A matter of letting go [1] eng. | Teacher Yoongi Au
Pairing: Min Yoongi x f.reader
Genre: fluff, angst, smut eventually
Sumary: Min Yoongi is one step away from achieving his dream, the one for which he went against his parents, the one for which he had to leave behind the most important people in his life. He was about to feel it within reach, when an unfortunate event forced him to stand in front of a classroom side by side with the one person he never stopped loving.
A/N: Hey there! This is a first for me, am still a little squeaky at my writing in english so am apologizing in advance of the next chapter in hopes that, at least, it's readable and enjoyable. As always, you can leave a coment, share it, also, you can give me recommendations, suggestions or corrections of any kind. Thank u for read. 💌
Everything had fallen into complete darkness. The voices reached him from far away, muffled and swallowed by the abandonment of consciousness. He could still feel the people near him, even as it felt like his soul had left his body.
He blacked out.
Just moments before, an unbearable heaviness had settled on the back of his head and nape, absorbing the news as the faces and objects around him began to spin. The annoying tinnitus in his ear made him stand up, only to fall into the void.
He blacked out.
That very morning, everything had a diferent feeling to it. From the moment he woke up, he carried the feeling that this day would steer his life to a new direction. So he dragged himself out of bed with his usual tiredness, his phone clinging to its last bit of battery, and the deafening silence filling his apartment.
Everything seemed to indicate that Yujin, his roommate, had left earlier than usual. She’d left her coffee cup beside her forgotten set of keys near the door. Still, he didn’t spare it a second though as he stepped out.
Skipping breakfast, as had become his habit, he headed to the coffee-bar right in front of his building, looking for Yujin, as she worked there — just like he used to invest countless of nights working there for minimum wage —, so they could talk about the upcoming bills, while enjoying a large cup of coffee.
To his surprise, Yujin wasn’t behind the counter, or anywhere in sight. None of her coworkers knew where she’d gone, so, a little intrigued, he tried calling her, but his phone had finally given in to its dead battery. Resigned, he took his usual order — the one the staff already knew by heart —, and made his way back to the building's parking lot to grab his car. It was time to head to the recording label.
He was currently an intern in the special program for new producers, at the record label where his best friend, Namjoon, worked. It was thanks to Joon, and his family’s influence, that he’d even managed to get his papers and demos submitted.
He’d brought in a handful of melodies he’d written during his late-night shifts at the café, good enough to catch the ears of the higher-ups. Still, competition for a spot was fierce, and with his lack of experience, he’d had no choice but to start from the bottom as an intern.
That didn't discourage him in any way. He was grateful to Joon, and even for his part-time job at the bar-café, as he could pursue his dream of becoming a producer while still keeping a roof over his head.
Eventually, after pushing himself hard enough, he’d made it through to the second stage of the program by presenting his thesis in Music Production. And now here he was, on his way to present his latest masterpiece: an EP he'd been working tirelessly on, and for which he'd decided to quit his job as a barista to dedicate as much time and dedication as possible.
Sliding into his car, he patted the pockets of his jacket to make sure the USB, holding his project, was safe. It was. Yet a heavy feeling still pressed against his chest, as if he’d forgotten something important. He couldn't help but associate it with the importance of that day.
On the drive, he didn’t dare plug the USB into his stereo, even though he normally played his drafts on repeat on his way. “One careless mistake could ruin everything”, he kept telling himself. So instead, he drove on in silence, the dull chatter of morning radio stations filling the space.
By the time he reached the building, his anxiety levels had spiked high, and refused to calm as he walked through the reception and boarded the elevator. It had become a daily state for him, so he felt a sense of pride when he thought about his hard work.
Despite the way his body and mind dragged him down, despite the suffocating grind of work and uncertainty, he had managed to focus on his desires and inspirations, on his senses and instincts, when creating his songs.
He realized too late, as he stepped into the cramped studio he shared, that he had forgotten his noise-canceling headphones at home. In that tiny workspace, they were essential, not only because privacy and space were scarce, but also out of respect for his senior producer, who showed him the same courtesy in return.
So, instead of asking anyone to change their habits, he simply used the headphones whenever he needed to write his lyrics. Even though his senior was on medical leave, there was always the chance his peace could be broken by the scatterbrained: Park Jisung.
And as if Jisung had some uncanny sense for the worst possible timing, he slipped through the door only seconds after Yoongi had sat down.
“You’re here,” the dark-haired boy noted from the doorway, his usual flat tone doing little to disguise his nosiness.
“We thought you’d be rushing with last-minute edits to your project, you know, with the deadline and all that stuff…” Jisung had a habit of blurting out his thoughts as if they belonged to everyone.
Out of the whole team, he was the only one convinced Yoongi would be scrambling that morning.
“I’m here, yes. And as for the final touches, they’re not big of a thing —nor any of your business,” he thought. “Just a few fine-tunings I can finish today during the day,” Yoongi replied curtly.
He didn’t spare another glance at his gaunt figure leaning against the doorway. Instead, he turned in his chair, slipped on his headphones, and tried to block out both the buzzing lights above and the boy’s petulant little voice.
But Jisung wasn’t finished.
"Still, today’s d-day. Nine a.m., sharp. Which means…” he tapped the clock above the doorframe, “…five minutes, Yoongs.”
Just as the color drained from Yoongi's face, he quickly left the room and headed to Nam's office, pushing past the nosy boy in the process.
His pulse thudded violently as he knocked on the door: no response.
He was on the verge of shouting, maybe even pounding his fists like a tantrum-throwing kid, when his back collided with someone.
The program's supervisor. His boss. Mr. Kang.
“Min Kid, what are you doing here wasting your time?”
The Min Kid in question stood there, petrified, as if his best moments in the company were passing before his eyes, as if the man in front of him were destiny itself, handing his failure into his hands.
“I assume you've already finished your project. If you’re here to deliver it, give it to me. Young Kim is waiting on me to review yesterday’s submissions—I’ll make sure yours is added to the list.”
Before Yoongi could stammer a word, Mr. Kang snatched the USB from his hand and dismissed him with a polite wave.
“Go back to your studio, or grab breakfast. You look exhausted. Everyone’s free to take lunch an hour early—just make sure you keep up the good work.”
With two firm pats on his back, Mr. Kang was gone, striding down the perfectly lit hallway.
Gone, with the USB that carried Yoongi’s life, his future. Everything.
He was willing to die before letting himself fail.
When he returned to the studio, the nosy black-haired man had left.
In the midst of relaxing for the first time that day, he decided to charge his phone and open his book-notes to distract his mind, if only for a moment.
The screen lit up with a flood of missed calls and unread messages, mostly from his mother, sent between the night before and just a few hours ago.
He ignored them for now. It was probably just another attempt to send him good luck or pry for details about the selection process. He locked the phone before it could pull him further away from what mattered: his lyrics and his coffee.
But the coffee hit his empty stomach like acid, and the familiar burn of gastritis clawed its way up his throat. Right then, a call from Yujin flashed across the screen, as an unexpected relief to his tense shoulders.
“Hey, what’s up?” He answered immediately, desperate to distract himself from the anxiety chewing at him while he waited.
He knew that if Namjoon was on the evaluation committee, he would intercede for him to be one of the first to be considered for evaluation, and while that was a nice touch, the anxiety of knowing it only made his nerves worse.
“Are you already at lunch?” The urgent, hurried tone of those words made him sit up straight. “Can you come to the train station?”
“I was just about to leave. I’m on my way,” he replied, puzzled by such a request. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up, as if this wasn't a casual call to keep up and then hurried out of the building to meet up with his roommate.
Fifteen minutes turn to twenty in the mid-morning traffic, then thirty when he couldn’t find a parking spot close enough to spare him from walking in the sun.
Finally, he made it inside the crowded station, scanning the place is search for her. He was looking for his phone when a hand yanked him by the arm.
“If I’d known you’d take this long, I would’ve just said it over the phone.”
Yoongi recognized when a person was irritable, so this time he decided to remain silent and wait for the girl, with her arms crossed and impassive face, to give him a reason to do so.
“I’ll make it quick. My train leaves in fifteen minutes, so I need to set things straight before I go.”
As the words made sense in her head, she scribbled numbers onto an old receipt. “This is my account number, my parents’ address, and the codes you’ll need for shipping details.”
She handed him the scrap of paper. He raised an eyebrow and grabbed it.
“Clearly you've made a plan,” he said carefully. “Would you mind letting me in on it?
For a beat, the air between them turned heavy, his confusion colliding with her attempt to run away, unnoticed.
“I quit the café. I’m going home.”
Yoongi nodded slowly, gesturing for her to continue the explanation, but when silence stretched on, he finally pushed:
“What happened to wanting to be a singer? You know the work we did was good. The opportunity is right there...why- why walk away now?”
Her eyes flicked from her watch to him, back and forth. With a sigh, she looked directly at Yoongi, who avoided her eyes out of habit, but if he hadn’t, he might have caught the shadow of betrayal hiding in them.
“The truth is… it was never really my dream. It’s yours. If you get in, it’ll be all yours,” she murmured, a trace of guilt tugging at her voice. “And if you don’t, there’s nothing more I can do to help.”
“I need to move on. I can’t keep living like this…waiting for one of us to make it while the other works their ass off just to keep the apartment afloat.”
“You were the one who suggested this,” Yoongi snapped, irritation rising with his hunger. “So what are you talking about now?”
He looked at her for a few seconds, wondering: if giving up made her feel guilty, why did she do it?
Silence stretched thick between them. Around them, the station buzzed with people chasing trains, buying tickets, finding seats, walking in and out of entrances.
But for Yoongi and Yujin, time seemed to hang heavy, pinned down by the weight of everything remaining unspoken.
Finally, she broke it.
“I’m just tired, Yoon.” Her voice cracked under something she couldn’t admit. “I have to go.”
“Fine. If you’re set on leaving… I won’t stop you.” His eyes dropped to the paper he was twisting in his hands, “but what’s this for?”
“I didn’t pay the rent this month,” she said flatly, but she could no longer generate any reaction from Yoongi, or so she thought.
“I’m sure with your new producer contract you’ll manage. Find another roommate, and once you’re financially stable, send me the deposit back to that account.”
"The address is where you should send my things, like the coffee maker and the bedding. Do it when you have the deposit money, so you can pay with it."
His expression was unreadable, his mind caught somewhere far away.
Over the speakers, the call for her train echoed through the station. Yujin placed her hands on his shoulders, grounding him for a brief, fleeting goodbye.
“It was a pleasure helping with your project. It felt… pure, and so real.”
His eyes wandered everywhere but her. “I hope I see you again. No hard feelings?”
Confusion clung to him more tightly than before. He barely managed a nod before she lifted her bags—bags he hadn’t even noticed until that moment—and turned toward the gates. The whole thing felt wrong, as though he’d skipped a crucial episode in the middle of his favorite series.
For now, there wasn’t much he could do. Yujin’s departure wasn’t in his hands, nor was the approval of his project.
The only thing he could control was getting himself some lunch—and that’s where he headed once he finally broke free of midday traffic.
On the way, he slowed to a stop to let a line of children cross the street, hand in hand behind a woman—presumably their teacher.
The sight pulled at him with a strange sense of déjà vu. But before he could chase the thought, the blare of car horns snapped him back to reality, urging him forward.
On the way, he slowed to a stop to let a line of children cross the street, hand in hand behind a woman, presumably their teacher.
The sight pulled at him with a strange sense of déjà vu. But before he could chase the thought, the blare of car horns snapped him back to reality, urging him to move forward.
He had barely finished ordering his meal when his second coffee of the day was handed in front of him.
For Yoongi, caffeine was essential at times like this—when life seemed to slow down around him, the world pressing closer, people colliding into each other as if there were no space left to breathe.
At that table, it felt as if the whole world had been strapped to his wrist, dragging him down with its weight. His dream was already delayed but waiting even a few more hours for it felt impossible.
And then, like fate knocking at the door, like the false hope of a dream too good to last, Namjoon's contact photo lit up his phone screen.
He missed the call.
Within seconds, his phone bloated with notifications; text messages, voicemails, incoming calls. Yet all he could see was that single name flashing again and again. Her name.
And he missed that call too.
Still, it was enough to stir something deep in his memory: today, Y/N returned to his life far from home.
And he had forgotten.
The reminder had been written in his calendar. His mother had begged him not to let it slip his mind. But he had.
He’d completely forgotten the dinner their parents had organized, the same dinner they held every time Y/N came home on summer break, before she had to return to her job in the province.
Three years running.
He clung to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, a miracle would happen—that when he returned to the label, his contract would be waiting for him, ready to be signed and sealed.
Then he’d have the rest of the evening free to meet her, to say goodbye to the love of his life for the third time.
Determined, he reached for his phone to call her. But Namjoon’s face appeared again, floating in a message bubble. This time, Yoongi couldn’t ignore it.
“Nam, what’s up?”
The line fell silent for a stretch of endless seconds.
“I need you here. Right now.”
The voice on the other end wasn’t the charming, easygoing Namjoon he knew. It was sharp, unsteady, carrying something dark in the tone. A chill spread through Yoongi’s chest, his heart thundering in pure terror.
Namjoon had never sounded so disturbed.
