#they're roommates... its practically inevitable

[mustiels-art]

I am not immune to the lil guys cuddling...

[rosierin]

just a kiss (it wasn’t) | suna rintarou

synopsis; (y/n) and suna share the story of their first and only kiss

warning; NSFW, mature content, explicit content‼️

part two here!

Rain pattered against the windows as (y/n) settled deeper into the couch, completely engrossed in the romantic movie she'd picked for their Saturday night in. Was it a little cliché? Absolutely. But who doesn't love a sugary-sweet romance filled with unresolved tension and longing glances?

Simple—her roommates.

Well, not all of them. Osamu, to his credit, sat through the fluff without complaint, even chiming in every now and then during the most pivotal scenes.

The same couldn't be said about Atsumu and Suna. After begrudgingly letting (y/n) pick the movie, she told them to keep an open mind. And they had, for the most part. But after the third misunderstanding trope of the movie, they no longer bothered to hide their impatience, groaning and rolling their eyes at all the characters’ poor choices.

Fair enough. Tooth-rotting romance wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea—certainly not for men with the emotional range of a teaspoon. At the very least, they were considerate enough to sit through the whole thing for (y/n)'s sake.

On screen, the movie was building toward its pinnacle—the inevitable confession scene unfolding during an impossibly perfect downpour, the characters backlit beneath the glow of vintage streetlights.

She sighed dreamily, chin propped on her hands. The characters were centimetres away from sharing their first kiss, music swelling as they professed their undying love—only to have Suna mercilessly shatter the moment.

"Kissing in the rain seems awful."

"Rin!" (y/n) cried, shushing him.

Ignoring her pleas, Atsumu snorted his agreement. "True. Way too many fluids involved."

(Y/n) grimaced at the… questionable wording. "What fluids are you talking about?" 

She regretted the question as soon as she caught his expression—impish, with the promise of something crude. "Rain, spit, tears—because for some reason the girl's always cryin'. And…”

”And?”

”Well, dependin’ on how good the kiss is…” He nudged Suna, both of them smirking like a couple of naughty teenagers.

(Y/n) clicked her tongue. "You're gross. It's supposed to be romantic."

"I'm gross?" Atsumu fired back. "What's gross is swappin' spit with someone who watched you pick yer nose as a kid," he scoffed, jerking a thumb at the TV. "I mean—they're practically siblings."

"They're childhood friends," she corrected, perhaps a touch too eager. "Stop making it sound incestuous, you weirdo."

"Still," Atsumu insisted, "you've seen all their gross childhood habits. How do you go from that to makin' out?"

Between handfuls of popcorn, Osamu shrugged and piped up. "Honestly, I get it. I guess it's a bit weird if they feel like family."

"Exactly! Somethin' about it just feels wrong.”

Gulp.

Heat crept up (y/n)'s neck as she stared fixedly at the TV screen.

Right. Because who would fall for their childhood friend—someone who'd witnessed all their most embarrassing moments and seen them trudged through the horrors and cringe of teenage puberty?

She tried not to look guilty, but her eyes betrayed her—slowly sliding toward Suna before she could stop them. While she’d been busy defending the movie—and, by extension, herself—he’d remained strategically silent. Their gazes connected for a fraction of a second, but he remained mute, adjusting his position on the couch while the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. That tiny movement made her stomach flip—discreet, but enough to let her know that he was listening. 

She chewed on her lip, part nerves and thrill. She shouldn't be thinking about that right now, not with everyone sitting right here, completely oblivious to the secret she's kept locked away for years. The memory flashes across her mind with startling clarity—Suna’s lips on hers, tentative at first, then not so tentative, clever hands roaming over flushed skin.

She fidgeted on the couch as the movie's protagonists shared their passionate kiss. The twins were too busy bickering about the logistics of childhood-friends-to-lovers to notice Suna's eyes fix on her with that infuriatingly knowing look.

Maybe she should just say it. Get it over with. They were all close friends, after all. The four of them had shared practically everything over the years—embarrassing stories, family drama, drunken confessions. Everything except this.

Not that there's ever been the opportunity.

Except for now.

She blurted the words out before she could overthink them: “I’ve kissed Rin before.”

Silence fell, broken only by the steady patter of rain against the windows.

The twins froze as they processed her words. Atsumu's face scrunched up like it was reflex. "...What?"

Osamu's eyebrows shot up. "For real?"

Suna gave a lazy shrug, as if it weren’t worth making a scene. “Yeah.”

"Wait a second," Osamu said, his finger darting between them as a grin tugged at his lips. "Yer sayin' you two actually kissed each other? On purpose?"

(Y/n) nodded, suppressing a smile. "Yup. Sure did."

Atsumu’s brows knitted tighter, his expression somewhere between confusion and indignation. "When did this happen?"

Her mind flashed back to that night—fireworks, a movie, their bodies pressed against each other. Her cheeks warmed. "It was a while back. We were eighteen, I think." She gestured toward the rolling credits. "Funnily enough, it was New Year’s too."

“And yer only tellin' us now?!” Atsumu gawked. “It wasn’t a big deal,” she said with a casual shrug.

But it was. It absolutely was. But she wasn’t about to give them a full retelling. Oh no. She'd need to be at least four shots in for that. She glanced at Suna, searching for any hint of what he was thinking, but his face remained maddeningly neutral—though she had no doubt that he too remembered every detail.

"Was it some kind of dare?" Osamu asked.

Suna shook his head. “Nah.”

"Just practicing, then?"

He tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth, the corner of his lips quirking upward. "Why don't you ask (y/n)?”

Both twins spun toward her—Atsumu practically vibrating with impatience, Osamu calm but no less curious. She pressed herself back into the couch cushion, suddenly acutely aware of how close they all were. She'd thank Suna later for dropping her in the deep end.

Swallowing, she tried to remain composed. That night’s spark was still so fresh in her memory—the quiet pop of fireworks outside his parents’ house, the way his eyes seemed older that night, softer. She glanced at Suna for approval. He kept staring at the credits, but his shoulder lifted in a silent go-ahead.

“All right,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “We were alone at his parents’ house for the holidays, remember? You guys had gone back to Hyōgo for Christmas." The twins nodded in recollection, waiting. "At first, we were just talking…” She toyed with a loose thread on her blanket.  “…Then he looked at me, and—you know how guys get that look when they want to kiss someone?”

Osamu snorted, nodding. Atsumu frowned in confusion. "No?"

“Well, never mind—you do," she rambled. "Anyway, he gave me that look and…” “And?" Atsumu clicked his tongue, gesturing for her to speed things up. "Come on, quit teasin' us already."

She inhaled deep. Here goes nothing. “Okay, so he kissed me, and I kissed him back. There you go.” The words toppled out.

"That's it?" they chorused.

(Y/n)'s stomach twisted with both dread and anticipation. Her eyes met Suna's, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth—the same one he'd worn that night. “She’s leaving out the good part,” he murmured.

Her heart lurched. “Rin—” The word caught between warning and plea.

