching you as you turn to face him. His eyes flick over your lips, your neckline, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you're totally not still nervous around him.
"Wanna watch a movie?" he offers.
You shake your head, smiling.
He nods slowly and takes the hint, cupping your face in his large hands. The kiss that follows comes easily, mouths moving languidly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You've kissed Namjoon a million times over the past three months—on couches, in doorways, on sidewalks lit by streetlights—but this time it feels far more gentle and intimate.
By the time he breaks away, you're breathing in shallow little waves.
"C'mon," he murmurs softly, taking your hand in his. He leads you down the hall, into his bedroom. It's minimalistic, very clean. There's no pretence, just him.
He doesn't pull you into bed. Not yet, at least.
He stands beside the low bookshelf near the window, arms folded loosely, watching you run a hand through your hair.
"Is this really just for three months?" he asks softly. "You being in London? You're really going back to Seoul?"
You sigh, realising you'd have to have this conversation eventually. "Yeah. I mean…that's always been the plan, Joon."
He nods slowly. He just needed to hear you confirm it. "Right. Just…three months."
You sit down on the edge of his bed, your hands resting in your lap. "I just...didn't think I'd actually…meet someone here. I just came to bake things and buy overpriced souvenirs for my best friend."
He smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
You tilt your head, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"
Namjoon exhales and smiles. "I guess I've just been thinking about it a lot more than I expected to."
He walks toward you slowly, kneeling down so he's at eye level, his hands resting on your knees with the utmost tenderness.
"___, I know we've only known each other for a short while," he murmurs, keeping his voice steady. "But..."
You swallow thickly, sensing a shift in the air.
Namjoon pulls out a small velvet box from his pants pocket.
You freeze, completely at a loss for words. "Wait. Namjoon, is that...?"
He nods and opens it, his eyes moving from the little box to your face. Inside is a simple, vintage ring; an oval-cut diamond set in an antique band. It's timeless and stunning.
"Kim Namjoon, you're insane," you whisper, letting out a soft, breathless chuckle. "You actually bought a ring?"
He smiles up at you, shaking his head. "I didn't buy it."
Your head tilts in confusion.
"It was my grandmother's," he explains. "She wore it for over fifty years. My mum kept it after my granny passed…and last week...I asked her for it."
Your throat tightens, your eyes widening. "You…asked for it?"
He nods, glancing down at the ring. "I called her and told her that I'm serious about you. I told her that you make me feel like I'm a better version of myself just by existing next to me."
You press a hand to your mouth, feeling overwhelmed with a whole mixture of emotions.
"She told me I was a little nuts," he adds with a chuckle. "That no sane man proposes to someone he's only known for three months."
You laugh, nodding. "Your mom's smart."
"She is." His smile melts into something softer, more serious. "But I'm in love with you. And I don't want to wait."
There's a beat of silence, just the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears, the hustle and bustle of the city outside his window, and the impossible weight of the moment sitting in your chest.
"I know it's really fast," he says gently, "but when I look at you, it doesn't feel fast or crazy. It feels like I've been waiting for you my whole life without even knowing I was waiting."
You don't say anything right away.
This man wants to marry you. This man who instantly took a liking to you when he met you. This man who's intelligent and kind and effortlessly elegant. This man who just presented you with his grandmother's wedding ring like it was meant to be yours all along.
Namjoon watches your expression carefully, waiting patiently.
Then, cautiously, he smiles.
"Will you marry me?"
—
At first, it all just feels like a mild inconvenience for Jungkook.
You're in a different country, in a different time zone, and of course it's normal that your texts come through while he's asleep or his calls are missed because you're stuck in class. Days pass where your voices never reach each other, just fragments—missed calls, unread messages, half-finished voice notes.
At first, he tells himself it's normal, maybe even healthy. You're living your best life halfway across the world, and he refuses to be the needy friend who holds your back. Still, he finds himself reaching for his phone too often, typing things and deleting them, falling asleep with your chat left open like maybe, somehow, it will make you feel closer.
He goes out a lot in June.
He texts you at 2am after coming home from drinks with Jin and two girls he doesn't remember the names of. The text says, "Miss your dumb face," followed by a blurry selfie. You don't answer until seven hours later with a laughing emoji because you just finished rolling a million croissants and you're too tired to ask how his night went.
He smiles at his phone like an idiot every time your name pops up on his screen, but the more time passes, the more the silence starts to hurt.
In July, he hooks up with a girl he met at a rooftop restaurant. She's beautiful, super tall, wears a silk dress that shows off just enough to have him on edge. She calls him "handsome" and laughs at all the right moments. Her perfume is strong, her lip gloss sticky. He pulls her into his apartment and they undress in a haze of clumsy heat, getting straight to the point of the evening—sex.