“In case you're wondering,” Namjoon exhaled a breath heavy with dread,
summary: a disastrous recoupling after Casa Amor leaves you and Haechan single and vulnerable. Unbeknownst to the two of you, your moments during Unseen Bits are making the two of you quite popular among the viewers! There's no way the two of you are leaving!
word count: 4.2k
a/n: I think it's too early for me to have favorites... but I find myself obsessed with these two... In case you wonder what villa layout I'm using, I'm going based on the USA villa. Enjoy and if you want to get a read on the rest of 127's time in the villa, check it out here!
dividers from dollywons and robinavitchslut
"Haechan and Dean," Ariana states tensely before stating your name with eerie calmness, "and Vanessa. Since your original partners have chosen to switch and recouple after Casa Amor, you are now left single and vulnerable."
You grip Vanessa's hand tightly, your palms sweaty but you're not particularly dreading going home. You've had a good summer— a great summer even! You haven't found romantic love, but that's fine, you've found friends that you know you'll have for life. That's better than winning you think.
You're mentally preparing your farewell, trying to come up with a speech that will be able to encompass the amazing time you've spent here. You know that when it comes down to a vote, Vanessa will be saved over you. She had a good connection with Jamie before Casa Amor, albeit a bit rocky in the days leading up, but it's more than you can say. You were coupled up with Gabriel in a friendship couple. Before that you were with Jaden, and before him Jamie. Nothing was clicking and you weren't sure anything would. Rather than forcing a connection to stay, you'd prefer to leave on a high note while single if it came down to it.
"But your journeys might not be over yet," Ariana continues after a tense minute of charged silence. "Your future in the villa will be in the hands of the viewers."
You gasp, eyes alight with shock as the fire pit in front of you bursts into whispers and murmurs of surprise.
Ariana smiles knowingly, "I'll be back at the end of the week. Bye, islanders."
"I can't believe this," Vanessa exhales as she pulls you into a tight embrace.
You hug her tightly, laughing in relief of your situation, "safe for a little while at least. You'll be saved, I know it."
"I don't know," she whispers sadly, eyes darting over to her former partner Jamie. Jamie who stands beside his new partner Claire.
The girls surge toward the two of you, hugging you both tightly in a huge group hug. You laugh brightly, wiping away happy tears as you lean into your best friend, Samira.
"If you leave," she whispers passionately, "I'll go with you."
"That makes three of us," you hear a male voice whisper loudly, making you jump in Samira's arms.
There, at eye level, you're met with the face of your most unexpected friend this summer, Haechan. There's a smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he extends his hand to you. You take it and let yourself melt into his chest, sniffling softly. He rubs your back comfortingly, "I have a plan for us."
A watery laugh is pulled out of your chest as you pull away from the hug and use your hands to wipe away your tears, "do I even want to know?"
"I'll propose to you. There's no way the viewers will vote out an engaged couple. Think of all the drama we'd bring! And if we say we'll get married at the finale, we have a secure spot. What do you think?"
"I think you're an idiot," you roll your eyes playfully, walking away from the crowded deck around the fire pit in favor of the empty beauty room. The rest of the girls slowly join you, introductions and small talk is made with the new Casa Amor girls.
You take your time, allowing the stress from the night's recoupling to melt from your muscles with every swipe of your makeup wipe against your face and every drag of your comb through your hair.
You're completely wiped out by the end of the night, uncharacteristically quiet as you slip into your bed. Your new bed is comfortable, but not nearly as comfortable as the actual bed you once claimed as your own. That bed is now labeled with Gabriel and Sabrina's name, the couple cuddling beneath the covers.
Dean has already disappeared to his makeshift bed in the Speakeasy, leaving behind his noisy roommate for the night. Haechan is still busy making his rounds to each of the guys for an obnoxious cuddle or an annoying kiss upon their cheeks to get a reaction. He stands in the doorway, looks at you and bids you goodnight with a playful wink and a whispered, "good night, missus."
Unseen Bits Week 1
You breathe out a nervous breath as you sink down from the open sun roof of the Jeep. In the sports car parked beside your own, the guy jumps out and pulls open your door with an excited grin, "hi there."
You take a second to stare at him first, feeling your heart skip a beat at the sight of the man. His skin is sun kissed with his dark hair styled off his forehead to reveal more of his pretty face. Blinking harshly, you take his outstretched hand and step out of the Jeep with a smile. Surely, you could blame it on your nerves, but realistically you know it's because the heels you're wearing are thinner than you're comfortable with. You go down after a single step, falling to your hands and knees with a shout,"Oh, motherfucker!"
Your male companion is laughing gleefully beside you, earning a glare from over your shoulder. He's clutching his sides, tears glistening in his eyes before he finally reaches a hand out to help you up, "actually, I prefer to be called Haechan."
"I stand by my previous title," you bite, tugging your hand out of his own once you're steady on your feet, "you didn't even try to hide your laughter, you menace."
"It was objectively funny, lovely. I would hardly be considered a human if I didn't laugh," Haechan explains as he rushes to catch up to you.
"You know the eggs are less likely to burn if you don't cook them on high," you state from your spot behind the counter, popping a blueberry into your mouth.
"Oh, really?!" Haechan asks sarcastically, "I didn't realize I was in the presence of a professional chef!"
"It doesn't take a professional chef to see that the pan is too hot! No wonder Vanessa never eats the eggs or pancakes you bring her! They're always fucking burnt to a crisp!"
He gasps, pointing the spatula at you, "they're not burnt. I just give them a little color. Brown is beautiful."
You smack the spatula away from your face, "is that your excuse for leaving eggshells in her breakfast as well?"
"Protein!" He screeches defensively as he rounds the corner to get in your face.
You place your hands on his shoulders and shove him away with a laugh, "Get away from me! Focus on the food!"
You groan softly as you lower yourself into a beanbag with the rest of the girls. You kick your sandals away and lower your sunglasses for some subtlety. Though, with the way you and the girls have arranged yourselves for your daily "gossip session," it's quite obvious what you're all really doing. How sneaky do you all really think you are when you're all barely ten feet away from the gym and all facing in said direction?
"Good morning, ladies," Rosie mumbles as she plops into a vibrant pink and orange bean bag.
"A very good morning indeed," Lola drawls lowly before biting her bottom lip.
Vanessa plops onto the grass as Samira snags the last beanbag. "So, any updates for you girls?" Vanessa asks, "sparks? Kisses? Wandering hands?"
"Shh!" Samira is quick to chide, her jaw dropping in shock as she watches her partner, Jaden, do pull ups on the bar. His muscular back on full display, shiny with sweat and sunscreen.
"Oh my goodness," Rosie hums appreciatively while hooking a finger onto a leg of her sunglasses to slide them down the bridge of her nose.
Vanessa whines, a pout on her face as she kicks Rosie's beanbag, "it's not fair! We call this gossip time and we don't even gossip. My partner isn't even over there and it doesn't feel right to ogle your men."
"Please! I insist!" You exclaim as you reach forward to shake her arm, "look at my partner Jamie all you want. It would be a crime to let such a fine specimen go unadmired. Look at his arms!"
The girls all murmur appreciatively, all gazes now fixed on your muscled partner as his biceps bulge with each curl of the weight. You let your eyes drag over each chiseled line of Jamie's body before our eyes naturally trail over to he next guy who is doing curl ups on the bench.
"You know," a grating voice starts to your left, "you guys could not be more obvious about your ogling."
You roll your eyes, pulling you gaze away from the gym to look at the owner of said annoying voice, "you could be nice and join them, give us more to look at. That would be so kind of you, Haechan."
"God, no. Could you imagine how sore I'd be after?" He scoffs, "plus, this is the only time I get to flirt with all their partners without having to worry about them beating me up."
Samira's jaw drops as a shocked laugh escapes her, "you don't flirt with anyone! You stand in the kitchen and drink a full blender's worth of your smoothies until they're done."
"And here I was about to compliment your gorgeous bikinis. Don't get too ahead of yourself, Sami," Haechan chides with a patronizing smirk and a wink.
Week 2
"Do you guys miss Christmas time?" You ask, the straw of your water bottle wedged at the corner of your mouth.
Samira snorts out a laugh, "Christmas is the furthest thing from my mind when I'm on vacation in Fiji surrounded by hot men."
"I miss scrolling on my for you page and watching people bake Christmas desserts in June," you whine dramatically, throwing your legs over Samira's lap.
Haechan, who was napping on the bench on the opposite side of the gazebo jumps up with unexpected energy, "I really can't stay…"
Samira groans, "don't start."
You smile mischievously, setting your water bottle beside you before you jump to your feet, "but, baby, it's cold outside."
"I've got to go away," Haechan continues to sing, tugging you toward him to sway beside him.
"But, baby, it's cold outside," you carry on, taking the water bottle from his hand to use it as a microphone.
The two of you continue through the song with unplanned but somehow very coordinated choreography. You both do a horrible rendition of tap dancing, which becomes ballet, and then crumping that heavily contradict the spirit of the song you're both singing, sending everyone under the gazebo into bouts of hearty laughter. Still, you and Haechan persist, singing in dramatic low tones and shaky falsettos.
"Baby, it's cold outside!" You and Haechan end in unison, though not in harmony as you both catch your breath. Hand in hand, you both bend into deep, twin bows.
With a long pull from the water bottle in your hand you pant tiredly, "I don't think they'll be able to use our performance— royalties."
Samira cackles loudly, kicking her legs out, "please, you two sounded like two choking geese! There's no way it even gets close to copyright!"
"That's rude," Haechan snaps, taking his water bottle from your hand.
It's quiet for a few moments before you hear him ask, "hey, if we both just drank from the same water bottle, we basically kissed, right?"
"In your perverted, wet dreams, Haechan," you scoff as you slide your feet into your sandals.
You make it half way to the stairs before you turn around to glare at Haechan, "I can literally feel you staring at my ass!"
"You have a wedgie!" He counters, before muttering so lowly his microphone is the only thing that hears him, "and a very nice ass."
"I have a question for you," you start, laying on your side to face Haechan in the bed adjacent to yours, your hands fluffing the pillow beneath your head.
Your partner Jaden is still in the bathroom getting ready for bed and the bedroom has only half of its inhabitants. Everyone is the room is milling around, making light conversation, or in Vanessa and Jamie's case, arguing in heated whispers.
"Women and their questions," Haechan sighs exasperatedly, "no, I won't father your children. Though, they would be gorgeous."
"It's much more serious than that," you reply, your face set with a look of worry. You fiddle with your nails, "I was just wondering… if me and Dean were both dangling off a cliff, who would you save?"
"Dean's my best friend," Haechan replies, playing along with your serious act, his brows pinched with faux concern, "but so are you…"
You nod in understanding while Haechan rubs his chin in thought, "but Dean doesn't subject me to random, exaggerated retellings of his favorite chick flicks, so I choose Dean."
"You motherfucker," you growl as you leap from your bed and jump onto his own. Your hands are quick to pull the pillow out from behind his back and hit him over the head with it.
"Please! Someone! Help!" Haechan cries out, his hands coming up to protect himself, "she's killing me!"
"Geez, it's hotter in here than usual, isn't it?" Vanessa asks as she sweeps a fluffy eyeshadow brush over your eye.
Rosie takes another chunk of your hair, "I think it's because we're used to being here in the cooler parts of the day, not the middle of the afternoon."
"Yet we all insisted on giving each other makeovers for fun," Vanessa sighs, fanning her neck with her hand.
"Does anyone have their water?" You ask, hissing softly as Rosie accidentally pulls too hard on the curler with your hair wrapped around it.
It turns out that no one does and it's even more obvious that none of the girls are wanting to go downstairs. You sigh and stand as soon as Rosie has clipped a curl at the back of your head, "I got this."
"Don't go downstairs, it's not that bad," Samira calls after you.
But you have no plans of going downstairs, no way. Not when half your head has curls setting for a banging blow out for later tonight. Beauty must come first!
"Haechan!" You yell, waving your hands from the ledge that over looks the pool from the second floor.
Haechan's head pops out of the water, looking every which way until he finally looks up at you. He cups a hand over his eyes to protect them from the sun, "what do you want?!"
"Bring us our waters, please!"
"I am literally in the pool!" He argues, his hands splashing water around him to further prove his point.
"Pookie, please!" You whine, clasping your hands together with a dramatic pout you doubt he can even see.
"Get them yourselves!"
"I'm in the middle of getting my hair blown out!"
He says nothing else, at least not that you can hear, but the water splashes around him with every paddle and step he takes to get out of the pool.
You skip back to the beauty room with a smile, "Haechan is bringing our waters."
"So you just hold the camera here at this angle and just keep taking pictures through every move, got it?" You confirm as you gently guide Haechan's hands to the perfect angle.
"Why do I have to do this again?"
"Because with the way it's looking for me, I might leave before I find love. The very least I can leave with are sexy pics to post so I can pull, duh," you explain as you situate yourself into the first pose, "ok, start taking pictures now."
You move fluidly from pose to pose. First, arching your back on all fours with your hair mussed. Then, you move onto your knees, you back to Haechan as you look at him from over your shoulder, your fingers hooked into the thin straps of your bikini bottoms to tug the skimp scrap up even further up your curves.
"How are they looking?" You ask as you maneuver into a seated position with your knees bent and back curved up to push your chest out.
"Bitch, you look hot as fuck. Are you sure you don't want to couple up with me? I'll sneak us into the hideaway," Haechan breathes out, his eyes locked on the screen of your phone as he swipes through the pictures.