He either missed the panic flickering across her face or chose to ignore it. He stretched slowly, sweatshirt slipping up a little. Half sigh, half yawn. “It wasn’t just a kiss,” he said flatly, but no less suggestive.

Osamu’s eyebrows crept toward his hairline. “You guys…?”

“No,” Suna interrupted, before anyone could finish the thought. “We didn’t get that far.”

That earned him a double-take from both twins.

“Go on,” Atsumu urged.

And now, (y/n) found herself tongue-tied. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the twins. She did. She knew they’d never blab. But nobody knew the whole story—her crush on her best friend, that heated, complicated night. And perhaps tonight wasn’t the night to spill everything. Again, maybe another time. Another place. Preferably somewhere with alcohol involved. Lots of it.

“I don't know what else to say," she waffled on, warm and flustered. "We were just stupid, curious teenagers and... stuff happened. That’s all.”

Vague—but they would have to make do with what she was willing to share.

Osamu snorted, amused by the new lore drop. Atsumu, on the other hand, just stared—unsure what to make of the story. She expected them to pry, to wring out as many juicy details as a close friend would, but mercifully, neither twin pressed any further.

Instead, the tension dissipated as Osamu brought up watching another movie, calling Atsumu and Suna back to attention, and the three of them immediately began debating what to watch next. Hopefully not another romance.

(Y/n) felt her shoulders sag and exhaled, grateful for the distraction. Though she couldn’t help but steal glances at Suna every once in a while. He looked so composed, so unbothered—but a small part of her wondered: was his heart racing, too?

A moment later, her phone buzzed. She glanced down and did a double take.

From: Rinrin tell your brain to be quiet i can hear it from here

She ignored his text and glared at him instead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It happened just after graduation, on a cold New Year’s Eve. They’d been friends since they were nine—back when it was simple. He was the quiet kid who lived for video games and dreaded group projects. She was the chatterbox who scarfed down her lunch first and dragged him outside to play. Their friendship was built on years of inside jokes, late-night calls, and knowing each other like the backs of their hands.

In middle school, though, something shifted—for her, at least. Not overnight, but gradually, between study sessions and the first time he shrugged off his hoodie in front of her. A warmth settled in her chest, creeping in until it was impossible to ignore. She found herself laughing harder at his jokes, noticing when his replies lagged and when his voice sounded a bit more tired than usual. Being around him just felt... better than being around anyone else. Comfortable, trustworthy, making her heart ache for all the right reasons.

She called it love internally—the shy, unspoken kind you never confess for fear of ruining everything.

Then came the glow-up: he shot up in height, his voice deepened, his jaw became more defined—and she noticed every little change. The same way he noticed her legs that summer where she started wearing shorts more often. The same way his eyes lingered a little too long when she bent over to grab something. The way his teasing lost a bit of its brotherly edge and got a bit more... biting.

She knew he found her attractive, but assumed it was only surface level. Suna wasn’t one to fall easily, and if he ever did, it didn’t last. Her own feelings, however, ran deep. She’d carried them in silence for years, because it felt safer than risking everything with a confession.

So they weren’t a couple. They weren’t anything—just two people aware of an unspoken tension between them, which she felt far more acutely than he did. Until that New Year’s Eve, when the tension finally reached its peak.

His house was empty. His parents and sister out were out celebrating—and he’d bailed last minute with a classic Suna excuse: “There's too many people, too much noise. I rather just spend it with (y/n).”

She said yes without thinking, of course—because at this point, saying yes to him was like second nature. 

So, the two of them spent the night in his room: lights off, a movie murmuring in the background, distant fireworks crackling outside. They watched in silence—existing together—until the film took an unexpected turn.

What the hell?

The relatively tame movie they'd been watching turned suddenly very heated. For some reason, the characters on screen were now tangled on a couch, shirts half-off, lips colliding. Moans slipped between kisses, fingers clawed at fabric. It wasn’t explicit by any means, but it was intimate enough to make her cringe: flushed skin, bare thighs, the unmistakable rhythm of two people getting lost in each other.

Her spine snapped straight. She cleared her throat, looked away, and shifted as if to get more comfortable.

She sensed Suna’s gaze on her.

“Do scenes like this make you uncomfortable?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“No," she said instinctively, only to realise how pitifully unconvincing she sounded. "...Well, maybe a little.”

He hummed, glancing at the screen without a crack in his impassive demeanour. She shot him a wary look. “You don’t find it awkward?”

He shrugged. “Not really."

Typical.

"What does make you uncomfortable, anyway?" she scoffed.

“Kita," he said automatically

She fought back a grin. “Seriously?”

“Correct.” He gave a curt nod. “Kita Shinsuke freaks me out.”

Of all things—his stoic volleyball captain from high school?

She snorted, shaking her head a little. “How come? I think he’s nice!”

“Try having him breathe down your neck all day," he countered with a light shudder. "That guy’s terrifying.”

“Kita's not scary,” she protested. “He only picked on you 'cause you were a major slacker.”

His lip twitched, pride flickering behind his gaze. “Still the only one who got scouted to Inarizaki, though.”

(Y/n) smiled back. It's not like she'd been scouted to that prestigious school. She'd simply got in through good grades. And yet, part of her still shared that pride with him. “That you were.”

By the time she looked back at the film, the sex scene had ended. Thank God. But as she settled in, she realized just how close she and Suna were sitting. Her earlier shift—trying to act normal—left them almost touching. Now, the space felt too small.

Now, it wasn’t just the movie distracting her.

Every now and then, their thighs brushed—just enough that his warmth seeped into her side. The soft rustle of his hoodie, the steady rise and fall of his chest, even the faint creak of the sofa sounded amplified in her head.

She forced her eyes on the screen, but her gaze kept flicking back to him.

He looked effortless: hoodie draped over messy hair, sleeves pushed up to reveal toned forearms, eyelids heavy like he might drift off any moment. Even the dark circles beneath his eyes looked good somehow, softening his features in the dim light. She couldn't help tracing the line of his jaw with her gaze, lingering on the exposed triangle of skin at his collar, at the way the fabric stretched over broad shoulders. Her attention travelled downward to where his hands rested, fingers loosely curled in his lap, silver rings glinting on both index fingers—when had those become part of him?

Her throat tightened. She’d always thought his hands were nice— just a fleeting thought—until now, when she found herself imagining what those hands might feel like trailing across her bare skin.

Her cheeks burned and she looked away, clearing her throat. Get a grip. She was over him. It was just curiosity—maybe leftover feelings stirred by the movie. That's all.

“Hm?” Suna’s voice snapped her back to reality.

She straightened too fast, hating how guilty she sounded when she replied, “What?”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he glanced over. “Checking me out?”

Her response was like a bad reflex. “No.”

“You sure?”

Her eyes darted to his lap. God, why?

"Your hands," she blurted.

“My hands?” he echoed, sounding oddly pleased.

She should've just left it at that, but her mouth had already run ahead of her. “Mhmm. They’re nice.”