Jungkook grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he thrusts into her in missionary, his head spinning as he desperately tries to focus on the task at hand and not the text he sent you a few hours ago that still hasn't been answered.
When he opens his eyes again to kiss her, he's completely thrown off his game when it's not her face he sees contorting in pleasure—it's yours.
It's the familiar curve of your smile.
It's the sparkle in your eyes when the two of you slow danced at his father's engagement party.
It's the look of longing you had on your face when you said goodbye at the airport.
Jungkook stops moving, his hips halting mid-stroke. The girl moans something but he doesn't hear it, far too distracted by your eyes fluttering in his head. He closes his eyes once more, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering. Once he finally gets it together, he forces himself to finish but it just feels hollow now.
When August arrives, Jungkook decides to soldier on until you eventually get back to Seoul.
He meets up with a different woman on a random Monday afternoon—a friend of a friend. They get coffee, then lunch, then dinner a week later. She's cute and easy company. She asks about the meanings of all his tattoos, kisses slow and rides him fast.
She seems genuinely interested in him, so on their fourth hangout—which he insists on calling it instead of a date because he doesn't want her to get the idea that he's serious about her—he takes her to your bakery.
It's his safe place and it smells like you. It's comforting, and warm, and always welcoming. And maybe he takes her there because some part of him just misses home.
The display case is full of your signature work; dainty cupcakes decorated with edible flowers, fluffy cinnamon donuts rolled into perfect spheres, sticky toffee buns that always taste better each time he eats them.
Jungkook stares at the options, his hands in his pockets. "I can't decide what to get," he sighs, testing the waters. "Pick one for me."
She blinks, her pretty doe eyes filled with confusion. "Why?"
"I don't know, it's kinda fun," he smiles. "Just choose something for me."
She raises a brow, looking at the array of desserts. "Okay…a cookie."
He pauses, glancing at her. "No, like...be specific."
"Okay." She stares at the case, then smiles over at him. "A really big cookie?"
He smiles, but it's so fake it almost physically hurts. "Right. Sure."
She doesn't get it, of course she wouldn't. It's not about the dessert. It's so much more than that.
They end up leaving with one cookie for her and nothing but disappointment for him.
—
The days blur and the nights stretch endlessly.
He scrolls through your texts again and again, reading old ones just to be reminded of how funny you are. He reads the ones where you got into a debate about 'sex weather', in which you insisted that rainy weather is always the best time for sex, or rather "making love" as you put it, because you hate being sweaty while trying to be romantic. He listens to the voice note where you tried to explain a French baking term and got so flustered when you lost your train of thought that you ended it with, "Anyway, I'm a fraud, bye."
He plays that one three times, chuckling to himself in bed like a crazy person.
He wants to call you, to hear your voice and listen to you ramble about oven temperature settings and undercooked soufflé.
He wants to say...well, he doesn't really know what he wants to say. He just knows that no one else makes him feel whole the way you do.
That everyone else feels like a filler. Like static. Never you, though. You feel like home.
He tosses his phone aside and stares up at his bedroom ceiling, running a hand through his hair with a huff. It hits him gently, like a slow wave that unexpectedly knocks him off his feet and drowns him in an instant:
You're not just his best friend or the girl he jokingly flirts with out of habit. You're more than just someone who knows how he likes his coffee or which songs make him cry or why he hates sleeping in certain positions because it hurts his back.
You're it.
You're the one he'll always look for in a crowd of people, the one he still wants to talk to at the end of every stressful, shitty day. The one he hasn't stopped thinking about since the moment you walked through that departure gate—hell, since the moment he accidentally stumbled into your bed ten years ago.
And he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with that.
The thud of the basketball echoes through the gym as Jungkook dribbles, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart pounding from exertion. Seokjin's guarding him—kinda lazily—and Wonwoo's near the free-throw line, his sleeves rolled up and jaw set with focus. Mingyu's off to the side, taking his sweet time sipping water and pretending like he doesn't play the most aggressively of all four of them.
Jungkook fakes left, cuts right, and lands the shot. It bounces once, then rolls in.
"Still got it," he grins, jogging back as Mingyu throws him a towel.
"You've got cardio," Wonwoo pants. "Not game."
"Don't need game when I'm playing against geriatrics," Jungkook shoots back.
"Hey!" Seokjin wipes his forehead. "I may be a father now, but I could still outrun you with one baby strapped to my chest and another in the oven."
"You're not even the one with the oven," Mingyu snorts.
"My point still stands," Seokjin shrugs.
They keep playing—passes, dodges, light-hearted trash talk—but somewhere between defence drills and free throws, Jungkook finds himself zoning out. He leans against the padded wall, bouncing the ball absentmindedly, his thoughts far from the gym.
Seokjin notices first.