"Hyuck!" You whine petulantly, pushing his shoulder lightly, "be serious!"
"I am being serious! Look at this one," he passes your phone back to you, showing you a picture, "your boobs look amazing! I would swipe right. Hey girl, are you dtf? That would be my pick up line."
Week 3
You sigh with frustration as you stand under the hot stream of water, your fingers scrubbing pink slime from your hair for the nth minute. You hate challenge days. They're always something over the top and never before imagined by the average person. Who in their right and healthy mind would ever have people dive into a pool full of slime to dig for a key to get their partner free from a fake lock? And why did you have to be the one to dig through the slime?
If you'd won the countless rounds of rock, paper, scissors among the girls, then the slime would have been much easier to wash out. It was dried and crusted in all your nooks and crannies, the water running pink at your feet even after five minutes beneath the shower head.
You reach for your shampoo, squeezing a hefty amount into your palm before lathering it into your hair. You massage and rub the soap through every strand, rubbing it until suds.
You exhale in relief, your eyes shut as you tilt your head back to begin to wash out your first round of shampoo. You don't hear the door open over the sound of the water, the uncharacteristic quiet of the villa brings you peace.
That is of course until you hear a surprising, "hey."
Your eyes snap open in shock, just in time to see the glass door of your shower opening to reveal Haechan, "your shampoo smells really good."
You screech at the top of your lungs, using both your hands to preserve your modesty as you back yourself into the corner of the shower. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" You scream shrilly.
Haechan slams the door shut, cheeks bright red with embarrassment, apologies tumbling past his lips as you breathe heavily, trying to catch your breath and slow your heartbeat. But of course, the villa has a way of providing more drama than anyone could ever need.
Everyone comes racing into the bathroom, no care for how small or cramped the space becomes with 10 bodies.
"What?! What's happening?" Jamie asks breathlessly, his buttoned up shirt open and hanging off one shoulder.
You point a finger at Haechan with anger, thankful that the frosted glass shows nothing to your housemates, "why the fuck would you open my shower?!"
"You didn't hear me when I complimented your shampoo the first time!" He defends.
Samira's jaw drops, "you couldn't tell her when she wasn't naked and showering?"
"I don't think sometimes! We all know that!"
Still pressed into the corner of the shower you scoff, "none of you do!" Everyone's gaze turns to you with offense written clear on their features, "I am still naked and showering and you're all standing in the bathroom just hanging out now!"
Murmurs of agreement break out, everyone quickly filing out of the bathroom to leave you to finish your shower. All except Haechan, who presses his face to the glass with a pitiful frown, "Pookie, forgive me."
"Donghyuck, you're an idiot," you roll your eyes, waving him away.
Haechan waves at you sadly, a pout on his face as he shuffles toward the door, "your idiot?"
"Yes, yes," you sigh, returning to the stream of water, "the other half of my brain cell. Now, go!"
"What's up YouTube!" Dean shouts at his phone with a peace sign thrown up, "We're here after a recoupling and unfortunately our boy Eli was sent packing. Samira, how do you feel being the girl to send him to his fate?"
The camera is turned onto Samira who rolls her eyes as she takes another bite of her ice cream cone, "Eli was very sweet and he'll be missed in the villa. It was very tough decision but everyone knows that Haechan's crying would have kept everyone awake for days if his beloved Dean left. Everyone should be thanking me."
Dean laughs, focusing the camera back on himself for just a second, "speaking of my best friend." The camera turns to focus on Haechan, who is to no one's surprise, with you, "there he is."
You and Haechan are dancing, your backside pressed to his front as you rock and sway side to side with an ice cream bar between your lips. Behind you, Haechan holds your waist with one hand, the other holding an ice cream cone, bare of any ice cream as his voice rings out, "Daddy's home! Home for me! And I know you've been waiting for this lovin' all day!"
The phone shakes as Dean laughs loudly, overpowering the sound of Haechan's singing. Dean zooms in on Rosie across the kitchen who watches on with an amused smile, "Rose! Get your boy!"
"They tire each other out! They need their play time," Rosie replies, ending her statement with her tongue stuck out at the camera.
The camera focuses back on you and Haechan who are now doing the snake in opposite directions. Haechan takes a large bite out of his cone before singing with his mouth full, "So all my ladies say!"
"Hey, hey, hey, daddy!" You reply, turning on your heel to clap your hands as if you were hyping up a crowd.
Vanessa joins you and Haechan, the three of you singing in unison, "hey, hey, hey, daddy!"
The atmosphere feels light and happy, no one has the choice but to join in to keep the spirits high. The camera pans around the kitchen, catching everyone clapping, dancing along, and chanting, "Hey, hey, hey, daddy!
Two days later, you find yourself standing in the open kitchen. The day has proved to be gloomy and rainy, weirdly, reflecting the bleak mood of you all for the last two days. You've all grown so close, a tight knit family so emotionally dependent on each other that one of you leaving would leave the villa in a fit of depression for a few days, especially losing one of you original Islanders.
In front of you, the rest of your fellow islanders watch on as Ariana struts toward you all, looking gorgeous as always. "Hello, islanders," she greets with a calm smile, much the opposite of everyone's grim mood.
"Well, the public have been voting," she explains, "the viewers were given the option of sending one boy and one girl on dates with two brand new bombshells."
Gasps sound out, eyes wide, and others shushing loudly to discover the fate of those not chosen for dates. Ariana keeps her poise, "Vanessa, the public have voted for you to go on a date with new bombshell Luke. Dean, you were voted to go on a date with new bombshell Ana."
Your heart drops to your stomach as Samira sobs loudly, the sound barely muffled by her hand. You gulp, your hand helplessly squeezing Vanessa's as you await your fate, anticipating the dreaded words: "you've been dumped from the villa."
You keep your eyes locked on Samira's, her eyes brimming with tears as she leans into her partner, Eren's, shoulder. It's easy enough to keep yourself from bursting into tears when you know you'll have to comfort her right after the news is dropped and convince her to stay.
It comes as a shock when you hear your name stated, drawing your attention back to Ariana, "the public also had the opportunity to vote for two single islanders they wanted to be in a couple." Her lips quirk into a knowing smile, "as a result, the two of you are officially coupled up and therefore safe from any dumpings this week. You will also be joining Vanessa and Dean on a date this afternoon."
"I'll see you all very soon," she concludes, walking away from you all just as both Vanessa and Dean's phones ding loudly with texts.
Everything around you is muffled chaos. Everyone leaps up from their seats on the couch rushing you all relieved embraces and delighted exclamations. Samira squeezes you in her arms tightly, repeating her words of elation right in your ear.
Your gaze is torn from the floor, your gaze guided toward familiar pools of amber and oak with warm and gentle hands on your cheeks. Haechan's lips are moving, but you can't for the life of you hear what he's saying over the pounding of your heart and rush of blood in your ears. "What the hell just happened?" You breathe out.
a/n: this is just the beginning of their madness woohoo! Still to come: their date, a kiss, some sparks, and ~love~!!!! feedback is encouraged and appreciated <3
taglist (comment or ask to be added!) @prettypeachyplease @neo-moa @banbao @lovesuhng @do0iee @bluedbliss
wave— your weekly anonymous psychoanalysis on cute boys with broad shoulders and pretty girls in tiny skirts. make sure to not miss any updates from campus’ favorite emotionally invasive blog!
jeon jungkook is a notorious lady pleaser with a weak spot for pretty girls with big vocabularies. so when he unexpectedly meets you, a journalism major who happens to be the prettiest girl he has ever seen, he terribly, miserably folds.
PAIRING: fuckboy!jk x journalist!reader
GENRE: college au, fluff, smut, angst
WC: 12.5k (for part 1)
WARNINGS/DETAILS: fem!reader, ie major!jk, secret identity reader, jk thinks she’s soo pretty :( forced proximity?, reader’s kinda selfish sometimes, jk’s so horny the entire time, jk briefly kisses another girl, very cheesy college vibes, jealousy, alcohol consumption, smut wise: titty sucking, he hits it from the back, cowgirl, fingering, big d jk always
NOTES: okay you see, i write everything with the entirety of my heart and soul but this one carries details that are a bit too special to me compared to anything i’ve shared with you before. of course it’s just another silly little fanfiction but i got a bit absorbed into the characters and world building. also it feels like i’ve been working on this for ages so i wanted to share it in two parts bcs i was gonna lose my mind if i didn’t post at least parts of it soon enough. i hope you guys feel and enjoy this the same way i did while writing <3
𑣲 banner by 𑣲 divider by
There's a specific kind of loneliness that exists exclusively in university boys who project their fear of intimacy onto women and ruin their perceptions of love solely to keep their fragile egos away from slipping through their fingertips and breaking down like blades of glass.
Not because they're incapable of being loved. I'd say the situation is quite the opposite, actually. People like them are usually loved too loudly, too quickly. They become socially unavoidable before they become emotionally available— having mastered the art of making people feel personally seen while remaining uniquely difficult to access in return.
And maybe, that's where the actual problem begins.
Charm is easier to preform than vulnerability, attention is more addicting when you've never experienced a form of raw intimacy, and a real conversation probably feels worse than a pair of red, glossy lips.
Every generation repackages the same socially gifted boy with commitment issues and calls him different names, swearing this one is different than the last.
But surprise, it's not.
This year's version just happens to wear leather jackets and lip rings to nine a.m lectures while also somehow possessing actual analytical skills in addition to social ones— perhaps the most alarming thing about Jeon Jungkook is that he isn't a business major.
Because boys like Jeon Jungkook learn early that if they remain entertaining enough, nobody will notice how carefully they avoid stillness; as though silence might physically harm them. Does an engineering major make him interesting? Maybe. But does it fuel his hedonistic lifestyle? Not exactly.
The bass is thudding loud enough to make the kitchen cabinets tremble with every beat, palpitating through the frat house in uneven waves. Alcohol that's cheap enough to poison you on an empty stomach spills over sticky counter tops, and the room reeks with the smell of warm beer mixed with something disgustingly similar to your ex boyfriend's cologne— you're going to throw up.
But you don't. Because, well, you can't.
So you keep holding a cup of cranberry vodka in your hand despite accommodating a strong dislike for the drink, you keep your smile warm and flirty even though deeply missing the comfort of your bed and wanting nothing more than to rewatch Mamma Mia for the third time this month. And you keep bobbing your head along to the music even though you swear any house beat without proper lyrics would be enough to kill a fly.
You keep your chin high and your posture straight because you need this. You need something tangible. A reaction, anything capable of sitting inside your palm until you can carry it home and pour into words later. Because you've already wasted at least three hours of your precious friday night here and you are not leaving unless you find something worth pocketing.
Luckily for you, said Jeon Jungkook is standing at the center of it all.
His back is pressed against the kitchen counter as a girl keeps on kissing him as if the birth and death of her universe lies somewhere between his lips. Her fists are tangled in the collar of his leather jacket, tugging his body closer and closer into her smaller frame like distance is completely unnecessary, like she needs his body to melt and mold with hers to embody the entirety of proximity itself.
A familiar voice shouts his name from the living room, but Jungkook doesn't budge until someone else reaches over to steal the drink straight out of his hand, laughing into her mouth unapologetically.
He pulls away just enough to see whoever it is that's calling him, hands firming up on the girl's waist to stabilize himself. "Give me thirty seconds!" He shouts back casually.
The response is immediate. "You said that twenty minutes ago!"
"Then clearly I'm busy."
The girl in front of him rolls her eyes, hands loosening on his collar before dropping down to his chest. "You're an asshole."
"Mhm, you think?" He asks with a smirk playing on his lips, looking down at her.
"Do you ever take a break or is your case of over sexuality a medical condition?" Mingyu complains, drinking the beer he has just taken from Jungkook's hand as their shoulders bump into each other.
Jungkook finally pulls away fully, shifting closer to Mingyu. "You're obsessed with me."
Mingyu scoffs. "Unfortunate for Seoul's female population."
"Guys," Yugyeom interrupts, looking up from his phone with a sudden delight on his face, as if the light from his phone's screen has traveled and bloomed again behind his pupils. "Wave posted."
The reaction arrives in less than a second, because Wave had long stopped being just another anonymous campus blog sometime during sophomore year. It became something students enthusiastically refreshed during lectures, sent feverish screenshots to group chats at ungodly hours. Because everyone somehow grew to love Wave— until they became the subject of it.
Jungkook closes his eyes briefly, sparing a fraction of a second to recollect the exasperation in his heartbeat, inhaling slowly. "I swear if this psychopath wrote about me again—"
Yugyeom's grin widens. "Bad news, superstar."
"For fuck's sake." Jungkook mutters, snatching the phone away from Yugyeom's hand while Mingyu's laugh echos loudly from besides.
The familiar layout of wave flashes straight into his eyes, light blue and dreamy and so fucking pretty for a blog this cruel. Well, cruel would be an exaggeration, if you weren't Jeon Jungkook.
"Oh my god." Mingyu gasps. "Second paragraph is crazy."
"Crazy accurate." Jaehyun corrects, reaching over Jungkook's shoulder to keep reading.
"This person needs psychiatric help." He says flatly.
"Mhm." Jaehyun hums, taking a sip of his drink. "You say that because you secretly agree with everything."
Okay, you see, that's the problem with Wave.