He didn’t hide his grin. Slowly, he lifted a hand and flexed his fingers. She watched every controlled movement, the rings catching the light, the subtle play of muscle beneath his skin.

“Thanks,” he drawled.

Her pulse spiked. She swallowed hard, legs squeezing together under the blanket.

He dropped his hand and studied her. She dared not meet his gaze.

She shouldn’t be having these thoughts. Not about him. Not now. They’d sat like this before—shoulder to shoulder, legs touching, even sharing a bed more times she can count. But it had never felt like this. Never made her pulse quicken or her mind wander the way it was tonight.

So why now?

Maybe it was the quiet. The late hour. Maybe even the stupid movie.

Or maybe it was the fact that it was just the two of them—alone in his room with nowhere to be, nothing to do, and too much unsaid sitting between them.

“Do you think we’ll be different this year?” she muttered before she could stop herself.

Suna’s eyes flicked to her face. “Different how? ...Emotionally?”

She tried not to fidget too much and nodded once, chewing the inside of her cheek.

He held her gaze, unreadable as ever. “Did you want it to be different?

The question made her stomach twist, eyes drifting to the way her hands fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. She could feel it, that pulse of awareness between them. The one that made the hairs on her arms prick up. The one she used to feel and thought she’d finally outgrown.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Probably not.” 

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t their usual easy silence either. He shifted a fraction closer, turning toward her fully, and she felt her heart stutter.

“Something’s on your mind.”

His voice was gentle, but it landed hard in her chest.

“How can you tell?” she breathed.

“You’ve been weird tonight.”

“So have you,” she shot back softly.

He gave the faintest smirk. “Oh?"

“You’re sitting closer than usual.”

“Am I?”

“You’re looking at me differently.”

He didn’t deny it. She'd seen that look before. The half-lidded gaze. The intent behind it. She’d seen it in other guys before—guys at parties, in passing glances, in moments that felt fleeting and charged. But never from him.

He leaned in closer. "...What’re you doing?" Her voice came out smaller than she intended, tight in her throat. 

“Tell me to stop."

Her heart leaped at the words—at the tone. Silken, but brazen. Familiar, but suddenly foreign. He was close enough for her to smell the cologne on his skin.

“…What?” she whispered.

He fell silent for a moment, eyes drifting to her lips, then back.

“I said,” he murmured, voice low, “tell me to stop.

Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

Not as he tilted his head, lips brushing hers in the faintest whisper of contact. Not when his nose bumped hers and her breath hitched.

Next thing she knew, he was kissing her. Tentative and warm, so unhurried she could have pulled away, so gentle she felt her thoughts blur.

In that instant, years of memories flooded in: their shared laughter, the friendly teasing, how she’d instinctively searched every room for him, the late-night calls, his steady comfort, the safety his presence always brought.

She’d believed she’d moved on. But now, with Suna kissing her like that—as though she were something precious and almost his, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

His lips moved with lazy confidence, parting just enough to make her head spin. Her body tensed at the sensation, fingers twitching in her lap, aching to reach out.

He drew back slowly, saying nothing, his eyes searching her face.

But (y/n) was too dazed to reply. What had just happened? She’d kissed Suna—her best friend, the one she’d pined for in secret for years. Better yet—he’d made the first move.

“Earth to (y/n)…” His familiar, teasing voice reeled her back in.

Her lips parted. "I..."

He lifted an eyebrow, something playful in his gaze.

She yearned to press her lips to his again, but that would be truly and utterly reckless, wouldn't it? They could pretend it never happened, slip it under the rug—right?

…But did she really want that?

Before she could think herself out of it, she fisted the front of his hoodie and crashed her lips onto his.

His response was immediate—a low groan of surprise that melted into hunger. One hand swept up to cradle her cheek, sliding down to brace her jaw and draw her closer.

Heat flared through her at the contact, and an involuntary, needy sound slipped from her lips.

He seized the opening, his tongue sliding in—slow, coaxing, and sinfully mind-numbing.

She anchored herself to his hoodie, matching his rhythm as best she could. He’d done this before; she tried not to think about that.

“Rin—” she whispered, heart pounding, as his lips trailed to the hollow of her throat.

“Still with me?” he murmured, breath hot on her skin.

She nodded. “This is insane,” she laughed breathily against him, shivering when his hand crept under her shirt.

“Don’t worry, I locked the door,” he murmured.

She nearly laughed again—until his fingers slipped higher, and laughter died on her tongue.

Everything after that was a blur. Their kisses grew more urgent—slow at first, then deeper, messier. His hands roamed her back, trailing across her skin like he couldn’t decide where to keep them. Her hoodie vanished in the frenzy, forgotten, and suddenly she was straddling him, pressed up against his chest, heart pounding too fast to catch up.

Her head spun as she shifted on top of him, a muffled moan trapped between her teeth. He answered with a low groan, hips lifting beneath her. “Do that again,” he rasped.

She obliged, rolling her hips more deliberately this time. Cotton rubbed against cotton—abrasive, teasing—and her breath caught in her throat when she felt the full weight of him pressing up through layers of fabric. The mattress creaked beneath them, the headboard thudding as his head fell back. A spark of excitement flared in her chest as he opened his eyes—half-lidded, glazed with need. Each circular motion of her hips parted his lips a little further, his breaths coming in ragged huffs. He dug his fingers into her waist, trying to keep her steady as her movements grew bolder.

Her thighs trembled; she ground down again, hunting for more friction, for that delicious resistance. Heat pooled between her legs, bright and blinding, and she could trace the outline of his hardness beneath her, twitching insistently. Still, Suna’s gaze never wavered—he watched her unravel like she was his favourite sight.

Slow hands trailed up her sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "You like this," he murmured, voice low with something between accusation and amusement. "Riding me. You're imagining what it'd feel like."

Her lips parted, a silent admission caught in a breath. He exhaled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a dark smirk—then, in one fluid motion, he flipped them. Her back landed against the sheets with a soft thump. Suna towered over her, one knee pressing between her thighs to hold her open.

She lifted her head to meet his gaze, pupils dilated, as he hooked a finger under the waistband of her shorts and tugged them down—just a touch. “Next time,” he promised, “I’m taking these off.”

A whine slipped past her lips, heat coiling tighter in her belly. His hand moved between them, calloused fingertips grazing her folds. Her body stiffened, electric. He hissed at the slick warmth he found. “Already?” he muttered, almost in awe. “I barely even touched you.”

Her cheeks burned. “You’re joking, right?” she whispered breathlessly. He only smirked, then slid that same finger back to her entrance, dragging it around her slickness in long, exploratory strokes.

Her muscles clenched around air, every nerve blazing. He didn’t hurry—he never did. He read her in the soft gasps, the stray moans she couldn’t hide, deliberately skirting the places that would send her over too soon.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, voice small and urgent. “Rin—”

He slipped a second finger inside, slow and precise. The stretch made her gasp, legs parting wider, heels digging grooves in the sheets. When he started to curl them—knuckles pressing just right against that sweet spot—her back arched. A broken sound escaped her.