"You good?" he asks, tossing his friend a water bottle.
Jungkook catches it, hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"That's suspicious," Mingyu scoffs. "When you think too much, you start texting your exes."
"No," Jungkook mutters quietly, shaking his head. "Not this time."
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, walking over. "What's going on?"
Jungkook rolls the ball along the floor with his foot, sighing. "I think I'm in love with ___."
There's a silence that stretches just a second too long, the guys all shooting each other a look.
Seokjin's eyebrows furrow, his hands resting on his hips. "Wait, what?"
Mingyu whistles, patting Jungkook on the back. "Holy shit. That's not what I was expecting."
Wonwoo just leans against the wall and crosses his arms, his expression unreadable.
Jungkook shifts, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. It just hit me all at once. I've been trying to date, distract myself. I took a girl to the bakery the other day and asked her to pick something for me like ___ always does…and she picked a fucking cookie. Just said 'a big one'," he snorts humourlessly. "Didn't even get the point."
"You do realize she's not ___, right?" Seokjin chuckles. "How would she know what you meant?"
"Exactly. That's my point," Jungkook groans. "No one's her, dude. I've been around her for ten years, and I think I convinced myself I'd always have time to figure it out, but now she's in London, living her dream, probably flirting with a bunch of British guys."
"Let's not spiral," Wonwoo mutters.
"I just…" Jungkook exhales sharply. "I don't want anyone else. I want her. And...I actually want to do something about it."
The guys pause before Seokjin grabs his shoulder, smiling. "Well, shit! That's called growing up."
"You're not wrong," Mingyu mutters, grabbing the ball to dribble again. "But don't ask me to relate. I'm good with casual sex and no one touching my closet space."
"You say that now," Seokjin scoffs. "Then one day you're holding a baby while your wife cries watching dog rescue videos and suddenly it's the best moment of your life."
Jungkook laughs quietly, glancing down at the floor. "I never thought I'd want that. Not the marriage thing or the kids. I thought I'd stay the way I was forever. Just…you know, vibing."
Seokjin smiles, fond and a little smug. "Now 'just vibing' feels kinda empty, huh?"
Jungkook nods.
"She's different," he murmurs softly. "She makes everything feel like it matters. Without her, everything feels off."
Mingyu makes a dramatic gagging noise. "Can we go back to basketball now? This sappy talk is giving me indigestion."
Seokjin chuckles, giving Jungkook a hard pat on the back. "Tell her when she gets back. Don't wait."
Jungkook nods, determination setting in as he jogs over to play another round.
He's not sure how you'll react to all this, but he's done running from his feelings. He's finally ready. He just hopes you are too.
—
Jungkook listens to your voicemail multiple times when he gets home from work Friday evening.
"Hey…I'm back in Seoul! I've missed you so much. Can we have dinner tonight around 7? I was thinking of going to our usual restaurant. I have so much to tell you. It feels like I've been gone forever. Let me know, okay? Okay, I love you, bye!"
Your voice is bubbly, laced with excitement. You sound like you dialed his number as soon as you got off the plane, the airport noise in the background a clear giveaway.
Jungkook doesn't waste a second. He showers, sprays himself with his most expensive cologne and pulls out a navy suit he usually reserves for weddings and important meetings. He doesn't usually go out of his way to look good for a woman because he's him—he doesn't have to try, but this is you and he wants to leave a lasting impression when he tells you his feelings. Tonight is different. It's significant, and he doesn't want to screw it up.
On his way to the restaurant, he stops at a street vendor and buys a bouquet of peonies—your favourite. He might not be the most conventionally romantic guy on the planet, but he knows you hate roses because you think they're cliché and typical. He knows that you prefer fish over red meat, and that you hate big gatherings because they make you anxious. He knows you better than anyone else on Earth, and he loves you.
The restaurant is buzzing when he walks in—dim lights, quiet chatter, the smell of red wine and garlic butter thick in the air. He spots you immediately, perched at the bar at the far end of the restaurant, laughing at something.
His breath catches at the sight of you.
You look like London. That's the only way he can describe it. You're glowing, your cheeks rosy, your lips stained red. It's different but still you, like something bloomed while he wasn't looking.
He starts walking toward you, a smile pulling at his lips.
But then he sees him.
A tall man standing beside you, dimples on full display like someone's paying him to smile that brightly. He leans in close, says something in your ear, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. It's all a bit too casual, too familiar.
It stops Jungkook in his tracks. When he starts walking again it's fast and panicked. So much so that he doesn't see the waiter passing by until it's too late.
"Sir, excuse m—"
There's a loud crash, a blur of limbs flying about as Jungkook collides into the poor guy carrying a full tray of glasses. Water, wine, forks, the tray itself, it all goes flying as both men go down in a heap right in the middle of the restaurant.