The issue had never really been the concept itself, because Wave has always been undeniably good. Jungkook can survive a day or two of public embarrassment. God knows he has spent the last two years of university building an almost concerning amount of immunity to people's uncalled opinions. The problem is that whoever it is that's sitting behind that stupid light blue website is unsettlingly gifted at noticing things they absolutely shouldn't. The tiny, quiet things people lock somewhere safe beneath their hearts and reveal only when they trust someone with their lives.
It suffocates him sometimes, not that he'd ever say it like that.
"I'd rather die than agree with this hypocrite." He says instead.
Jaehyun nods dismissively. "Right."
The girl beside Jungkook leans over his shoulder, eyes laced with curiosity. "Wait, keep reading."
"Use your damn phone." He shuts her off immediately, handing the phone back to Yugyeom.
Yugyeom grabs his phone in one hand while he shakes Jungkook's shoulder dramatically with the other. "Did you do something to this writer we don't know of?"
"Why are you acting like i personally asked to be publicly humiliated?"
Mingyu shrugs. "Because you clearly enjoy it a little.
"I actually don't." Jungkook argues.
Majority of the people around him dissolve slowly, disappearing into the crowd to find their own group of friends to gossip on the article that just got posted, leaving Jungkook with his own group of friends who unfortunately do not make up the IQ of a normal person even when merged together.
"Hey," Jungkook says like he suddenly remembered something so crucial, angling his body towards Jaehyun. "Have you seen Mark?"
Jaehyun's brows pull together. "Thought he was coming later."
"He texted me like an hour ago."
"Your secret little rendezvous?" Yugyeom asks knowingly, wiggling his eyebrows.
Jungkook scoffs lightly, rolling his eyes. "Shut the fuck up."
Mingyu gasps dramatically. "You're cheating on us with the music major?"
"None of you are funny." Jungkook says, shaking his head once before letting his gaze drift around the kitchen while Mingyu and Yugyeom start arguing about something else entirely.
Then he spots you.
Oh.
Jungkook knows you. Okay, he doesn't exactly know you, but he knows of you. Through Mark, through Yugyeom, through this and through that but never truly by heart.
You, with a face carefully designed by gods, standing there mindlessly as if you aren't the textbook definition of beauty itself. You, who'd without a doubt get his cock rock solid in mere seconds by rolling your eyes and laughing at how dumb he is. You, who'd pretend to not be fazed by him while very obviously blessing him with flirty smiles and inviting eyes.
You would be…mildly inconvenient for him.
"Why are you staring at her like that?" Jaehyun asks from besides him.
Jungkook tears his eyes away immediately. "You're seeing things."
Mingyu laughs loudly, chiming in a beat later. "You literally are."
"Shut up."
"You don't even know her like that." Yugyeom adds, grinning.
"I know enough."
Jaehyun lifts his brows accusingly. "That is?"
Jungkook opens his mouth, but closes it again in no time. Because somehow saying prettiest girl on campus who'd drop him to his knees by casually using words he has to mentally spell twice feels a little excessive for a girl he's never had a proper conversation with in his life.
"Mark's friends with her, right?" He asks instead.
Jaehyun nods slowly, a little suspicious. "Yeah."
"Cool." Jungkook replies. And before any of his friends can say another word, he's pushing himself away from the counter and walking towards you.
Mingyu gasps dramatically behind him. "Oh my god, he's approaching."
"Act natural!" Yugyeom shouts over the music.
Jungkook scoffs in exasperation, but he doesn't turn around, walking towards you as he flips them off by waving a hand behind.
You notice him coming over almost immediately. Because Jeon Jungkook isn't exactly one to go unnoticed by many, and that sadly seems to cover you too. There is something annoyingly conspicuous about him, visible even in places that are so crowded you lose your friend within the bare minute of getting there.
Maybe it's the broad shoulders, maybe it's the tattoos and the lip rings that usually wink at you before even he gets the chance to, or maybe it's the fact that everybody seems to orbit around him with a push and pull so heavy it feels like he's the center of gravity itself.
It's probably the shoulders.
Miyeon, your gorgeous best friend, notices him too as his steps get closer and closer to where you are standing. Her lips twitch knowingly around the rim of her cup. "Well," She murmurs into her drink. "This should be interesting."
Jungkook stops right in front of you before you can reply to your friend. "Hey." He greets easily. And annoyingly enough, his voice sounds exactly the way the rest of him looks.
You tilt your head slightly, half empty cup swaying between your fingers. "Hey yourself."
Jungkook blinks once before letting out a breathy laugh. "Oh, this is already going badly for me."
Miyeon snorts into her drink, but you quickly nudge her arm before she says something she shouldn't. "I'm looking for Mark." Jungkook continues, gaze shifting back towards you. "Have you seen him?"
"You're looking for Mark?" You repeat, cocking a brow.
And for some reason, Jungkook's smile widens. "We were supposed to meet."
The answer catches you a little off-guard. Not because Jungkook knowing Mark is strange. It's not, everybody knows Mark. But because there is something in the way he says it. He's saying it seriously, with intention. Like whatever they're meeting about actually matters to him and that's not something you can coherently place somewhere solid in your head.
"You sound committed to that." You say before you can stop yourself.
Jungkook squints his eyes. "I can commit to things."
You take a sip of your drink, taking your time with the action as your brows raise with something laced with accusation. "You sure?"
Jungkook's eyes widen just slightly as Miyeon turns away, trying to hide her laughter. But she cackles anyway. "That's crazy." He says, a loose grin forming on his face. "You know absolutely nothing about me."
"You don't exactly strike me as somebody mysterious."
"Yeah?" He breathes. "What do i strike you as?"
You roll your eyes, poking the inside of your cheek with your tongue. And whatever that happens in Jungkook's chest— it's deeply unfortunate.
This is exactly his type, horrifically so. Pretty has never been an issue for Jungkook, he has been surrounded with pretty all his life. Pretty and mean, on the other hand, is apparently where the problem in his pants begin.
But before either of you can continue, Jungkook's name is yelled from across the room. "There you are!" Mingyu shouts, throwing an arm around Jungkook's shoulders after he makes his way towards you. "Some girl is throwing up on Jaehyun's shoes because you disappeared."
Jungkook closes eyes briefly, inhaling a long breath. "See? What's commitment if not that?"
You laugh despite yourself, loud and real and so fucking pretty Jungkook thinks he might've forgotten how to breathe properly.
"I'll tell Mark you were looking for him." You say.
"Appreciate it." He says before stepping backward towards the kitchen, then pauses suddenly. "By the way," He starts, causing you to raise a brow. "You're prettier than your articles sound."
Your expression freezes for a beat, lips parted and head still tilted. A lazy smirk dances on Jungkook's features before disappearing back into the crowd behind Mingyu, leaving you standing there with your drink still halfway raised.
Miyeon slowly turns towards you. "What the fuck was that about?"
Your eyes linger on the hallway Jungkook disappeared into, gaze floating like you've just wandered into an ocean with no trace of the start and end. Because no, you don't have an idea on whatever the fuck that was either.
Your phone buzzes before your thoughts can swallow you up any further.
namjoon: still awake?
Your eyes flick between the small digital clock on the corner and the text in the middle of your screen before your fingers move over the keyboard.
you: i'm at yugyeom's party
namjoon: you posted during a frat party?
You roll your eyes even though he can't see you, though you're sure he feels it behind the screen.
you: it was queued
namjoon: ah
namjoon: coffee at mine?
namjoon: you can sleep over
You lift your head at something Miyeon says, nodding your head without really listening to what she's talking about. You tuck your bottom lip into your teeth, weighting your options before deciding to give in.
you: wow, the honor
you: on my way
The city feels different after midnight.
Maybe not quieter, because noise never really dies down on friday nights. People like to laugh, dance, live. Because modern time doesn't really allow love anymore. Because people spare friday nights for themselves and keep it tucked somewhere they know it belongs. Because people yearn to belong and time doesn't like to stretch and bend around desire. It just moves.
The city feels softer, as if somebody reached over and mellowed the space so that everyone could find a place for themselves. At least, that's exactly the way you feel when your uber drops you off outside of Namjoon's apartment building twenty minutes after you leave Yugyeom's place. The clock is ticking past two in the morning, and by the time you make your way upstairs, your feet are aching and your social battery has officially ran out.
When the door opens, Namjoon greets you with that same old warmth you've had memorized for nearly four years— almost the entirety of your college years. He gives you a hug before disappearing back into the hallway, informing you of how the coffee is almost done.
His place is dim except for the kitchen, where a warm light spills in and drapes over the entire apartment in a yellow hue. It always smells the same here. Not in a weird way, not at all. Just very…specific. It smells like books that have already been read at least twice and expensive coffee beans that are too niche for you to have any understanding of— because to the normal person, they all just taste the same.
Definitely not to Namjoon.
You slip your heels off by the door, following him into the kitchen after dropping your purse somewhere on the couch. "Do you want to lose all the sleep left in your system?" You ask, gaze dragging over the empty coffee mugs on the counter.
Namjoon stands in the kitchen with his back turned to you, dressed comfortably in some gray sweatpants and a dark colored hoodie. His glasses sit low on his nose, hair falling onto his forehead in messy strands. "I'm writing something." He says, a soft smile forming on his face as he pours in the hot liquid carefully. "How was the party?"
You climb onto the counter, plopping your body onto the marble as your legs dangle above the height. You unashamedly stare at him for a moment, taking in the sweats and the glasses and the fact that he somehow still looks put together despite the hour. Because Namjoon looks a little unfair like this— annoyingly intelligent and completely at home.
"It was loud."
Namjoon hums, handing you the mug. "The alcohol was terrible, i spent the whole night trying to keep Miyeon away from Yugyeom, and someone cried in the bathroom after throwing up on the floor."
"Sounds typical to me."
You take a sip of the coffee, then groan immediately because it's still too hot to drink, before setting it down with exaggerated annoyance dancing on your face. You trail behind him into the living room, pulling your legs beneath yourself as you sink into the couch while he settles right next to you with his laptop balanced over one knee.
"You're actually writing." You say, eyeing him over the rim of your mug.
"I told you." Namjoon says, giving you a brief glance before he turns his attention back onto the screen.
Your eyes absentmindedly drift towards the screen of his laptop, floating over the margins that are filled with notes, sections that are highlighted, pages filled with comments and edits that are all very Namjoon. And for a second, for the entirety of a thousand milliseconds that feel way longer than it actually is, your own laptop sitting abandoned inside the void of your apartment suddenly feels eccentrically heavier.
"My advisor hates me."
Namjoon doesn't look up. "Did he say that?"
You sink lower into the couch, sipping your coffee slowly without forgetting to blow onto it. You can not burn your mouth again, not a chance. "No, but he looked disappointed."
Namjoon sighs. "I know it sucks and you want to strangle him to the depths of death, but he just has high expectations from you."
You groan dramatically. "It's so annoying."
Namjoon hums, nodding along as his eyes scan through the screen. "How's the thesis going?"
That's when you gift him the pleasure of absolute silence. Because unfortunately, deeply unfortunately, somewhere along the way, your thesis and Wave started bleeding a little too much into each other and now everything feels way too personal and disgustingly intimate.
Not entirely, of course. Wave is still just a tool for you to learn and observe without tracing everything back to yourself. But lately, it has started to feel a little less objective and a little more on the edge.
You didn't lose the hang of it, not really. You're still the same girl writing with the same devotion for the same purpose. Just…there has been small slips here and there, noticeable only to people who know you well enough to search for them.
You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. "It's progressing."
Namjoon's eyes drift towards you, and your gaze lifts until it catches his own in the air. "Why are you looking at me like that?" You ask when he stares at you for a second too long.
"You don't sound too truthful."
You scoff, then roll your eyes before grabbing the nearest pillow and throwing it in his face. But being the man he is, Namjoon catches it without looking. Damn him.
"You write about Jungkook a lot." He says suddenly.
You shrug. "He's easy material."
"You've written about him four times by now."
You pause, squinting your eyes as every piece of writing you've ever published in the last two years flashes through your eyes. Because there is no fucking way you've written about that tattooed excuse of sex on legs for four entire times. "Four?"
"Four." He repeats.
You drop your shoulders in defeat. "You're very unlikeable tonight."
"I'm just providing you with my opinions." He says, typing while speaking. "You can't ask for help if you aren't going to take my advice."
You pull your knees closer against your chest. "I don't ask for your opinions."
"You called me crying over an econ elective last year."
You sit up immediately, placing the mug onto the coffee table. "Okay, first of all, it wasn't entirely like that—"
"I distinctly remember you saying, and i quote, what do i do now, Joon, my future is over." He states dramatically, voice disgustingly sweet and high pitched as he mocks you.
You stare at him, frozen and absolutely horrified. "I was vulnerable."
Namjoon hums, and you let yourself fall backwards dramatically against the couch cushions, throwing an arm over your face as if that's enough to physically protect yourself from embarrassment and humiliation.
It doesn't, of course. Because nothing ever really preserves you from embarrassment when it's Kim Namjoon you're talking about.
A comfortable silence settles into the living room, allowing you drown yourself inside the small indicators of life around you. You can hear his keyboard clicking softly as he keeps working on something you have no idea about, the occasional scratch of the ceramic mug against the wood table, the faint jazz pieces playing from the speakers hidden somewhere further inside the apartment. And just as you were about to part your lips and make a comment on how his furniture is so outdated, he beats you to it.