“Please,“ she begged, breath shuddering. Fingers clutched his arm as her hips lifted to meet every pull of his hand. Gone was her composure; she was a coil of desperate need, writhing under him.

He watched, rapt, lips parting as he breathed, “Look at you.”

She was hardly aware of his voice now, only the burn in her core, the maddening tease of his thumb stroking her clit. Each deliberate brush sent her closer to the edge, and he dragged it out, savouring her mounting cries.

“Usually so proper,” he whispered against her temple. “Who knew you were this filthy.”

A whine, a stutter of her hips, a flush of shame and want. She rode his fingers without restraint, chasing release.

Her muscles clenched, her breath hitched in her throat. “I’m—Rin—”

“I know,” he coaxed, sliding his fingers faster, harder. One last curl, one last grind of his palm.

Her body arched off the bed in a silent cry, hands gripping his shoulders as she burst around him—thighs trembling, chest heaving, sobs of his name slipping out in fractured gasps.

He steadied her through the tremors, easing his fingers in and out slowly, guiding her through the fading waves. “Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, voice thick with satisfaction. The praise and filth he whispered in her ear had her clenching around him.

Carefully, he withdrew, slick digits gliding over her damp skin. The feeling left her shuddering as she lay there, chest rising unevenly, utterly spent. And yet even as a pleasant wave of drowsiness rolled over her, one thought bubbled up, ridiculous as a stray balloon drifting through her mind:

Has Rin always had such a potty mouth?

Her brows knitted and her lips parted in a puzzled frown. Suna caught the expression, viridescent eyes slipping to her with a half-smile. He propped himself on one elbow, dark hair slipping over his forehead. “You okay?”

She shivered at the sensation of his wandering hand, tracing idly over the smooth plane of her thigh. She met his gaze with a sceptical arch of her brow. “Since when are you so chatty?” 

He stared for a beat, caught off-guard, just before that rare laugh spilled out—breathy, warm, and genuine. His mouth curved, nose crinkling, eyes softening in a way that made something flutter in her chest. “That’s what’s on your mind right now?” he teased.

Her cheeks flamed as she brushed damp hair from her face. “Well—yeah,” she huffed. “It was just—you know, a lot. And I didn't expect you to be so... you know."

A smug smirk pulled at his lips as he tilted his chin, brows lifting in pleasant surprise. She groaned, slinging her arm over her eyes. “Don't look so smug. All I'm saying is, it was unexpected."

He chuckled softly. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

His words sparked heat through her veins. She lowered her arm just enough to catch the look he gave her—as if he was remembering the flush at her collarbone, her trembling hips, how her nails had dug into his shoulders. Her cheeks burned and she turned away.

“Don’t,” she warned, voice small.

Suna chuckled. She kicked his thigh in response. As his gaze roamed over her face, she couldn't help but shy away from it, feeling too exposed, too aware of her appearance now that the high had worn off. Smudged makeup, pink, patchy skin, tangled hair spawled across the pillows.

She wondered what was going on in that indecipherable mind of his. If he saw them too. The flaws. The cracks. All the little imperfections she’d spent years picking at in the mirror.

Then his hand lifted, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a tenderness that sent butterflies loose in her stomach. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.

Her breath caught. He lingered there, searching her eyes that stung with the irrational urge to cry. “You look surprised,” he mused, voice both soft and tinged with worry.

She blinked at him, stunned. For a second, it felt like they were fifteen again—a time when her words jumbled and her mind raced. A time when everything felt awkward, flustered, and a little too much like love.

“You’ve never called me that before,” she whispered.

His thumb kept moving in slow, reverent strokes across her cheek. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought it,” he said softly.

Something old and warm bloomed in her chest. And when he traced his hand lower to run his thumb over her bottom lip—slowly, like he wanted to memorize it, brand it into memory—her heart cracked a little.

She parted her lips without thinking, wrapping them around his thumb. His jaw clenched with restraint, then groaned as she rolled her tongue around his digit. Needy, he pulled her flush against him, hard and hot. She felt him—every ridge, every contour—through the thin fabric of their clothes.

He ground into her once, firm. A soft moan slipped past her lips. His breath was hot at her ear. “You gonna take me for real this time?”

He spread her legs, tucked himself between them. The tip of him nudged her core, teasing. He drew back just enough to let her feel him, heavy and insistent.

He reached down, hooking his fingers into her shorts and underwear in one motion. She lifted her hips without needing to be asked, then raised her legs so he could pull them all the way off.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the stretch, the pressure of him actually lined up at her entrance. But then the moment crushed her under its weight—this wasn’t just another hook-up. Not with him. Not after everything. Not when her feelings had just barely begun to quiet down. Not when she still didn’t know what this meant. Or what it didn’t.

He stilled, hand tightening on her thigh. “(Y/n)?” he asked, cautious.

“I…”

She stared up at him—at the flushed cheeks, the blown pupils, the lips that had been all over her skin. At her best friend. She felt the pressure of him, still right there, waiting for permission.

She clutched his shoulders and shook her head. “I can’t,” she rasped.

He pulled away instantly, worry flashing across his face. 

Her heart sank. “I'm sorry, I want to, but—I just…”

“It’s okay," Suna said quietly, reaching for his discarded joggers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“Don’t be.”

“I thought I could but—”

“(Y/n), it’s okay," he assured, his voice dropping to a hush that both steadied and tormented her. "I get it. You don't need to explain, and you definitely don't need to apologise."

She stared at him, and what cut deeper than any reproach was the gentleness in his eyes. No anger. No disappointment. Just an almost painful patience.

That absence of blame twisted her guilt tighter.

Her skin still tingled where he’d touched her, every nerve ending alive with need—and shame that she hadn’t followed through. He’d offered her everything: his hands, his patience, even the restraint of not pushing her further. She’d surrendered completely, then recoiled at the last second, and now she felt raw, exposed, but most of all—absurdly selfish.

Once dressed, he approached her again, brushing her hair back and pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, before draping the covers over her body to shield her from the cold.

“Thanks for stopping,” she mumbled.

He lifted his head, concern flickering behind his calm. “Hey,” he said gently, but something in his tone turned grave. “Don’t ever thank anyone for that. Promise?”

She swallowed and forced a nod, not trusting herself to speak.

He settled beside her, one arm slipping beneath her shoulders, drawing her into his side. She’d expected him to distance himself—but instead he held her like nothing had shifted between them, as if her sudden retreat hadn’t shattered the fragile intimacy they’d built tonight.

She curled into him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, too ashamed to look him in the eye. His scent—clean, faintly spiced—was impossibly comforting, and yet her chest felt empty.

His hand hovered at the small of her back, then began slow, soothing circles. “Did I scare you?” 

Her eyelids fluttered open, panicked. She wanted to shift away, to reclaim whatever composure she could—but he stayed perfect and still, breathing low, holding her close.