"Shit—!"
"Oh my goodness—Jungkook?!"
You're off your stool in a second, rushing over with wide eyes. The man beside you joins you just as quickly, crouching down to help both Jungkook and the waiter up.
Jungkook winces, pushing himself up to sit.
You're already reaching for him, pulling him up to his feet. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You just...you slammed into that guy—"
"I'm fine," Jungkook mutters, straightening up, brushing water off his sleeves. He glances down at the scattered bouquet now lying halfway under the barstools.
You crouch to pick it up, glancing up at him.
"And you bought flowers?" you ask with a hopeful glint in your eyes.
Jungkook freezes, glancing at the flowers. He clears his throat, then grabs the bouquet and abruptly shoves it into the startled waiter's hands. "No. These are his."
The waiter is taken aback, and so are you.
Jungkook claps the poor guy on the back, offering him a fake smile. "Congratulations on your...anniversary or whatever."
You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"
"Mhm," Jungkook nods, his voice tight. "Just clumsy, I guess. Classic me."
You exchange a look with the man Jungkook is still unsure of, who offers your best friend a faint smile. The three of you start walking toward the table—your table, the one you and Jungkook always request when it's just the two of you.
Jungkook doesn't say anything. He sits across from you and watches as the other man pulls out your chair like he's done it a dozen times before, which makes Jungkook's jaw twitch.
And he waits.
Waits for you to explain.
Waits to figure out why he suddenly feels like the only person in the room who didn't get the memo.
You smile and gesture toward the man beside you, your face lighting up at you look at him, a look Jungkook hasn't seen on your face in a really long time.
"Jungkook, this is Kim Namjoon. Namjoon, this is Jeon Jungkook; my best friend I've been telling you all about."
Namjoon leans over with a warm smile and extends his hand to Jungkook. "It's really nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I've heard so much about you from this lovely lady."
Jungkook forces a smile, reaches out, and shakes it. "Yeah. Nice to meet you too."
His voice sounds normal but his chest feels hollow.
"I've been trying to picture you this whole time," Namjoon continues in that British accent that makes Jungkook's bile rise in his throat. "___'s mentioned you in almost every story she's told me."
You laugh, your cheeks turning pink. "I might've overdone it."
"No," Namjoon murmurs softly, gazing at you like the rest of the world has vanished. "I loved it. Felt like I already knew him."
Jungkook looks down at the table, wishing he could gouge out his eyes with the silverware. "So…what's the deal with you two? You met in London?"
Your smile widens as you nod. "It was so random! I was at a museum, just minding my business, and I was standing in front of this gorgeous sculpture, and then Namjoon just appeared next to me with a camera."
Namjoon chuckles. "She was so focused on the piece, I wasn't even sure if I should say anything."
"But he did," you grin. "He struck up a conversation, and we ended up at a little café for cinnamon buns and coffee, which was amazing, by the way."
"You had cinnamon buns with a stranger?" Jungkook murmurs, trying to sound amused, not crushed.
You wave him off. "Oh please. It just felt so natural. And after that, we just kept seeing each other. Museum dates, dinners, exploring the city. We couldn't stay away from each other."
Namjoon affectionately rubs your back with his palm. "I couldn't help myself, she's irresistible."
Jungkook watches the gesture, taking note of how you lean into it like muscle memory. "Sounds like it all happened fast."
"It did," you admit, your smile softening. "But it felt so right."
He nods, staring at the breadbasket in the middle of the table, and wishes he could crawl into it and disappear.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, his voice quieter than before. "I mean…I know we missed a lot of calls but I would've wanted to hear about this."
You shift in your seat, your expression falling slightly. "I wanted to, I really did. But things just got so hectic. Classes ran late, we were always on the move, and then the time difference made everything harder. I drafted messages and forget to send them, and after a while, I figured…I'd tell you everything properly when I got back."
You look at him with so much honesty that it only hurts him more.
"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."
He nods, offering you a faint smile. "It's okay."
It's anything but okay, but he'll suck it up and bite his tongue for you.
Namjoon clears his throat, shifting forward. "I know it's probably a lot to take in all at once, but I wanted to tell you myself. I asked ___ to marry me."
Jungkook's eyes flick up to meet his, his face unreadable.
"And I said yes!" You smile and lift your left hand, showing him your ring. It glints under the restaurant lights, sitting delicately on your finger, mocking him.
Jungkook swallows thickly, a pleasant mask glued to his face. "Wow. It's…beautiful."
You beam. "Isn't it? It was Namjoon's grandmother's."
Namjoon takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. "I figured it could be lucky for us."
Jungkook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, glancing between you and Namjoon. "Yeah. Guess so."