"Oh."
Your arm slowly lowers from your face, eyes squinting and peaking above it. "What?"
"Are you still helping Mark with that project?"
Oh yourself.
Everything in you physically stills, slowly and painfully, like dread is begging to be felt properly until your bones ache and sizzle with the weight of it. Because you— catastrophically, miserably, terribly; had forgotten all about it. Not in a small, oops, i should probably text him back way either. No, you had forgotten in a way that bordered on a severe case of friendship betrayal and negligence.
You close your eyes, inhaling a long breath. "Hypothetically speaking…"
You did, and of course he notices. Because if Kim Namjoon has spent four years studying journalism, he has spent six studying you.
Namjoon had become one of those people that had entered your life quietly yet stayed just as loudly, making himself impossible to imagine a life without in absolutely no time. Just like wine or Wave or the concerning amount of mediocre sex you've been having since your last boyfriend.
You had met him during the first few weeks of your freshman year when he was already a junior and head editor of the university journal. Back then, he existed in your head less as a person and more as a terrifying academic urban legend you'd never admit looking up to. But you didn't have to admit it out loud, because even the older students spoke about him with an obnoxious amount of respect.
You hated him.
But obviously, that didn't last long. As you kept sharing nights filled with stories, words and worlds no one knew existed besides the two of you, he started to matter. He'd remembered your exam dates, bought you coffee during finals, edited your essays at three in the morning. He'd answer your phone calls involving emotional breakdowns over electives and boys and broken sink pipes, then solve whatever crisis you were having in little to no time.
So naturally, somewhere along the way, your editor had turned into an older brother and became annoyingly good at reading you— so much that you're sure he keeps a version of you that's all bare and vulnerable somewhere hidden in his furthest drawers.
Because he knows you. Good enough to notice the tiny moments where Wave feels a little too personal. To notice the way that sometimes, your thesis blurs into the rest of your life and you get caught up in the gravity of it all, so much that the project you'd promised to help with weeks ago somehow slips away from your mind despite Mark being one of your dearest friends.
Because Namjoon doesn't forget, and Mark will definitely kill you if you don't show up at his studio with breakfast and two cups coffee by tomorrow morning.
Musicians who are brave enough to lay their souls open between rhymes and harmonies have always felt intimate.
Music is vulnerable, always has been. Everyone knows that. But there is something utterly naked and personal beyond the in reach vulnerability of it all.
It's the little things.
The version of them that existed on a random Tuesday in October, the argument they never really recovered from yet still shaped them into whoever they are today. The person they almost loved, the one they did love…They leave pieces of themselves behind between late nights and early mornings, and it never matters whether it's accidental or not. Because everything they touch transitions into something that carries their traces and that's enough to feel their souls on top of your own.
And, i think, that truly sums up Mark Lee as a person.
Because Mark has always felt like someone composed of the little things. He'd attach songs to memories you won't realize matters until months later, respond to texts even if it wakes him up from his sweetest dreams. He'd turn feelings into poems and records then archive them in anything that's permanent.
In college, people tend to think popularity belongs to the loudest person in the room. But despite being loved through the depths of the ocean until the very end of Milky Way, Mark Lee has never really been loud.
Just unforgettable.
Three days later, you find yourself standing outside of Mark's studio with two iced coffees in one hand and a kind of resentment that's loud yet entirely unserious in the other. Because Mark has spent the last forty eight hours guilt tripping you through frantic phone calls and dramatic text messages. And you, for some reason, can not for the life of you bring yourself accept the fact that you've forgotten your promise and properly apologize.
At least you got the coffees.
You push the studio door open without knocking, because Mark has never once respected your privacy and therefore doesn't exactly deserve it in return. As the door falls unleashed and sunlight spills until it drapes over you in a golden glow, there are a few things you expect. A Justin Bieber song Justin Bieber himself has probably forgotten about, unfinished coffees and half empty beer bottles scattered around the room, maybe even his ex girlfriend lounging somewhere in the corner because you're almost entirely certain Mark would slip straight back into her heart if she ever left it even slightly open.
But Jeon Jungkook is not one of them.
He's sitting besides the mixing desk, leaned back comfortably in his chair wearing a black hoodie with headphones hanging around his neck, one leg bouncing lazily beneath the table while he scrolls through something on his phone.
He looks up from the screen when the weight of your presence becomes impossible to ignore. He blinks once, twice, then smiles.
Shit, he has dimples.
"Well," Jungkook says slowly, leaning back further into the chair as he drags his eyes over you. "This just got better than i expected."
Your reply comes immediately. "No."
Jungkook blinks, eyes widening just slightly. "I…didn't even say anything."
"You thought of it."
He cocks a brow. "Thought of what?"
You roll your eyes, dropping your purse onto the table before leaning your hip against it. "You know what." You say, and he silently stares at you for a second longer before the corner of his mouth starts twitching.
This doesn't make sense. Not at all.
Because certain people feel attached to certain places long before they step into them. Mark belongs in studios and beneath the stars and somewhere right in the middle of your heart. Namjoon belongs beneath the warmth of yellow kitchen lights and homes that silence everything else until it's quieter than the rest of the world. Miyeon belongs anywhere between flowers and pretty cafes that somehow never match up to her beauty.
And Jungkook…Jungkook belongs beneath flashing lights that paint his features in colors that would look good on nobody but him. He belongs in crowded spaces and with girls who lean in a little too close whenever he speaks. He belongs anywhere loud and alive.
Just not here. Because music feels too intimate for him somehow.
"You know." He says after a moment, still smiling. "I thought there was a chance i imagined you."
You let out a low chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest after placing the coffees onto the table. "That's a little dramatic."
"I'm being dead serious."
"Well, you approached me." You say, tilting your head slightly, letting your eyes drift over him before they return back to his face. "And you don't seem to have that strong of an imagination."
"You're mean."
You groan playfully, leaning your hip against the armrest of his chair. "That's so not true."
A small smirk plays out on his lips. "Good thing i like my girls with a little attitude."
Pardon? Your girls?
"You're being very brave today."
Jungkook stares at you for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek in a way that's not rude, just playful enough to carry traces of something cocky beneath it. He lets the silence melt and sit right in the middle of your bodies for a beat too long, then speaks.
"You're flirting with me right now."
Your head snaps towards him immediately, and you almost choke on your own saliva. Not because you're shocked. How can you be when he has built a whole persona on candied words and pretty girls and an ego that's definitely bigger than what's between his legs. It's because he says it so easily, and you hate that.
So no, absolutely not. You, flirting with Jungkook? No way in hell.
You narrow your eyes. "No, I'm not."
"Mhm." He hums, swinging left and right in his seat with a growing grin on his face.
Okay, no. That's enough. You're not doing this any longer. You don't want Jeon fucking Jungkook to think he has a chance at having you naked and open and wide on his stupid iron man mattress. You don't want to demonstrate the size of his cock with your hands when Miyeon asks on girls night, and you most definitely don't want Mark walking in on you bickering like two horny teenagers with the self control of fucking rabbits in heat.
So you change the subject.
"You sing?" Brilliant.
And peculiarly, his smile softens a little at your question. Not drastically, not enough for the entire room to shift and bend around him until it's his breath only you're drowning inside. But it's enough. Enough for you to notice the way something gentler briefly peeks through before hiding again. And you, for some reason, find yourself reaching over and folding it carefully to hide somewhere safe amongst all the other precious details people accidentally leave behind. Somewhere only you carry the map of and know how to find again.
Jungkook glances up. "Sometimes."
Sometimes.
It's funny how he says it, like it matters too much that his tongue can not carry the weight of it, so he just shrugs it off like it's anything. Sometimes, he says. As if Mark would ever involve someone who does it just whenever. As if Mark would ever reach for something that's sitting right in middle of his soul and hand out a piece of it to just anyone.
"You look judgemental." He adds.
You shrug. "I'm just surprised."
Jungkook's eyebrows lift at your answer, like he knows there is another thought sitting beneath it, quietly waiting for the permission to exit. But before he can get the chance to ask about it further, the studio door suddenly swings open.
Mark walks into the room with an amount of rush that should be concerning for this time of the morning. His hair is messy, bag is tucked beneath his arm and an iced americano is trying to balance clumsily between his fingers as he tries finding a place to squeeze himself in.
"Okay, first of all. Traffic should be considered the worse case of masochism the human kind has done to itself." Mark rambles, barely waiting for the door to close behind him before speaking, words tumbling out of his mouth in consecutive complaints.
"And you," He kicks the door shut with his foot before continuing, pointing a finger at you. "After forty eight hours of emotional neglect, show up with iced lattes? I don't drink lattes. That's for pussies who don't understand coffee."
You roll your eyes. "I do something nice and you still complain."
"You completely forgot me and brought coffee out of guilt."
You pause, looking down at the table before speaking again. "It's still coffee."
Jungkook laughs quietly besides you before Mark cuts in again. "Okay, so basically," He breathes, gesturing around the room. "This is my senior project, the one I told you about three weeks ago and you forgot because you apparently don't care about me anymore. It's a short film of my album with a narrative concept." He turns to Jungkook. "He's singing."
Your eyes drift around in silence, taking in the headphones and the sheets filled with lyrics and the fucking sometimes he threw at you as if it meant nothing.
"And you," Mark angles his body towards you. "Are helping with the writing."
"Mark," You argue, because what can you possibly be writing? Music? You don't do music. You write people, you write anything between stories and analysis but not music.
"Don't Mark me right now. You agreed to this weeks ago." He says as he rolls his eyes, chugging down his coffee. "The story. You're writing the narrative and the emotional structure, obviously."
Oh. Right.
Because of course Mark wouldn't just make music. No, he has always been incapable of touching one art form without dragging five others to it. Because Mark Lee is a man of passion and he won't do anything without making it entirely his.
"Apparently you said music without context feels lonely to Yoongi's trap arrangement last week." Jungkook says without really looking at you, swinging mindlessly in his chair.
Your head snaps towards him. "How do you know that?"
Jungkook blinks once, like he hadn't expected to say that out loud yet did anyway. His eyes flicker between you and Mark before he collects himself back together and shrugs casually. "Mark talks about you."
That's…annoyingly sweet of him.
"You talk about me?" You coo with a voice disgustingly candied, head tilted as you reach for Mark's arm.
"Oh my god." Mark groans dramatically, but he doesn't pull his arm away. "No, because Jungkook, don't let her fool you. She acts all nice and sweet then suddenly you're buying her food and driving her to places."
You open your mouth immediately, ready to defend yourself. You turn towards Jungkook, response already on the tip of your tongue, ready to be spilled— only to stop.
Because Jungkook is already looking at you. Not in a weird way, not in the way boys usually look at pretty girls when they think nobody is noticing. Just…gentle. His smile is still there, only now it has grown and molded into something smaller. The kind that doesn't really ask for attention, the kind that simply stays there because it wants to. His eyes feel softer too, like's he's really listening, sitting through the spaces of your presence until he feels it permanently engraved into his mind.
It feels a little precarious.
And perhaps the most annoying thing about Jungkook is that the disappointment never really arrives.
Because eventually, the conversation shifts and folds itself until time starts passing in a kind of haziness where it melts into something thinner. Mark disappears into one of his passionate spirals regarding symbolism and the basics of music theory and you somehow find a way to contribute just as passionately despite not exactly having the qualifications to do so.
That's normal. That doesn't surprise you, it has happened enough times to not be the slightest of a deal. But Jungkook, Jungkook surprises you.
Maybe not dramatically, maybe not in ways worth writing Wave articles about. It's the little things, tiny things that somehow fill in the entire space and make their way into the dearest corners of your heart.
Like how he listens with his entire body, the way he turns towards whoever it is that's speaking and stays there, like he genuinely thinks people deserve to be heard all the way through. The way he never interrupts Mark despite the fact that Mark tends to over explain things as if he himself personally invented art and human emotion. The way he nods along quietly, asks questions at exactly the right moments without ever interjecting anyone and reaches over to hand you your drink when you start looking for it.
And somewhere in the middle of the complexity of it all, Jungkook sings.
Mark points towards the recording booth in the middle of his nth rant today, and Jungkook pushes himself up from the couch besides you with a small sigh before disappearing behind the glass doors of the booth. And for some reason, your eyes follow him through each passing second, because simply standing behind a microphone with overhead headphones should not look this different on somebody.
Because suddenly, he's stripped out of everything you've subconsciously built for him. And for some stupid, sick, twisted reason, Jungkook looks ridiculously hot like this.
He adjusts the headphones over his ears before leaning towards the microphone slightly, eyes lowering as Mark presses something on the screen.
His voice happens a beat of two after the music starts, and it happens big. Like waves crashing into rocks, like starts falling down the sky, like spring melting into summer and summer clashing against fall.
It's stupid.
He's not bad, god, you wish he was bad. No, not at all. Because Jungkook sings exactly the way the listens. Softly, fully, like he throws himself into it before realizing he's doing it. Like somewhere in the middle of every rhyme and every note and every breath, there are pieces of him patiently waiting to be discovered.
You understand why Mark chose him.
Jungkook drops beside you onto the couch with a tired groan after Mark decides he's poured enough of his soul for today, and you find your eyes grazing over him as he scrolls through something on his phone.
"You're staring." Jungkook says, not even looking up from his phone.
You blink. Fuck. "Excuse me?"