His voice held an unspoken question: Had he overstepped? Was she regretting what should have been the most tender moment of her life?

Her ribs tightened around her heart. “No,” she said, though her words felt hollow. “You’d never scare me.”

It was the only truthful thing she could admit. It wasn’t fear that had stopped her. It was everything else she’d buried: the longing she’d never named, the shock of realizing how deeply she wanted him after all this time—and how scared she was of what came next.

She drew a slow breath and chose her words carefully. “It just… felt like too much, all at once.”

He hummed, quiet and thoughtful. He pressed his chin into the crown of her hair, caging her in. His hand settled, firm and grounding, as if to say, silently, Don't worry. Nothing’s changed.

She closed her eyes against the swirl of guilt and relief and longing. Maybe he was right—maybe she didn’t need to apologize. Maybe she could let herself lean into this moment, conflicted and messy as it was, and trust that he would hold her anyway.

thank you to everyone who likes, comments &/or reblogs! ☺️

for more of the off-season quartet 🌷🌙🌤️🌧️

[whatbigotspost]

I'm just the right age/demo to have consumed an unhealthy amount of the iconic US sitcom Friends, to have viewed them as "that's how cool adults are," and to have a nostalgic attachment to it despite its many many flaws my 41 year old eyes in 2026 see.

I watched it religiously in real time (got a VCR specifically to record eps I would miss while at band practice and stuff) from ages 10 to 20. I'd leave reruns on in syndication (when that was the norm) when I'd be doing homework. I've done a "master rewatch" when it first hit streaming and if I want background TV noise I put on their "channel" in HBO Max.

All this to say I KNOW Friends well. Too well. And one of my strongest takes (that rarely meets any push back) is that Ross Gellar is the actual fucking worst.

I used to kinda get mad at the writers about this. Why is Ross so annoying? And sexist? And whiny? And self centered? And needy? And arrogant? And a bummer? And avoidant? And cringe? And pathetic? And insensitive? And elitist? And the worst boyfriend? And the worst husband?

AND YET despite those things, these 5 other humans who seem, to my assessment, in general, a lot more fun and caring, KEEP HANGING OUT WITH HIM.

My mind would scream, "I'd never put up with someone like that! This is unrealistic!"

But now that I've gained another 20 years of living I'd like to say, I get it now. Ross is the worst because every friend group I've been in inevitably has a Ross. It's almost like you HAVE TO HAVE a Ross. The one where you just kinda put up w/ their bullshit more because you've known them since the dawn of time than that you currently LIKE them, as a person. Or because they're connected to someone you like a whole lot and they come with the deal (aka he's Monica's brother, Chandler's college roommate, etc.)

I now see the presence of ROSS IS THE WORST as perhaps one of the most realistic parts of that show.

I don't know how they can afford their lives in NYC. I don't know how they can spend SO MUCH TIME time hanging out idly. I don't know how they get into so many hijinks. I don't know how they only know people in NYC who look like copy/pastes of themselves.

But I sure as fuck now know how a Ross keeps a group of friends that he frankly doesn't deserve. Successful adult friendships that look more like chosen families involves a lot of compromise and overlooking petty stuff than I could have imagined when I was 15.

I'm not saying to stay friends with unsafe people. But I am saying that sometimes your options are to be in community with some Rosses or not have community at all. And I know what I've chosen the older I get.

Plus, we're all probably someone else's Ross at times, ya know?

[mattsundaes]

Revisiting the thought I had about roommates matsuhana that jerk each other off to the sound of you masturbating in your room but you're also masturbating to the sound of them jerking each other off through the wall

✨But with extra lore✨

You all know that you've been getting off to each other but don't mention it or talk about it because then youd have to address all the different feelings in the room so you just act like everything's normal, I mean you're really close anyway, you damn near don't have boundaries as it is

Matsuhana aren't dating but they do fool around with each other... that's what you think at least, you're not sure what their situation is but they sound hot when they're moaning through the wall

And then one day you come home you need their help with something right away so call out their names, you go in makkis room and hes not there, so matsun it is then, but when you barge into mattsuns room all you see is the two of them sitting on mattsukawas bed making out both with a hand wrapped around the others cock.

Your frozen in the door for a moment, you forgot what you even needed help with, you were blue screening before you came to your senses a little bit and your first thought was... this... this is so fucking hot.

It was like the moans you were hearing from the other side of the wall finally had a visual to go along with it. You don't know how long you stood there but for a moment you think they didn't even notice you come in until matsun cracks one eye open and smirks against makkis lips. That's when you feel like you've been caught.

You apologize profusely close the door behind you and lean back against the wall in the hallway, hand to your chest like it would calm your racing heart

The days following that you feel like you're always catching those two in a compromising position even if its seemingly innocent, and the memory of them tangled up like that would become the star of your late night fantasies

You thought you had a pretty normal libido but now it feels you need to masturbate multiple times a day throughout the day to feel satisfied, so it felt kinda inevitable when both mattsukawa and hanamaki at the same time walk in on you touching yourself, catching you mid orgasm talking about now you're even

You all knew you wanted each other, there was no doubts about that but masturbating in front of each other... how did we even get to this situation, gathered in a circle hands between your legs watching the other two do it too

You called it the roommate masturbation circle the way you got together and discarded your pants, facing each other and went at it yourselves

Sometimes you made it into a game of sorts, the first one to cum gets overstimulated, the last one to cum gets edged, sometimes you would take turns touching each other, sex toys would get into the mix, and before you knew it you were in some kind of "everything but sex" fwb situation

Don't get me wrong yall absolutely could and would fuck if you wanted to but some how fooling around like this felt more fun

And despite doing practically everything under the the sun together excluding a full on threesome involving penetrative sex, when the three of you actually start dating, your first times together were actually really romantic and the boys wanted it to feel special for you♡

That was alot whoa, I've been thinking about this for days😵😵💫💫💫

-🍇

YEAAAAAHHHH ROOMMATES AND MUTUAL MASTURBATION MY BELOVED!!!!!!!!! omg. the crowd (me) goes wild.

ty for this delicious meal. this scenario is so spot on for a lead-in to poly matsuhana. also i’m crying at the idea of them turning it into an entire game aldfjkaskdfj. i just know this is going to turn into a point/reward system with gold star stickers on the fridge at some point, courtesy of makki.