He smiles at all the right moments, pretends like his chest isn't caving in, nods as if he's really listening when you tell him all about your summer with Namjoon, but all he feels is regret and bitterness that some other guy gets to take you home tonight instead of him.
You're in love. You're engaged. You're sitting across from him glowing like a woman who's found her forever. And Jungkook is just the best friend—the one who waited too long to be ready for you.
"So…" you begin, your voice light but a little nervous, glancing at Namjoon. "We've actually already started planning the wedding."
Jungkook looks startled, looking between you two. "Already?"
Namjoon nods, smiling. "We figured there's no reason to wait."
Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, looking back at you. "But…you just got back."
"I know," you murmur. "But we're getting married in England in a church Namjoon's dad helped build. It's near their home in the countryside. It's perfect, Jungkook."
"Mm, it's right across from the distillery," Namjoon nods.
Jungkook looks between the two of you, trying to process. "Distillery?"
"Yeah," you say, brightening. "Namjoon's parents own a whiskey distillery."
Of course they do. Of course his parents own a distillery and build churches and probably rescue injured animals in their free time.
"And the wedding is in a month," Namjoon adds.
Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets. "A month?"
You nod, resting your head against Namjoon's shoulder. "We didn't wanna drag it out. It just makes sense, you know? Why wait when we're sure?"
He doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. And then, as if the conversation hasn't already taken a sledgehammer to his heart, you turn to him with a hopeful smile that just about finishes him.
"Anyway, I wanted to ask you something," you murmur. "I know it's sudden, and maybe kinda weird, but…Jungkook...would you be my maid of honor?"
His brain flatlines, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say that won't be totally offensive right now.
"I mean," you add quickly, laughing, "knowing our relationship, you'd probably want me to be your best man someday, right? So, it's only fair."
Namjoon laughs softly, clearly charmed by the idea. "I think it'd be perfect, actually. You two clearly have such a strong bond."
Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Instead, he stands too fast, knocking his thigh into the edge of the table and spinning sideways just in time to collide for the second time that evening with the same poor waiter from earlier.
The tray clatters to the ground once again. The waiter lets out a yelp of disbelief, flat on his back. Jungkook stumbles, caught between horror and absolute emotional overload.
"Dude, are you serious?!" the waiter yells, throwing a dish towel at his chest.
Jungkook mumbles something that might be an apology, but you're already scrambling to help, wide-eyed and flustered.
"Again?! Jungkook, what is wrong with you tonight?"
Everything is wrong.
Everything has gone so terribly wrong.
—
It's a sunny Monday afternoon in the middle of Seoul and the park is alive with movement—joggers passing through, street vendors preparing fresh teokkbokki, and office workers on their lunch break scattered across benches in a sea of undone ties and styrofoam containers.
Jungkook is sitting on a bench with a hotdog in one hand and a death grip on his dignity in the other.
Seokjin takes a massive bite of his chilli dog, glances over at him, and swipes ketchup off his cheek with a napkin as he prepares to tackle the shipwreck sitting next to him.
"So…" Seokjin mumbles, his mouth full. "You gonna tell me why you've looked constipated since we sat down? I only have ten more minutes left of my break and my boss is already on my ass."
Jungkook stares down at his hotdog, his appetite barely there. "___ asked me to be her maid of honor."
There's a short pause before Seokjin chokes on a laugh, quickly covering his mouth to avoid spraying onions all over the bench. "I'm sorry, her what?!"
"Maid of honor."
Jin is full-on wheezing now. "God, I hope the dress makes your ass look good. You've been squatting for this moment your whole life."
Jungkook slumps further in his seat. "This isn't funny, Jin."
"It's hilarious, dude," Seokjin laughs.
"I'm dying, hyung. She gets back from London and all of a sudden she's getting married."
Seokjin finally reins in the laughter, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Okay, okay. Sorry. It's just...you gotta admit, that's a hell of a plot twist."
"I was going to confess," Jungkook mutters flatly, his voice low. "I showed up in a suit. With her favourite flowers. And then I walked in and watched her get kissed by her fiancé and knocked over a waiter in the process."
Seokjin winces. "Yikes."
"She's getting married at a church across from her new fiancé's family whiskey distillery, in a month." Jungkook groans and drops his head back against the bench. "She even showed me the ring. It was his grandmother's."
Seokjin lets out a soft whistle, nodding. "Yeah, that's a lot."
"I feel like I missed the entire movie and just showed up for the credits."
They sit in silence for a moment, birds chirping merrily around them like little assholes.
Then Seokjin finishes his hotdog, balls up the wrapper, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Listen, it sucks, I'm not gonna lie. But this doesn't have to be the end."
Jungkook gives him a side glance. "You realise she's engaged."
"And you're the maid of honor." Seokjin grins. "Which means you're right there, centre stage. You're planning the whole thing, hearing every detail. You're literally the man behind the scenes."