He hums, lips twitching beyond his control. "Mhm."
You angle your body a little more towards him. "I literally wasn't."
He nods, still not looking at you, but he's still smiling.
You stare at his profile for a little longer as Mark works over the keyboard in silence, then find the words escaping your mouth before you can hold them in. "You sound different when you sing." You say quietly.
Jungkook stills a little. Just a tiny, little falter that happens in his body. His eyes lift slowly from the screen, then catch yours before speaking. "Different?" He asks.
You shrug immediately, trying to fold the conversation into something drastically more casual. "Just less annoying."
You roll your eyes immediately. "Don't let it get to your head."
"You know," He says after letting a beat pass, and you turn your head back towards him. "You say very mean things for someone who can't seem to stop staring."
Your brows lift in offense. "I do not stare."
He blinks. "You do."
You scoff. "You're delusional."
Jungkook hums softly. "Earlier, when Mark was talking—"
You don't let him speak. At least, you try. "No."
"And then when i was recording—"
"Jeon."
He's fully smiling now, like he's getting the most ridiculous amount enjoyment he possibly can get from this. You stare at him in silence, lips parted and expression faltered. Jungkook stares right back at you, that stupid smile never really leaving from his lips. And for some sick and twisted reason, your stomach does a tiny little flip that irritates you through the entirety of your skin and bones.
Then, as if god has finally acknowledged the depths of your suffering, Mark cuts in exactly at the right time. "Oh my god." He gasps.
Jungkook blinks from next to you, gaze drifting onto him. "What?"
Mark doesn't respond for a moment, and that's deeply concerning for a man who'd speak even at the verge of death.
You slowly sit up. "Mark?"
His frozen state continues for a beat longer before he suddenly springs up from his chair. "No no no."
"What's wrong?" Jungkook asks as his brows pull together, leaning onto his knees.
"I," Mark starts, looking down at his feet before he slowly, dreadfully searches for your eyes. "I'm late."
Jungkook scrunches his nose. "You're late for what?"
Your eyes widen when the realization slowly stretches then breaks through you. "Oh my god." You breathe dramatically.
"Stop saying oh my god!" Jungkook snaps, thoroughly lost.
Mark closes his eyes, taking in a long, guilty breath. "I'm supposed to be meeting up with Yerin."
Jungkook's phone falls onto the couch. "You're meeting your ex?"
"You're late to meeting your ex." You correct. "And you're wearing that?"
Mark looks down, eyes taking in the gray sweatpants and the black hoodie he has worn so much it's practically another color now. "Oh my god."
He quickly gathers up his belongings, then slings his bag over his shoulder before making his way to the door. He's able to take approximately three steps before he suddenly stops, and slowly, very slowly, turns to you.
"Can i take your car?"
You blink a few times before responding. "Absolutely not."
"Please," He begs, bending above his knees with impatience. "Please, I'll do anything. Imagine if she thinks i stood her up. She's going to leave me for good this time and I'll be left to crumble and die in my own sorrow."
After two or five separate sequences of long inhales and deep consideration, you give in. "If you scratch it, I'll kill you."
He runs over to you fast. "Thank you, thank you. Oh my god, i love you."
"Okay, okay. Stop." Before you even get the chance to return his hug, he's already grabbing your keys and shoving it into his bag. Jungkook stares from besides you silently until the very last second of Mark's departure, then bursts into laughter the moment the door closes shut.
"Stop."
"I'm trying." Jungkook says between fractions of laughter.
You sigh. "No you're not."
"I'm literally trying my hardest."
Liar.
Because now, he's laughing properly and somehow it's the prettiest thing you've heard all week, minus his singing— which is a whole another problem of its own— and you feel yourself physically falter at the sound of it.
You stare at him for a minute longer before eventually drifting your eyes towards the studio doors instead. It's irritating how you're now painfully aware of everything else all over again. Spring air brushing softly against your skin through the window, the distant sound of laughter and conversation somewhere across campus, the way Jungkook is seated close enough that if you shift half an inch closer your shoulders would probably brush.
"So," Jungkook has finally, and thankfully, stopped laughing. Though the smile is still sitting there loosely. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys, swinging them around his finger. "Guess I'm driving you home."
You were about to mindlessly give into defeat when suddenly, you remember one, tiny little detail.
Jungkook doesn't have a car.
You breathe slowly. "You ride that stupid motorcycle."
His brows lift immediately. "That stupid motorcycle?"
Your lips part, then close again when he cuts you off, lips twitching cockily. "You remember."
You scoff loudly. "You spent like twenty minutes talking about it."
"Mhm."
"And your personality is unfortunately very loud."
"Mhm." He hums, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans as he mindlessly collects his things. "You remember." He repeats with a growing grin.
"Stop saying that." You complain, following him behind through the door.
And ten minutes later, you hate yourself.
Genuinely.
Because now, you're standing outside beneath spring air and bright streetlights while Jungkook straddles his motorcycle like this isn't singlehandedly the worst thing that has ever happened to you.
Because suddenly you're surrounded by things you've never considered before. Like leather jackets and silver rings and tattooed biceps you want to suffocate and die inside.
You don't tell him that, of course.
He glances at you over his shoulder before slipping on his helmet. "You coming?"
There is a moment where he is met with a complete, utter silence. Because, first of all, you've never been on a motorcycle before. And second of all, there is a very physical, very obvious problem with motorcycles.
Where the fuck are your hands supposed to go?
Jungkook watches the way something between conflict and irritation flashes across your features, expression faltering slowly. He pauses along with you, then smiles knowingly. "You've never been on one."
And the way he says it is absolutely stupid. Because he doesn't ask, it's not a question. He has somehow read you devastatingly well and has made a statement about it. One that is entirely correct.
"I have not."
"And you're scared."
Excuse you?
You blink. "Scared?"
Jungkook says nothing, then places both of his legs on the sides of the vehicle as he patiently waits for you. You stare at him for long enough, then with the amount of dignity one can preserve in situations involving pussy clenching tattoos and massive biceps, you walk over.
"Need help?" Jungkook asks as you struggle deciding how to position yourself.
You shake your head immediately. "No."
Lies.
Because an entire thirty seconds later, you're still trying to figure out how people get on these things without publicly humiliating themselves.
"You know," He starts carefully, voice softer now." "I can help."
You look up slowly. "How?"
"Come here."
Your eyebrows pull together. "What kind of instruction is that?"
He sighs softly, calling your name. And for some stupid reason, the way your name rolls and falls out of his mouth does something irritating to your nervous system.
You hate that.
Because suddenly, the air feels warmer than it did thirty minutes ago. Because suddenly, he is patiently looking at you with those pretty brown eyes of his and the space between you feels so small that the lack of distance physically blows your breath away.
He holds a hand out towards you. "Come here." He repeats.
You stare at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. And for reasons you will absolutely be denying later, you place your hand in his.
Jungkook's fingers close around yours immediately. Warm, firm and unreasonably effortless, as if he doesn't even think about the action twice.
He gently guides you forward and suddenly you're standing between his arms for one devastating second too long as he explains something about where to place your foot and how to balance and honestly—
Honestly, you don't hear a single fucking word.
Because Jungkook is standing too close. Because his voice is low and his presence is warm. Because somewhere above you, he quietly lets out that sweet laugh again and you think that's the exact moment you realize this might be becoming a bigger problem than you ever thought.
"You listening?" He asks.
No, you're not. Not even a little.
Some men are just plain irritating.
The kind of men who make you think you're special after two dates. The kind of men who act as if their love and desire for you is past the lethal dose, long sitting far away from what's acceptable after taking you out for one drink.
They start remembering your birthday, then your coffee order, and then the stories you tell absentmindedly. They pay attention in all the ways that matter until suddenly, they don't.
They start disappearing slowly. Late responses transition into cancelled dates and cancelled dates drag over white lies and empty promises. And before you know it— they're gone.
Some people become memories and some people insist on staying as habits. Unfortunately for Kim Yugyeom, habits are significantly harder to quit.
Campus looks a little prettier at night, with string lights tangled carelessly around trees to soften the sharp corners of concrete sidewalks and buildings that usually look painfully monotone and disgustingly gray beneath daylight. Music that's floating around blends into laughter and conversations until everything feels like it's dipped into something warmer, casting the green scenery in a dimly golden hue.
People become prettier at night too. Like darkness reaches over to soften and hide all the sharp edges daylight stubbornly insists on exposing. You think it has something to do with poor lighting and the desire to dress each other up in a way that's aligned with our own fucked up fantasies, but that doesn't change the fact that you'd much rather time stops at nine in the evening instead of morning.
Miyeon walks beside you with a cup of vodka and something fruity in her hand, complaining passionately about one of her professors as if he has something personal against her and is failing her out of spite. When, in reality, she has been way too caught up in toxic ex boyfriend drama and seasonal depression.
Anyone who says spring depression is not real is lying. Because your best friend has been going through one for the entirety of march and april and may and you're not sure if it'll pass by july.
But it's fine. You love her and Mark loves her and you're sure she will be fine. Yeah, maybe Yugyeom is six feet tall with a face carefully structured by the higher powers above us. But he's utterly stupid and completely undeserving of the crazy stupid love provided by your gorgeous best friend.
"No because explain to me why participation counts in my grade." Miyeon complains beside you, taking another sip of her drink as if she has the attendance and exam results to cover up the mess caused by her miserable participation grade.
You blink. "Because participating matters?"
Miyeon stops walking like you've offended her beyond all measure, then turns to you very slowly. "The institution has corrupted you."
You let out a laugh immediately, shoulder bumping against hers as the crowd thickens around you. "Maybe your GPA is a little important and passing isn't always enough." You add with a playful smile.
"You've changed."
"Okay." You drag out the word until she physically can not hear anything after the o.
"Namjoon did this to you. You were fun and sexy until junior year and now you're a disgusting hard copy of that man."
You scoff. "Leave Namjoon out of this."
Instead of responding to you, Miyeon narrows her eyes through the crowd before you can properly defend both yourself and Namjoon's imaginary honor. Your eyes follow her line of sight without thinking too much of it, and you still just a second after Miyeon does.
Because standing near one of the food trucks with drinks sat carelessly in their hands are Mingyu and Jaehyun. But that's not the point, Mingyu and Jaehyun are fine, you've actually shared that infamous econ elective with Jaehyun during junior year and he surprisingly turned out to be sweet and worth a couple hours of your precious time.
Jungkook, on the other hand, is not ideal. But not ideal is also fine, you can bear with non ideal to an extent. What's thoroughly, completely, utterly impossible, is Yugyeom.
God truly does not love you.
Miyeon physically freezes besides you. And, I repeat, she doesn't subtly falter. She stills.
Then, Jungkook looks up at exactly the wrong moment, finding your eyes and catching them in air before anyone else gets the chance to steal them away. His eyebrows lift slightly in amusement before a smile slowly spreads across his face, and it feels a little concerning the way he does it. Because Jungkook smiles like he means it. Like the smile happens to him before he can realize and reconsider.
His line of sight is followed before any of you can do anything about it. It starts with Mingyu, then Jaehyun. Which is fine, because we've already established that Mingyu and Jaehyun are harmless.
But Yugyeom? Not even close.
"Oh no." Mingyu says the moment he spots you. And honestly? Very fair reaction.
Because unfortunately, Kim Yugyeom has always had an exceptional talent for creating versions of Miyeon you hate.
Jaehyun lifts his drink awkwardly. "Hi?" Very brave of him. Very brave.
Miyeon smiles immediately, too animated and too polite, before you can even think of interfering and softening the impact of it all.
"Hi Jaehyun." She says, tone too normal despite the situation.
"Miyeon," Yugyeom greets, voice casual and light like her name belongs naturally inside his mouth. Fucking hypocrite.
"You cut your hair."
No.
No, you're not doing this right now. Absolutely not. Because, okay, first of all, what kind of thing is that to say to your ex girlfriend of two whole years? And the worse part of it all? Miyeon cut her hair three months ago. Three, entire, months.
Yugyeom blinks one whole minute after the words leave his mouth when no one responds to him, like the sentence leaves his mouth and arrives back to him sixty seconds later. But it's already late for realization. Too fucking late.
A long silence passes, and you feel it physically sizzle and slice right through the surface of your skin. "Right." Miyeon mutters a beat later, and you close your eyes with a long, suffering inhale.
Somewhere in the middle of the discomfort settling over everybody like a layer of second skin, you catch movement from the corner of your eye as if the situation isn't terrible enough.
Jungkook, of course, is already looking at you. Because he seems to have made it into a habit.
Miyeon laughs beside you. "Three months, by the way."
Yugyeom falters. "What?"
"My hair," She starts, letting her eyes drag over him. "I cut it three months ago."
It's a little funny now. You know, the entirety of the situation. You do everything in your power to not stare at the two of them, gaze drifting around your surroundings instead. And it turns out that you, as of right now, are not the smartest person in the room. Because across from you, Mingyu suddenly becomes deeply interested in the swirl of his drink, and Jaehyun seems to be counting the birds in the sky. Jungkook? That, you don't know. Because you're sure he's still looking at you and that's the second thing your eyes are trying to avoid.
"Right." Yugyeom says again, like saying right enough times might eventually make the situation right, even though it won't. Because none of you are stupid— well, except for Yugyeom himself, it seems.