[yerion]

jeon jungkook drives you to think strict criticism isn’t too bad, purely because you didn’t expect things to turn a bit steamier than intended.

as the one and only female esports player, misery was at your fingertip when your skills suddenly deteriorated. however, the stoic leader of your team—jungkook, simply couldn’t sit back. he puts you back on track, yet no one told you sparks would fly; and the crazy fact that it’s inevitable.

pairing : jungkook x you (as aeum). au(s) : tsundere!jungkook, leader!jungkook, gamer!jungkook, roommates!au. genres : fluff, (intense) mutual pining, slowburn, innuendos of suggestive themes, (a sick) love triangle.

content : you thought your skill was the one problem here, but you eventually realise you’re quite surrounded by guys that you’d like to go on your honeymoon with. clearly, consequences follow since you’re not the only person who thinks so (the rest of the world does too).

peek jungkook’s mind in this playlist.

previous chapter. next chapter. chapter directory. masterlist.

chapter five.

word count : 4k.

jungkook is an enigma.

but before anything else, he's practically a celebrity—and not the kind that exists at a comfortable distance behind a screen. the kind whose name carries actual weight, whose presence in a room changes the air pressure slightly. outsiders call him the identity of league of legends, and they're not wrong. he's the model of the game because he simply is—the face, the standard, the person every newcomer to the scene gets measured against whether they asked for that or not.

his popularity spans every demographic. boys want to be him. girls want to know him. the combination of the best game and its best player creates something that borders on reverence, and if you think about it long enough, the threats start to make a grim kind of sense. you're the variable that disrupted the picture. of course someone took issue with that.

on top of everything else, jungkook is unrealistically composed. he wears a handful of expressions and cycles between them with the unhurried certainty of someone who decided a long time ago that reacting visibly to things wasn't worth the energy. his mindset doesn't crack. you genuinely believe mosquitoes have to work harder on him than on everyone else. he'd probably bleed before he cried, if he ever reached the particular depth.

every boy's benchmark. every girl's fixation.

and right now his head is dipped slightly toward your neck and his breath is landing on your skin in a way that is making it very difficult to maintain the internal monologue you're trying to have about not caring about him.

"ignore them." he mutters, like it's simple, like the solution fits in two words and he's just handing it to you.

you tense. you can't help it—the warmth of him is closer than you expected and your body hasn't quite caught up to the decision your brain made a couple of days ago about keeping a reasonable distance. he tightens his arms in response, which doesn't help, and you stay where you are because what exactly are you supposed to do with that.

you find yourself in a thought you can't get out of cleanly.

jungkook, who is the most guarded person you have ever shared a building with—jungkook, who fed you silence the first time you tried to talk to him—is standing here with both arms around you, and his breath is warm on your neck. it's soft, and it's entirely unbothered, and you don't know what to do with that.

is this easy for him? is this what he does?

you genuinely cannot tell. and not being able to tell is the most unsettling part of all of it, because you've always been able to tell with people. it's the one thing you were never wrong about.

until him.

you don't understand him.

you don't understand yourself.

you breathe in—too thick, too unsteady, the particular texture of a breath you're taking purely to put yourself back together before anything else can fall apart. your chest squeezes. you inhale again. something settles.

you're alright.

you're safe.

you're sitting beside the best player you know and the computer screen is right there. none of this can actually reach you from behind a keyboard.

"i'm fine." you say, which comes out lighter than the last thirty seconds warranted. "i'm not worried." you produce a chuckle that's only slightly unconvincing and reach up to pat jungkook's back slowly, the same motion your mother used when you were small and the world felt too large to fit into your chest.

"what can they even do, realistically?" you think aloud. "our security is tight. if something actually happened—i'd handle it."

"don't be irrational."

the arms around you loosen. jungkook lifts his head, and you take the opportunity to peel yourself gently away before your own hands can do something you'll have to think about later. you look up at him.

his hair is down.

not swept back the way it always is—loose, falling forward over his forehead in dark strands, covering almost half of his eyes, and the effect it has on the rest of his face is disorienting in a way you weren't prepared for.

he looks different.

not colder—closer.

like the version of jungkook that exists before he puts anything on, the one that doesn't calculate. a person buying coffee somewhere. someone whose name doesn't carry the weight of a crown when his hair is down.

and yet it's still him. somehow more him, if anything.

you're staring and you know it.

his palms find your shoulders—not gripping, just resting, the warmth of them steady and relaxed.

"who do you go to when something like this happens?" he asks. his eyes are on yours and the darkness in them is readable for once—just concern, plain and direct, without the usual layers of nothing on top of it.

you don't freeze. that's what surprises you. his hands don't feel foreign on your shoulders anymore, which is its own kind of problem.

"namjoon." you say. "but if i go to namjoon he tells the whole team and then everyone's worried and nobody can focus and the tournament—"

"no." his voice is patient. "you come to me."

because you're his responsibility. because you're a member of his team.

you nod slowly, looking at your feet. "because i'm something you're responsible for."

"you're you." he says.

you stand there for a moment with those two words sitting somewhere in your chest doing something you refuse to investigate.

as if he means that the way you want him to mean it. as if you and jungkook are anything other than exactly what the terms and conditions of this team say you are. you want to laugh at yourself. you want to find the nearest cat adoption centre and get started on the fifty-cat future immediately.

"right." you clear your throat. "of course. well, the rest of the team and hayoung would probably—"

the word exits your mouth before your brain can intervene.

you hear it the exact same moment it leaves you.

hayoung.

the silence that follows is the specific kind that happens when a word lands somewhere it shouldn't have and everyone in the room is deciding whether to acknowledge it.

jungkook's expression shifts—not dramatically, just the small visible recalibration of someone running a search they didn't expect to need. "hayoung." he says it slowly, like he's turning it over.

"i coincidentally, completely by accident, and through no intentional surveillance whatsoever, heard you use that name." you say, with tremendous composure.

the corner of jungkook's mouth does something. not quite a smile. the thing it does right before one. "you thought she was significant to me." he crosses his arms, and the look he gives you is the specific look of a man who finds you entertaining in a way he hasn't fully decided what to do with. "a girlfriend, for example."

you nod. once. very small.

"if she was," jungkook says, and unfolds his arms, and brings one hand up—slow enough that you track it, slow enough that you see it coming and still don't move—and the pad of his thumb brushes the very bottom of your lip, barely there, barely anything, "i wouldn't have gone near this."

he withdraws his hand.

your heart has left your body.

it has simply evacuated the premises.

you stare at him.

he looks back at you with the expression of someone who said what he meant and is waiting to see what you do with it.

what the hell. what the hell. what the—

he doesn't have a girlfriend.

this explains something.

no, it doesn't. it doesn't explain anything at all.

what if he does this to everyone?

what if jeon jungkook is secretly the most prolific—

"taehyung, then." jungkook says, redirecting the conversation with the ease of a man who has decided you need a moment and is giving it to you in the least obvious way possible. "that would make him your boyfriend, i assume."

"what?" the spiral breaks. "where did that come from? why taehyung?"

"did i misread the situation?"

"completely."

"really." he doesn't sound convinced.

"really."

jungkook holds your gaze for a beat. "guess we both had the wrong idea about each other." he raises his hand and sets it on the crown of your head—gently, the way you'd rest a hand on something you were being careful with—and lets it slide down the side of your face, past your ear, the cold of your earring catching briefly against his fingers as he goes. "this will do for now." he murmurs, mostly to himself.

"wait—" your hand closes around his wrist before he can step away. "what does that mean?"

he looks at your hand first, then at your face. "i'll tell you when we win."

"the tournament?"

"what else would i mean?"

"you're very confident for someone who hasn't played it yet."