"You make it sound like I'm in a heist movie."
"You are," Seokjin shrugs. "Except instead of robbing a bank, you're trying to steal a bride."
Jungkook snorts despite himself. "That's so dumb."
"Love is dumb, man," Seokjin scoffs. "I proposed to my wife in a Pikachu onesie, and now we have a kid who chews on HDMI cables. But I wouldn't trade it for anything."
Jungkook stares at the sky, feeling unsure. "You really think I should stay close? Not back off?"
"I think," Seokjin says, "if you're really in love with her and not just having a meltdown because someone else got there first, then don't give up on this. You be her best friend. You support her. And if there's even the tiniest crack in her heart, she'll know you were there the whole time, waiting."
Jungkook lets that settle for a moment. He takes a slow bite of his hotdog, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay," he sighs. "But I'm not wearing a dress."
"I will pay you money to wear a dress," Seokjin laughs. "Like, real money. I want full lace. And cleavage."
Jungkook stuffs his mouth with the hotdog to avoid swearing at his friend, but when he leans back again, squinting up at the sky, the weight in his chest feels just a little bit lighter at the reminder that this isn't over yet.
When Jungkook arrives at your apartment Saturday morning, he's met with the familiar comfort of your sweet scent, frilly pillows scattered across the couch, and little trinkets decorating the shelves.
He's spent countless nights here—binging your favourite shows, eating endless amounts of cake as his way of helping you with new recipes, sitting patiently as you give him a faux fashion show of the millionth pair of shoes you bought—and yet this time is not like any of the rest. This time he's here to help you plan your wedding.
"You rang, future Mrs. Kim?" he calls out, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.
You pop your head out from the kitchen with a smile. "You're late, Jeon. You said you'd be here at 8. It's 10."
He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on your coat rack, rolling his eyes. "You've been engaged for five minutes and you're already a bridezilla."
You scoff, making your way over to greet him with a hug.
He grins at the short embrace, pulling away to get a proper look at you. "Damn, your hair looks good today. Is that a new thing, or is it just the 'I'm-getting-married' glow?"
You roll your eyes, but your smile shows how flattered you are. "Such a suck-up."
"I'm your maid of honor," he says, smiling smugly. "Sucking up to you is literally my job now."
He walks into the living room and settles onto your couch. It feels normal but there's a certain nervous energy in the air today. It's officially the start of preparations for the wedding party, and he's not sure how ready he is for all that. But today isn't about him. It's your day, and he'll support you even if it slowly kills him.
"The bridesmaids are almost here," you murmur, sitting down with him, turning to face him.
"Do I know them?"
"Well, there's Mina," you smile, knowing how well they get along.
"Mina's great, I like Mina," he nods, scooting a bit closer to you.
"And Jeongyeon. You haven't met her yet but she's really chill, you'll love her."
"Okay, who else?" he asks, reaching out and absentmindedly twiddling a strand of your hair between his fingers.
"Uhm..." You sigh, preparing yourself for his reaction. "And Lisa."
His face falls, his fingers pausing in your hair. "Are you serious? She hates me."
"I had to, Jungkook. She's my cousin," you sigh. "And I mean, can you blame her? You had sex with her then ghosted her the next day."
"She almost broke my nose," he groans.
"It was an accident," you chuckle, rolling your eyes as he goes back to playing with your hair.
"She literally punched me in the face," he deadpans. "I told her it wasn't anything serious and she agreed. I can't help that she caught feelings for me."
You smile in amusement, shaking your head at how truly humble he is. "She's wanted to be my maid of honor since we were little, so she hates you even more now."
The doorbell rings right on cue.
You grin and rush over to get the door, welcoming them in. Jungkook isn't sure if the loud entrance is your bridesmaids greeting you at the door or a pack of hyenas cackling. He lets out a huff and stands up as they enter, plastering a smile on his face.
Mina hugs you first; your bakery manager and unofficial work wife. She's organised as ever, carrying a stack of bridal magazines that she's probably had since forever.
Then Jeongyeon, your friend from high school. She's less organised than Mina but equally as excited for you.
And finally…Lisa, your beloved cousin.
Jungkook fights the urge to roll his eyes when he sees her, forcing a smile to remain civil.
She freezes when she sees him, her eyes narrowing into slits.
You smile, choosing to ignore the tension between them for your own sanity. "Jungkook, you remember Lisa, right?"
Jungkook clears his throat, nodding as he sits back down on the couch. "Yeah. Of course. Hey."
Lisa offers a sweet, pointed smile that could kill him if she really wanted to. "Oh, trust me, I remember Jungkook."
The tension is very palpable.
Mina, sensing the shift, gives a diplomatic little nod and walks over to the couch. "Well, we should probably get started, hm?"