Then, Mingyu suddenly claps his hands once, and the sound echoes so much louder than he intended it to. "Okay!" He exclaims with an amount of enthusiasm that should genuinely award him an Emmy. "Amazing! Love this energy. It's so deeply casual."
Miyeon laughs again, a little softer than the one she let escape minutes ago. It's not enough to bounce and spill and take over the atmosphere the way it usually does. But for now, it's enough to let you breathe.
"Sorry," She says through another laugh, shaking her head. "No because, you're unbelievable."
Yugyeom squints. "What did i even do?"
You scoff. Obviously, that's not surprising. Kim Yugyeom deserves a hundred more of those. But Mingyu and Jaehyun scoff along with you. And, oh, Jungkook too.
Maybe society has hope after all.
That's when you stop keeping up with their conversation, because their steps slowly get closer and closer to each other and farther and farther away from you until the volume of their voices lower down enough and exist only for the two of them.
Not that you're complaining. Not at all. You're thoroughly relieved and you do not want to hear another word of this pointless conversation.
Mingyu leans over and lowers his height next to you. "How traumatized are we?"
You laugh, relaxing a little. "A solid eight out of ten."
He places a hand over his chest dramatically. "Thank god." He exhales. "For a second i thought i was alone in this."
You laugh again, and peculiarly, somewhere in the middle of cheap drinks and Mingyu defending his dignity like his life depends on it, your shoulders begin dropping one by one.
Everything softens after that.
Mingyu gets distracted after spotting somebody from one of his classes and suddenly starts passionately discussing basketball statistics with Jaehyun. Miyeon and Yugyeom slowly become figurines in your peripheral vision— still there, still existing, but further now. And somehow, Jungkook ends up right besides you.
Maybe not intentionally, maybe not obviously— but he does. It happens in that natural way he seems to be very adamant on keeping recently.
You become aware of him in pieces. The warmth of his shoulder besides yours, the sound of his laugh whenever Mingyu says something ridiculous, the traces of alcohol and masculine cologne in his scent whenever wind shifts in your direction…Tiny, stupid things people leave behind accidentally.
And unfortunately, you've spent your entire life collecting them.
"You're less guarded tonight."
You blink, then turn around slowly, eyes locking with Jungkook who is looking at you over the rim of his drink, a smile sitting loosely against his mouth.
"I'm always like this."
Jungkook lets something between a breathy laugh and a scoff through his lips. "Liar."
You roll your eyes. "You think you've got me all figured out."
He shrugs. "I just pay attention to you sometimes."
Fucking flirt.
You're only half listening to Mingyu's latest spiral on getting cheated on with a girl when Jungkook's phone vibrates against the grass. Jungkook glances down, picks the phone up, then groans when he reads whatever text that has been sent to him.
"What?" You ask.
"Mark,"
Your brows pull together in confusion. "What did he do?"
Jungkook lets his head fall back slightly. "He forgot the hard drive at the studio."
Jungkook stares at his phone for a beat longer, exhales, then turns towards you. "Come with me."
And he is met with silence. Because for a moment, for a long, dreadful sixty seconds, silence surrounds you too. Music still continues behind you but it feels distant now. People laugh, lights glow, but all of it feels very far away. Solely because of the way he says it.
Because Jungkook doesn't ask. No do you want to come? No you can if you want. He just tells you to come with him as if he already knows the answer.
You narrow your eyes, trying to play it off. "Is that confidence i'm seizing?"
"No." He says, smile growing into something gentler. "I think it's hope."
Oh.
Jungkook pushes himself up from the grass, then extends his hand towards you. Not dramatically, not enough to create a whole deal out of it, but enough for your eyes to drop down to it automatically then back to him as if a hundred different scenarios have just flashed across your mind.
You take his hand.
By the time you reach the studio, you're a little warm. Not because of walking, not because of the weather, but because of something you absolutely can not say out loud.
Jungkook pushes the door open, then lets you walk in first. Warm light spills through the room and reaches straight into your pupils the moment you step in, and you physically have to tap your thigh twice to recollect yourself back together.
Space feels a little different when it's just the two of you.
Jungkook walks ahead towards the mixing desk, still looking through his phone. "Mark said he left his hard drive somewhere."
You hum, eyes drifting around. But it all feels absent, a little pointless. Because you're painfully aware of the tiny things all over again. Jungkook pushing his sleeves up, the way strands of hair falls into his eyes, how the sound of his voice fills in the empty room…
Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's exhaustion, or maybe it's the way spring nights make people a little delirious. Stupid pollens.
You let a quiet breath escape and turn away before your brain decides to become any more humiliating than it already has tonight. "How does a music major forget a hard drive?" You ask, voice bouncing a little too loudly through the empty studio.
Jungkook shrugs. "It's Mark."
Fair.
You snort quietly and drift towards the couch instead, letting yourself drop against the cushions while Jungkook continues opening drawers and moving papers around an unnecessary amount of concentration.
For a minute, for the short time being, neither of you says anything. And maybe that's your first mistake. Because lately, silence with Jungkook has become as dangerous as vodka on an empty stomach.
Your eyes lift before you can stop them. That's definitely your second mistake.
Because Jungkook had pushed his sleeves higher at some point and now his forearms are exposed beneath the dim lights of the studio and you miserably need those long, tattooed fingers curling inside your pussy.
He crouches beside the desk, pushing his hair back before another strand immediately falls over his forehead again. "Found it." He says, and your head snaps back up.
Jungkook, unfortunately, is already looking at you. Not at the hard drive, not at the desk, just you. And for a second, neither of you says anything. Because maybe this is one of those moments where silence becomes too delicate for words. Moments that sit so carefully between people that speaking feels like touching glass with bare hands.
Your stomach tightens embarrassingly beneath your ribs as Jungkook's eyes drag all over you before they settle and stay on your face. He takes a step closer, then another, and then speaks softly. "What?"
Your brows pull together despite yourself. "What what?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You keep staring." He says, voice lower now.
"And you don't?" You reply, voice barely above a whisper as you rise up to your feet.
"I do." Jungkook replies. There is barely an inch between your bodies now, his breath hot and heavy on your skin. "But i don't lie about it, pretty girl."
Your entire body stiffens at that. But it's not the pretty girl, not at all. It's the way he says it. Because Jungkook doesn't rush you, he never does. He doesn't smirk, doesn't tease. Just stays there looking and waiting. Like he is giving you room, like stepping away is still an option.
And the worst part is, you don't want to step away.
Silence stretches and stretches until it begins feeling alive. His eyes drop down to your lips, then lifts back up. For one devastating second, Jungkook looks at you like he is trying to memorize something. Like he's collecting little things too.
His hand lifts, thumb softly tracing over the line of your jaw. "I've been patient for so long." He speaks over your lips. "And i know you feel it too. But i need to hear your words if you really want this to happen."
Your breath catches and flips over halfway through your throat, chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. "Jungkook,"
"Tell me," He starts, thumb stopping by the bottom of your lip. "If you want me as bad as i want you. Because— fuck, I've been good, i've been patient but i'm terribly desperate and i need to know if you are too."
"Please," You try, but you've already stopped thinking altogether.
"Please what, baby? I need you to use your words."
"Kiss me." You fit the entire weight of those words in a tiny little breath and Jungkook's lips are on yours in an instant.
The kiss starts out slow, his lips moving against yours gently as if he is savoring every ounce of its taste on the farthest corners of his tongue. Your hands find the nape of his neck, pulling and pressing him closer until distance can't bear existing anymore.
Jungkook's hands drop down to your waist, tugging you closer so that your hips clash against his. You whimper into his mouth, and he swallows it without wasting a single second.
Because Jungkook has been waiting.
This isn't what the does, not at all. Jungkook has never been a patient man. Not with desire, not with girls. He takes and gets taken in blinks and fractions and seconds— easy, casual, weightless.
But you, you've turned into something devastatingly different. Because for weeks now Jungkook has been wanting without touching, looking without taking— ever since you laughed and rolled your eyes prettily at Yugyeom's party that night. He has spent nights thinking about your lips, mornings replaying the sound of your laugh and entire conversations searching for traces of hidden meanings beneath your words like a man slowly losing his goddamn mind.
Jungkook doesn't wait. He doesn't ache over girls. He doesn't sit awake late at night remembering the way they looked at him beneath dim studio lights or think about the possibility of their hands touching his. But with you— fuck.
With you, he has become unbearably aware of himself. You've made him patient in the cruelest way possible. Because now he notices everything and god, the pretending has been killing him.
And now you're kissing him back as if you've been just as gone. And that thought alone is enough to fold and mold his brain into something disgustingly mushy and achingly dizzy.
"More," You moan between kisses, body practically begging for his touch.
Jungkook's stomach flips upside down. "Yeah? Want more, pretty? Want me to touch you?" He squeezes the plump meat of your ass through your jeans, and your hips jerk into his with the feeling.
His hands roam all over your body before stopping right at the hem of your top. His fingers fiddle with the fabric before he pulls away to look at you properly, and you give him your consent dressed up as a weak nod.
Jungkook pulls your tank top over your head, eyes stuck on the way your boobs bounce beneath the lace of your bra with the movement. He physically, loudly, groans at the sight before plastering wet, open mouthed kisses on the soft skin. Your head falls back in pleasure, hands tangling in his soft locks. Jungkook pushes his head further into your tits before he reaches over your back and unclasps your bra in one swift motion.
Your ass hits the armrest of the leather couch when he lowers himself to take a nipple into his mouth, fingers toying with the other. You moan in short, consecutive whimpers as his tongue laps and flickers over the hardened nub, the wetness in your panties growing and growing.
His cups your pussy over the your jeans, fingers pressing into your core over the fabric. The pressure is utterly mind blowing because the course denim stretches and digs into you further, causing you to cry out in pleasure.
"Touch me properly, Jungkook." You force out, desperate to feel him on your bare skin.
Jungkook scoffs between kisses. "Greedy, aren't you?"
He unbuttons your jeans, fondling with the zipper for a beat too long before he can unzip and get you out of it.
He pushes your panties aside with two fingers before sliding them into you. Your cunt sucks him in immediately, already way too wet and way too impatient for any form of foreplay.
Jungkook tilts his head to look at the way his fingers are slipping in and out of you. "Shit, pretty. Look at that. You're gripping me."
"Jungkook," You cry out, hands curling around his biceps for support. "Need— need your cock, please."
He lifts his eyes up to look at your face properly, then sketches and carves every line of your expression onto the deepest corners of his heart.
He slowly pulls out his fingers, then draws circles on your swollen clit before pulling away to take off his own clothes. His shirt flies away first, and you can't help but gawk at the bare sight of his chest. Arms, shoulders, abs— you're lucky if you don't cum right then and there.
He gives you a small, knowing chuckle before unbuckling his belt, tossing the jeans somewhere across the room along with his boxers. Your lips are parted beyond your knowledge, eyes stuck on the hardened sight of his length.
You've never seen a cock as pretty as that.
You're not sure if you'd ever even thought a cock was pretty— because usually, to you, they're far from that. But Jungkook, god, Jungkook is so fucking pretty with a tip so pink you think you want to suckle on it like a lollipop and a length so massive you desperately want it to choke you.
You wouldn't be mad if your cause of death had suffocated on cock written on it all uppercase in bold letters.
And Jungkook just laughs. He fucking laughs.
"Don't worry, pretty. It's all yours." He says, kissing your lips once more before motioning to turn over. "Now turn around and bend over for me." He adds, pushing your back lightly so that you're completely bent over with both hands gripping on the armrest of the couch.
Jungkook drags his tip across your folds, spreading your slick all over your cunt before he slowly pushes it in. You feel his tip first, letting you adjust to the stretch as he sucks in a sharp breath at the warmth of your walls. You moan loudly when he presses half of his cock into you, fingers firming around the cushion.
"Oh god," You breathe, uncontrollably pushing your ass higher into the air. He slams in the rest of his length at your movement, and your back arches even deeper. "Fuck, Jungkook. You're so— so big. I can't."
"You can, princess. I know you can. You'll take every inch like a good girl. Gonna make me proud, aren't you?"
He completely slides out out slowly, and before you can whine at the emptiness Jungkook slams himself back in. You moan loudly, head empty and thoroughly dizzy.
Jungkook starts fucking into you, one had gripping firmly onto your waist as the other toys with your nipple from the back. He is filling you up so good you're going to lose your goddamn mind. You feel so full, stretched and stuffed to the fucking brim. Your walls suck him in desperately, walls clenching and tightening around his fat cock as he pounds into you recklessly.
"Yes, fuck. Wanna be good for you." You mutter messily as his thrusts get deeper and deeper, cock twitching inside your wetness.
"I'm close." You breathe.
"I've got you." He says, and you hate how assuring the words sound.
You let yourself go just as he starts playing with your clit from behind, stimulating you as you milk your juices around his cock. He helps you ride out your high, chest pressing onto your back as he plasters small, reassuring kisses on your shoulder.
You feel physically nauseous at the domesticity.
"Switch with me." You say after coming down from your orgasm, straightening as his cock slides out of you.
Jungkook's body falters, brows pulling together. "What?"
You roll your eyes, pulling away. "Sit, Jungkook."
Jungkook somehow obeys without another word, dropping his body onto the couch beneath you. You hold his shoulders from above, placing your legs at both sides of his hips before reaching for his cock.