"why aren't you?"

"i am," you say, and tighten your grip on his wrist instinctively, because something about the certainty in his voice makes it easy to mean it. "we're absolutely winning."

"are you sure?" the smirk arrives—slow, quietly devastating. he raises the arm you're holding until your hand is level between you, dangling off his wrist like evidence. "keep convincing me."

you drop his wrist immediately. "unbelievable." you mutter, walking away.

"that's the energy i like to see."

"the tournament isn't far now." namjoon stands in front of the team with his hands clasped together and the particular brightness of a coach whose players have given him reasons to believe in them. "you've all done well. again."

you exchange glances around the room—taehyung, jimin, yoongi, and then jungkook on your left, who receives namjoon's praise with the exact same expression he receives everything else: composed, present, entirely contained.

not that you expected him to be different after yesterday. this is jungkook. he has one mode in team settings and that mode is leader and leader doesn't make eye contact with you for longer than professionally necessary.

you know this. you've always known this.

still.

you shrug it away and make yourself smile at namjoon's words, which aren't hard to mean because you've come far enough to have earned them.

you remember when that wasn't guaranteed.

the early weeks, when the people you respected most were looking at you with quiet concern instead of confidence. the sessions where you sat in the chair afterward and went through the game in your head wondering if you'd made the right decision coming here. there was a week when you almost called your mother and told her to look into re-enrolment for you.

the storm was real. the calm after it is also real. you've learned not to confuse one for the other, and more importantly, not to confuse the absence of storm for the end of challenge.

"jimin and yoongi." namjoon's voice. "no bickering in-game once this week."

"i stuck to him like a shadow." jimin says, with the pride of someone who committed to a strategy he found personally difficult.

"he wouldn't leave me alone for six consecutive hours." yoongi sighs.

"because i love you."

"here we go."

"say it back."

"say it back, yoongi." taehyung turns in his chair to face them with the serene expression of a man who would happily watch this play out for another twenty minutes. "jimin has all day. i've seen him wait longer."

yoongi stares at the ceiling. "love you too, jimin." he whispers, with great suffering.

"taehyung," namjoon moves down. "reading the enemy well. your positioning this week was clean. i'd genuinely like to see you and jungkook run a game together soon."

"i'd love that." taehyung's smile shifts slightly—the lopsided kind, the one that means something more than it shows. he glances at jungkook briefly when he says it.

jungkook nods.

"jungkook." namjoon pauses. "what is there even to say?" he exhales the laugh of a man who has run out of constructive criticism. "just don't greed. a jungler who chases kills for the count and not the team loses his purpose."

"understood." jungkook says.

"aeum." namjoon smiles at you properly—the wide one, the one that means he means it. "maintain your pace. your instincts have always been exceptional. what's changed is that you're starting to trust your team with them, and that's the difference." he tilts his head. "unless you see another angle like yesterday, in which case i'll trust your read."

"if i see one," you say with complete honesty, "i'm taking it."

"obviously." yoongi clicks his tongue. "proud of you."

"more proud." jimin crosses his arms.

"proudest." taehyung crosses his after jimin, looking at you steadily, the kind of look that doesn't need amplifying.

"then since you're all so devoted to each other," namjoon says, already with the expression of a man who has a task to assign, "aeum and jungkook—you're on grocery duty. everyone else has gone. you're the last ones."

you blink.

"taehyung took three hours last time because he was taking photos with every single person who asked." namjoon explains, which is completely true. "and if jungkook goes to a city supermarket—"

"ten hours minimum." jimin shakes his head slowly, like he's already grieving.

"avoid the city." namjoon says. "seokjin is coming to cook. taehyung has the list."

your phone vibrates. you look at the screen.

"that list," you say slowly, "is very long."

"he has standards." yoongi looks unbothered.

jungkook stands, keys already in hand—you didn't even catch the moment he picked them up, which is something you've come to accept about him. he's already decided something before you've registered he moved.

"coming." you announce, bouncing to your feet. you turn to the room. "can someone kiss seokjin on the cheek when he arrives? as a gesture of goodwill from me?"

the room produces a collection of deeply uncomfortable expressions.

"i express my love verbally." jimin holds both hands up. "physical affection is a premium service."

"i was kidding." you stick your tongue out at all of them and head for the door. "won't be long."

"i'll see you soon." taehyung says, and there's something in it—just the faintest weight on the word soon—that you catch as you're already moving.

jungkook is holding the door.

you see his hand first—the tattoos, the small crown inked onto his finger, the j, the particular delicate expression that sits beside it. you've stared at those tattoos more times than you'd admit to anyone including yourself. they shouldn't be reassuring. there's no logical reason for ink on someone's knuckles to make you feel better about anything.

and yet.

"thanks." you say quietly as you pass through. "jungkook."

"don't mention it." he lets the door go and tips his chin toward the car. "ready?"

"can i drive?"

"babies ride in the back."

"i have a licence, jungkook. a full licence. i passed first try."

"and?" he unlocks the car.

you take the passenger seat with great dignity and considerably more grumbling than dignity typically allows.

the interior of jungkook's mercedes is the automotive equivalent of him—clean in a way that suggests active maintenance rather than neglect, the kind of clean that means he cares about it without making a production of caring. the purple neon along the floor panels is the only detail that surprises you, and it surprises you every time. you've decided it's endearing and you're keeping that decision to yourself.

jungkook gets in. checks you—briefly, the way he checks things he doesn't want to be obvious about—and then reaches across you for the seatbelt.

close.

very close.

his face is at approximately ear level, which means you can see the moles on his jaw and the length of his eyelashes and the precise line of his mouth when he isn't saying anything, and you are holding your breath with the specific discipline of someone who is not going to make this weird.

he pauses.

his eyes move—just slightly, just enough—and find your lips the way they did in the kitchen and in the media room and now here, which is a pattern you're going to start taking seriously very soon.

he pulls back. buckles his own belt. starts the engine.

"you smell nice." you say, because your mouth has stopped consulting your brain.

the engine turns over. the car pulls forward. "same goes for you." he says, without missing a beat, which is somehow worse than if he'd said nothing at all.

you'd been braced for the car ride to be unbearable.

it wasn't.

jungkook connected your phone to the speaker at the first red light without being asked—your last played song filling the car before you could decide whether you were embarrassed about it. ruel. too many feelings. the title alone was doing a lot of work in this context and you chose not to examine that.

you went to change it. "leave it." he said. "i like it." and so you left it.

once, he braked sharply at a light and his arm came across your waist before you'd felt the deceleration—the automatic reflex of someone who didn't decide to do it, just did. "are you hurt?" he asked. "not even a little." you said. the arm went back. neither of you mentioned it.

nice things have an inconvenient tendency to end.

you've been in the frozen aisle for six minutes and you've found four of the eight things seokjin wants from this section alone, which means four more to find, which means four more minutes of the cold doing this to your skin. you hug your arms tighter and glare at the shelves.

jungkook has not moved. he's standing beside the cart reading the list with the focused patience of a man who is not cold at all, which is because he is a fundamentally different category of creature from you.

he looks up.