You clap your hands together, trying to regain control of the room. "Okay! So, thank you all for coming. Please, sit. I'll go get some snacks then we can start going over fittings, schedules, things like that."
"Can't wait," Jeongyeon smiles, getting comfortable on an armchair while you head to the kitchen.
"I already know this is going to be chaos," Mina chuckles, sitting next to Jungkook, watching as Lisa stabs him with her eyes.
"Some of us thrive in it," Lisa mutters. "Don't we, Jungkook?"
Jungkook scoffs, shooting her a pointed look. "Are we doing that already?"
"Doing what?" Lisa smiles, feigning innocence. "I just meant you're probably used to this; being around a lot of women, multitasking."
You return to the living room before they can start going at each other, carrying a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea before grabbing your wedding binder and sitting down with everyone else, getting right to business. You start listing off dates and logistics—dress fittings, the bridal shower, the family brunch the morning of the wedding—but the air is already charged. Jungkook asks too many questions, honestly, and Lisa's patience visibly deteriorates with every clueless comment.
"Wait, is the brunch before the church rehearsal thing?"
Mina shakes her head, jotting some things down in her planner. "No. The brunch is the morning of the wedding. We've been over this, Jungkook."
"Oh, right. Right."
Lisa laughs under her breath. "God help us."
Jungkook turns to her, raising a brow. "Got something to say?"
Lisa shrugs, taking a glass of iced tea from the coffee table. "Not really. Just wondering how someone who can't even follow a calendar is supposed to help plan a wedding."
"Lisa," you mutter, shooting her a look that says 'behave, please'.
"Well, I didn't know I was going to be graded on my maid-of-honor performance," Jungkook grumbles.
"Well, just fyi, I'd give you an F," she shoots back.
"Settle down, you two," you sigh, gently placing a hand on Jungkook's arm.
Jeongyeon smirks into her drink. Mina, smiling calmly, jumps in before the room ignites.
"Cut him some slack, Lisa. I'm sure he didn't grow up dreaming about tulle and seating charts."
"Yeah, no kidding," Jungkook mutters.
"Exactly," Mina smiles. "So, let's all just be cool."
Lisa takes a slow sip of her iced coffee and doesn't say anything else, but Jungkook catches the flicker in her eyes that says she should've been your maid of honor instead of the man who clearly doesn't know what he's doing.
Your phone rings on the coffee table, Namjoon's name lighting up the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this," you murmur shyly. "It's Joon."
Your bridesmaids all swoon at the mention of your future husband, and Jungkook has to resist the gag threatening to spill from his lips.
As soon as you excuse yourself to take the call in the next room, Lisa jumps into action.
"I've been a MOH six times before, so I'll organise everything that needs to be done, even though I'm not the MOH here," she mutters, crossing one leg over the other.
Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, clearly clueless. "What's a MOH?"
"M-O-H," Lisa mutters pointedly.
"It stands for maid of honor," Mina smiles over at Jungkook. "That's you."
"Oh, yeah, of course," he chuckles, ignoring the eye-roll from Lisa.
"Okay, so we've got the bridal shower coming up that Jungkook will plan, our bridesmaid hair and make up trials, shopping for ___'s trousseau," Mina lists off, reading from her planner in her lap.
"Trousseau?" Jungkook's eyes narrow, leaning over to peek at Mina's planner. "What is a trousseau?"
"It's lingerie for her wedding night," Lisa deadpans, looking fed up with his questions that she feels are completely unnecessary. "How do you expect to be a good MOH if you don't even know that?"
"Oh wow, look, she's actually talking to me," Jungkook quips.
"No, I'm not," Lisa mutters quickly.
"You just did."
"Oh, my bad, Jungkook," she smiles sarcastically. "Did I break one of your rules?"
"Okay, that's enough!" Mina whisper-yells. "Can you two stop and think about ___? She's happy with an amazing guy, so could we all please, for ___'s sake, just get along, put a smile on our faces and pretend like everything is perfect?!"
"Okay, fine," Jungkook mumbles, holding his hands up in surrender.
The tension in the room is thick, but you don't notice, too giddy after hearing that deep British voice tell you how excited he is to get home to you later. You return after the call with Namjoon, turning your attention back to the ladies—who seem perfectly fine after Mina's little pep talk, all of them smiling brightly.
"Okay, I'm back," you grin, getting comfortable. "So, while we're all over there, we'll be staying at the Kims' holiday home."
Lisa's brow arches, her interest piqued. "Holiday home?"
"Yeah," you murmur while flipping through your binder. "Namjoon's family has this gorgeous house out in the countryside. I swear it's like something out of a Jane Austen novel. It's got over enough guest rooms for everyone. The garden even has an actual maze."
Jungkook blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, then clenches his jaw in silence.
Of course Namjoon's family has a spare country mansion lying around. Why wouldn't they? Probably stocked with limited-edition wines and antique candleholders. Maybe even a butler named Charles who plays the violin at breakfast.
He forces a tight smile. "Wow. A holiday home. That's nice."
Lisa snorts. "Bit of a step up from your one-bedroom apartment, huh?"
Jungkook slowly looks over at her, smirking. "You'd know. You've been in my bedroom."
You sigh, taking a big gulp of your iced tea. Jeongyeon's eyebrows hit her hairline, finding this all too amusing.
Lisa gives him a razor-sharp glance, crossing her eyes over her chest. "Yeah. Once. Unfortunately."
Mina cuts in with perfect timing, like she's trained for this. "I think this is all amazing, ___. I mean, talk about a dream wedding."
Jeongyeon nods. "Seriously. And Namjoon seems so thoughtful. You guys make a really sweet couple."
You smile bashfully, your cheeks heating up. "I think so too. It all feels like it was meant to be, you know?"
Lisa hums. "Mhm. Must be nice to be that in love."
Jungkook's lips press into a thin line as he stares at the coffee table, remaining silent.
When you flip through wedding magazines with Mina, gushing about colour swatches and invitation templates, he finds himself tuning you out, not because he doesn't care, but because he cares too much.
Wedding planning has his iced tea tasting more like acid than anything else.
due to the 1k block limit, you can read the rest of the story HERE
summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.
after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?
pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader
genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)
word count: 5.1k
warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content (mdni), kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!
notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33
ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!
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You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.
“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.
“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”
“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”
You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.
A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.
It’s always been like this.
He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.
“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.
You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”
“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”
“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”
He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”
You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.
“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.
“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.
You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”
He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”
You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.
He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.
“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.
Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”
He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”
You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”
He raises an eyebrow, curious.
You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”
Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”
“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.
That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.
"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.
He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."
“With my standards?”
“With the streak.”
You snort. “What, you offering?”
“Maybe.”
You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”
It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.
His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.
“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.
You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.
Your heart stutters in your chest.
You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.
“Only if we let it be.”
You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.
And then his expression shifts.
His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.
“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”
He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.
You move first.
You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.
You kiss him.
It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.
At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.
His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.
You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”
He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”
“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”
“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”
You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.
“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”
“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”
“Yeah, but not like this.”
“Like what?”
You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”
That shuts him up real quick.
He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.
He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”
“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”
You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.
His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.
You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.
“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.
His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.
“You gonna stop me if I say no?”
You shake your head. “Nope.”
“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”
He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.
You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”
He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”
His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”
You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.
He pulls back just enough to speak.
“Let me take care of you.”
You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.
“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”
“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”
You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.
“God, you’re cocky.”
He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”
You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.
He stills.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”
“Shut up.”
He smiles cockily.
You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.
He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.
His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.
“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.
“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”
You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.
“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.
You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”
“I hate you.”
“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”
You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.
“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.
“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”
“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”
You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.
“Say it,” he says.
“Say what?”
“Tell me how good I make you feel.”
You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”
He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.
You whine. Actually whine.
“That’s not what I asked for.”
“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.
He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”
You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.
"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."
He doesn’t.
He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.
When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.
“That’s it. Let go for me.”
You do.
Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.
He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.
He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.
Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, low and steady.
You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”
He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.
“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”
You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.
You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.
“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”
He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.
You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.
“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”
He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”
You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”
You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”
You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.
You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.
You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.
“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.
You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.
He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”
The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.
His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.
You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.
He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.
“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."
You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”
He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.
“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”
You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”
You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.
“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”
You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.
“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”
You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.
“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.
“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."
He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.
Fuck.
He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.
And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.
Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”
You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.
He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.
You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.
You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.
“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”
You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.
But not enough.
You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.
You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.
He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”
You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.
He notices.
Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.
“Let me help you, yeah?”
You nod. “Please.”
He starts thrusting up into you.
You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.
The new angle is obscene. Filthy.
“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”
He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”
Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.
Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”
His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.
“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”
You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.
“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”
You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.
“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.
“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”
That’s all it takes.
You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.
He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.
You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.
His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”
You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”
"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.
He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.
His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”
You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.
He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”
“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”
His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.
“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”
You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.
He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.
He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.
And fuck, you are.
“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”
His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.
You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.
“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”
You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”
He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.
When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.
Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.
“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.
You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”
He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.
His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.
He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.
"I— you're perfect."
You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."
But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.
His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”
You blink. “A bath?”
He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”
You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”
He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”
“Mm, you definitely do.”
He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”
You shut up. But you’re smiling.
He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.
When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel… normal.
Even now.
You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.
Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.
And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.
You guys were still best friends.
Right?
→ read part two here
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