"what?" you ask.

he props one foot on the bottom rail of the cart to hold it steady and reaches back and pulls his hoodie over his head in one motion. the shirt underneath rides up just enough—the curved line of his stomach, toned in the particular way of someone who uses their body like equipment and maintains it accordingly—and you look at the overhead lighting instead, which is what a normal and well-adjusted person does.

you were not quick enough.

your photographic memory has filed it already.

you are going to be haunted by this for an unreasonable amount of time.

he holds the hoodie out. says nothing.

"she's so lucky." someone breathes, very close.

"do you not know who that is?" another voice, slightly incredulous. "that's jungkook and aeum. they're not dating."

"what a nice young man." a woman with a tub of ice cream smiles genuinely at jungkook as she passes.

jungkook clears his throat. arm still extended. "aeum."

"right." you take it. pull it over your head and let it fall, which it does—past your hips, almost to your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. "if i could ask someone to kiss you in exchange for this i absolutely would—" the sentence exits before the internal editor can catch it.

jungkook looks at the floor. smiles at it. looks back up. "why ask someone else?"

you walk past him with raised eyebrows and a composure you do not feel.

"you wouldn't even mind?" he falls into step beside you, pushing the cart, entirely too pleased with himself.

"why would i?" you examine a sleeve end.

"i'm disappointed." he says.

you decide not to touch that one.

"fetch, aeum." he tips his chin toward the far fridge.

"i am not a dog." you point at him with both hands—both fists, technically, wrapped entirely in his hoodie. "i am listening to you because you're pushing the cart and for no other reason."

you lift the sleeves to get your hands free. jungkook's hand closes around your wrist.

he slides the sleeves back down over your hands without comment.

"it's one second." you say.

"i'm not convinced." he says.

you look at the shape of your fingers through the black fabric. at his hand, withdrawing now, the tattoos catching the fluorescent light. at the fridge ahead of you, which you're apparently going to approach like this, like someone who wandered into a grocery store wearing another person's hoodie that's a size and a half too large for her.

"were you laughing at my arm length?" you ask.

"grab the boxes this way," he says patiently. "your hands will be cold otherwise."

"it's a second, jungkook."

"humour me."

you huff—the particular huff of someone who has already decided to comply and is performing resistance for the sake of her dignity—and shuffle toward the fridge, plunge both fabric-covered hands in, and retrieve two boxes with a level of drama that far exceeds the task.

you turn back. wave the sleeves at him.

"see? dogs don't have hands."

"let's go, puppy."

you groan the entire way to the checkout.

the self-checkout registers are mercifully vacant. you find the one closest to the car, nudge jungkook toward it, and he takes over the scanning with the efficiency of a man who doesn't do things slowly when there's no reason to. you insert yourself into the process anyway, swiping items before he can get to them.

"aeum."

"you can stand there and be decorative." you scan a container of spring onions. "someone's going to take a photo of you and you'll need to be ready."

"decorative?"

"captain." you look up at him briefly. "how often do you look in a mirror?"

"is this a real question?"

"i want honesty."

"once in the morning. once at night."

"then you already know." you turn back to the scanner. "that you're handsome."

he doesn't respond. you glance at him and catch the particular expression—the one where his lips don't move but his eyes do something that means more than whatever he would have said. you've been collecting these. they keep adding up to something you can't quite name yet.

the jeon jungkook doesn't know how to receive a compliment.

this might be the most humanising thing you've ever learned about him.

you pay. you pack. you're about to tell jungkook you're ready when a small voice cuts across the aisle: "jeon jungkook!"

the boy is maybe eight, running with the specific urgency of someone whose legs haven't caught up to how fast they want to move, cheeks round and eyes lit up in the particular way children look when they see the thing they love most in the world made real and standing in the frozen food section of a regular grocery store.

jungkook drops onto one knee before the boy reaches him, which is the thing that gets you—the immediacy of it, the complete lack of hesitation, lowering himself to eye level with the patient care of someone who does this not because it's expected but because it's right.

"slow down." he says gently. "you'll trip."

"i'm going to be you when i grow up!" the boy announces, with a conviction that should probably be bottled and distributed. "i want to play games forever and have a big house and a racing car and make people happy!"

"that sounds better than me already." jungkook's voice comes from somewhere genuinely warm.

you watch the smile on his face and feel something in your chest that doesn't have a clean name yet.

"no one is better than you!" the boy is appalled by the suggestion. "what's your name?" jungkook asks.

"minjae! i'm eight years old!" minjae announces it with the energy of someone declaring military rank.

"i was never as brave as you at eight." jungkook says. "that puts you ahead of me already."

minjae considers this very seriously. "i still can't play warwick like you."

"you don't know that yet." a smirk. "i see it in you, minjae."

"i don't study though!" minjae's shoulders drop preemptively. "studying is boring."

"i studied to get here."

minjae's jaw drops. he looks genuinely betrayed. "you're serious?" he whines. "no—"

"come back when you've got your high school scores and your licence," jungkook says, "and i'll buy you that racing car."

minjae inhales so deeply it sounds structural.

"don't forget!" he grabs jungkook's sleeve. "you can't forget!"

"i won't." jungkook rises back to standing, and the smile on his face is the kind that costs nothing to give and somehow means everything. "now go find whoever you came with."

"bye, jeon jungkook!" minjae releases him, punches the air once with both arms, and sprints away the same way he arrived.

you step up beside jungkook the moment minjae is out of earshot. "did you mean that?"

"i did." he glances down at you. "did you want one too?"

"can i?"

"impress me first." he bumps your forehead once with two fingers—light, fond, a gesture that lives in the category of things he does without seeming to decide to—and picks up the cardboard box. "let's go."

"the internet isn't looking good."

the words find you the second you push through the front door, still carrying the smaller bag, still wearing jungkook's hoodie, still somewhere in the middle of the thought you were having.

namjoon's face when he sees you both says the rest before he does.

jungkook sets the cardboard box down. you move to stand beside him. the team is gathered. the particular gathered-ness of people who've been waiting for the right people to arrive before saying the thing.

"photos went up," namjoon says. "of the two of you. the supermarket."

your stomach drops.

you look down at what you're wearing.

of course.

of course.

"are you two dating?" namjoon asks, and his voice is measured but his eyes aren't entirely. "i need the honest answer. the tournament is close."

"it's a misunderstanding." jungkook says, clean and immediate.

"it is." you follow.

"the photos," namjoon says carefully, "don't look like one."

you want to become someone else. somewhere else. a different timeline entirely where you wore your own jacket to the supermarket.

"i'll contact the company. official statement goes out today. jungkook—a livestream would carry more weight than a post. aeum—twitter is safer for you than a live audience right now."

"won't that seem dishonest?" you ask.

namjoon looks at you for a moment. "you'll receive malicious comments regardless. and threats."

"you say that like it would be something new."