Jungkook's breath stutters when you take him into your hand, pumping him a few times before aligning him with your entrance. You slowly sink down onto his length, and you both moan simultaneously when you take every inch of his dick into your pussy.
"Shit," He moans, your name dancing prettily on his tongue. "You're so hot."
His fingertips dig into the soft skin of your hips, head thrown back lazily as he moans through parted lips. You bounce on his dick with every ounce of energy that's left in you, thighs aching as he twitches inside your walls.
Jungkook lifts his head a little to properly take in the sight of your bouncing tits, nearing his high.
"Where do you want me?" He asks, voice low and breathy. Your stomach churns at the question, nails scratching his broad shoulders.
"You can cum inside."
He's going to die. He is going to fucking die but at least he'll die a proud man with his cum stuffed inside you.
And just as Jungkook was about to close his eyes and release inside you, your phone rings.
His lips part to say something, but you beat him to it. "Just shut it off."
Jungkook's hand weakly finds your phone, pressing the close button twice without looking at it. Of course he doesn't look, he'd be insane to drift his eyes away from the way your soft, perky tits are bouncing up and down in his own hold. But the ecstasy lasts so long as fifteen seconds until your phone rings again.
Jungkook flips it over this time. The name on your phone's screen flashes right through his eyes and he feels his heart stumble and drop straight into the rock bottom of his stomach
The morning after the kiss, the sun didn't bring warmth into the penthouse, it only exposed the sharp, jagged edges of a boundary Jeon Jungkook thought he had erased.
He had expected the kiss to shatter your armor. He expected you to finally surrender to the dark, suffocating orbit he had dragged you into since childhood. He needed you. God he needed you in every darkness of his.
Instead, when he woke up at 8:00 AM, his body aching from the fight and his split knuckles throbbing, he found his training clothes laid out on the foot of the bed, perfectly folded. On the nightstand sat a fresh glass of water, his anti-inflammatory medication, and a printout of his recovery schedule for the week.
When he walked into the kitchen, shirtless and imposing, you were standing at the island, typing on your tablet while reviewing his sponsorship contracts. You didn't look up. You didn't blush. Your lips, still slightly swollen from his bruised mouth hours prior, were set in a tight, unyielding line.
"Your morning protein shake is on the left," you said, "The Head Coach wants a full post-fight medical evaluation at 1:00 PM. I've already confirmed the transport."
Jungkook narrowed his eyes, stepping up to the island, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over your work. "That's it?" he growled, reaching out to catch your chin, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. "No commentary? No small talk about last night?"
You didn't flinch. You didn't lean into his touch, nor did you pull away like a frightened girl. You simply stopped typing, raised your eyes, and looked at him with a dead, hollow indifference that chilled him far more than any anger ever could.
"You won the match, Jungkook. You claimed your... prize. The kiss is done... the deal is sealed" you stated, stepping back just enough to break his grip. "My job is to manage your career. Nothing more. Eat your breakfast."
Over the next three weeks, he tried everything to break that wall. He flexed his power, he threw his violent tantrums, he tried to corner you in hallway corridors, leaning in to press hot, demanding kisses against your jaw, your neck, trying to force a slip in your control.
He didn't understand. He thought you were just playing a game of restraint. He was too blinded by his own ego to realize that beneath your professional composure lay a mountain of unyielding, deep-seated resentment that no amount of his physical dominance could ever erase.
You had never forgotten.
You remembered middle school, when you were just a tired, overworked kid carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. While he was the spoiled son of rich parents who had everything handed to him, you were juggling endless part-time jobs, studying until your eyes bled, and trying to keep your head above water. When he asked you on that stupid, arrogant date back then, you had said no, not out of malice, but because you literally did not have the luxury of time for romance.
And he had destroyed you for it. He turned the school into a living hell, making sure you paid every single day for daring to reject him.
But the real scar, the one that burned in your chest every time you looked at him, happened in university.
Fashion design had been your dream. It was the only light in your brutal, exhausted life. You had spent months, sleepless nights, bleeding fingers, hours stolen from your rare breaks, building a portfolio of detailed, conceptual fashion sketches. It was your one ticket out of poverty; an application for a fully funded scholarship to one of the most elite fashion schools in the world.
And Jungkook had ruined it.
You still remembered the cruel, mocking smirk on his face as he grabbed your sketchbook off your desk, casually flipping through the pages of your soul before tossing it into the university's industrial paper shredder, laughing with his friends as months of your hard work were turned into useless confetti. You had gone home that night, collapsing on the floor of your tiny apartment, sobbing until you couldn't breathe. You tried to redraw everything from memory before the midnight deadline, but panic and exhaustion ruined your hands. You missed the submission. You lost your scholarship. You lost your dream.
And now, here he was, millions in his bank account, thinking a championship belt and a forced kiss in the dark could make you his.
The breaking point came on a rainy Thursday night in his private gym.
The facility was empty. The rain lashed against the high windows, filling the space with a low, ambient roar. Jungkook had just finished a brutal shadowboxing session. Sweating, breathing heavily, and fueled by the quiet rage of being completely ignored for weeks, he marched over to where you were packing his gear.
Without a word, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you backward, slamming you against the wall. He trapped you between his massive arms, his heavy, damp chest pressing against yours, his dark eyes burning with frustration.
"Enough of this fucking act," he hissed, his voice dangerous and raspy. He leaned down, his mouth inches from yours, his grip tightening on your waist. "You're not a maid, Y/N. Stop treating me like a client. You stayed with me for a year. You let me kiss you. Stop pretending you don't feel anything."
"Let go of me, Jungkook," you said, your voice dangerously quiet.
"No," he growled, lowering his face, intent on taking another kiss, intent on forcing you to react, to strip away the cold manager and find the girl inside. "You're mine. You've always been mine—"
CRACK.
The sound echoed through the high-ceiling gym like a gunshot.
Your hand connected with his cheek with every ounce of force, hatred, and repressed agony you had buried for years. The sheer impact snapped his head to the side, the sound of your palm meeting his skin cutting through the roar of the rain.
Silence crashed over the room.
Jungkook stood frozen, his head turned, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles quivered. A bright, burning red handprint slowly bloomed across his cheekbone. His dark eyes shifted slowly back to you, wide with shock, unbridled fury, and disbelief.
You didn't step back. You didn't tremble. You stood your ground, your palm stinging, your eyes blazing with a fierce, terrifying fire that finally stripped away the cold, emotionless mask you had worn for a year.
"Don't you ever touch me like that again," you spat, your voice dripping with absolute venom.
Jungkook’s chest heaved, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal register. "You just crossed a line, Y/N—"
"No, you crossed the line!" you shouted, taking a step into his space, driving your finger into his hard chest. "You think you own me because you pay my salary? You think a kiss gives you rights over my body? You think I'm here because I fucking care about you?"
He glared down at you, his fists clenching at his sides, but the sheer fury in your eyes held him in place.
"You ruined my life, Jungkook," you whispered, your voice shaking not from fear, but from the raw, unadulterated pain of a broken dream. "Do you even remember? Middle school? I didn't go out with you because I was working three jobs just to eat! And you made every day a living hell because your bloated, rich-boy ego couldn't handle a 'no'."
Jungkook’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but you didn't let him speak.
"And university," you continued, a tear finally escaping your eye, though your voice remained sharp as glass. "My sketchbook. My fashion designs. I spent months on that portfolio, Jungkook. It was my only chance to get a scholarship. My only chance to have the life I actually wanted. And you threw it in the shredder like it was garbage, just to get a laugh out of your friends."
Jungkook went completely still. The dark rage in his pupils stuttered, replaced by a sudden, jarring jolt of realization. The memory, buried under years of his own reckless, chaotic path, suddenly surfaced—the image of a quiet girl crying in the university hallway while he walked away feeling invincible.
"YOU. DESTROYED. MY. ONLY. FUCKING. CHANCE." you screamed, your voice raising, punching his chest with all your force with each word.
You gave him a last punch in the chest and stepped around his frozen frame, picking up your tablet and your coat from the bench.
"You want to know why I don't flinch when you scream? Why I don't care when you break water coolers or threaten to tear the gym down?" You looked back at him over your shoulder, your eyes cold, dead, and utterly devoid of hope. "Because the worst thing you could ever do to me, Jeon Jungkook... you already did years ago."
Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked out into the pouring rain, leaving him standing alone, the burning imprint of your hand on his cheek, completely wrecked by the truth.
The stinging, metallic silence that hung in the wake of your exit didn't go when the heavy glass doors of the gym slammed shut. It settled into a heavy and suffocating darkness wrapping around him.
For nearly twenty minutes, he didn't move. He stood there his chest heaving in shallow, jagged rhythms, the burning red mark on his cheek bone pulsing, the punch on his chest turning hot, skin angry and red. The rain outside continued to smash against the reinforced glass.
You destroyed my future.
He looked down at his right hand—the same hand that had earned him millions, the same hand that had held the gold championship belt just weeks ago. His knuckles were scarred, rough, and stained with the memory of a hundred fights. But for the first time in his life, the heavyweight champion felt entirely, utterly powerless.
He had remembered the sketchbook. In his arrogant, reckless youth, it had just been a notebook, a quiet girl’s prized possession that he had ripped away simply to force her to look at him, to force a reaction out of the one person who had dared to treat him like he was invisible. He had never considered what was inside those pages. He had never cared to look. To him back then, it was just a weapon to puncture her cold pride.
He hadn't realized he had destroyed the only thing she had ever built for herself.
Across the city, in the cramped, minimalist staff room of his luxury penthouse, you sat on the edge of the narrow bed. Your hands were steady as you applied a cool damp cloth to your stinging palm. The red imprint of his jaw still tingled on your skin, but inside, the hollow, cold clarity had returned.
You didn't regret slapping him nor punching him . You didn't regret spilling the poison you had carried in your chest for years. If he fired you tonight, so be it. You had saved enough from his absurdly high salary over the past twelve months to survive for a while. You were ready for the end.
At 2:00 AM, the heavy oak door of the apartment unlocked.
You didn't get up. You stayed seated on the edge of your bed, listening as his heavy, unhurried footsteps echoed down the polished hardwood floor of the corridor. The shadow fell across your open doorway, tall, broad, and looming.
Jungkook didn't enter the room. He stood in the doorway, dressed in a plain black hoodie, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders. The sharp red mark on his cheek had turned into a faint, dark shadow of a bruise. His eyes, usually burning with an erratic, dangerous fire, were subdued—cast in a dark, terrifyingly quiet depth that you had never seen on him before.
"You're not fired," he rasped, his voice rough and stripped of its usual venom.
You raised your head, meeting his gaze with unblinking composure. "Then I expect you to respect the boundaries of my contract. I am your logistical and performance coordinator. I handle your schedule, your recovery, and your media protection. I am not your personal entertainment."
Jungkook’s jaw tightened but nodded his head.
The dynamic shifted drastically over the following weeks. The volatile, explosive atmosphere that usually surrounded Jeon Jungkook vanished, replaced by an unsettling, hyper-focused calm that unnerved his entire team. He didn't yell at his promoters. He didn't kick over water coolers during brutal training sessions. He obeyed every instruction you wrote on his tablet with a terrifying, mechanical compliance.
He ate the exact calories you weighed out. He took his supplements on time. He completed his cardio sessions without a single complaint.
But he was watching you.
Every second you were in the same room, his dark, heavy gaze followed your movements. When you handed him his water bottle, his fingers were careful not to brush against yours. When you adjusted the straps on his training gear, he stood dead still, his breath held, ensuring he didn't crowd your space. It wasn't kindness; it was a dark, obsessive restraint. He was suppressing the beast inside him because he knew that one more wrong move would sever the thin, fragile wire keeping you in his world.
When the notification pinged on your phone that evening, showing a direct deposit that effectively doubled your already outrageous monthly compensation, you didn't feel relief. You felt a cold, bitter knot form in the pit of your stomach.
You walked straight down to the private training floor. The gym was dimly lit. The heavy, rhythmic thud of gloves driving into a leather body shield echoed off the concrete walls. Jungkook was mid-training with his head coach, his massive, sweat-slicked back rippling with every brutal combination he threw.
You didn't wait for his round to end. You stepped right up to the edge of the blue mat, your tablet tucked firmly under your arm.
"My bank account was credited incorrectly this afternoon," you said, your voice cutting straight through the heavy cadence of his breathing. "Your accounting team doubled my base salary. I assume it was an error."
Jungkook didn't stop hitting the shield. Crack. Crack.
"It wasn't an error," he rasped, his breath coming out in heavy, even drags. "I authorized the adjustment myself. You handle double the workload since the rematch campaign. You earned it."
"I work the exact hours specified in my contract," you replied instantly, your tone dripping with a frigid, unyielding detachment. You stepped closer, looking straight past the coach's defensive pads and locking onto Jungkook's dark, guarded eyes. "I don't need your hush money, Jungkook. And I certainly don't want your pity."
The heavy leather pad dropped. The head coach froze, his gaze darting nervously between the two of you, instantly recognizing the dangerous, razor-thin wire the air was suddenly balancing on.
Jungkook slammed a devastating right hook into the center of the shield, the sheer force of the blow sending a dull shockwave through the trainer's frame, before finally stepping back. He wiped the line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his taped forearm, his jaw clenching so hard a vein throbbed along his neck.
"Pity?" he growled, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made the empty gym feel three sizes smaller. "Why the fuck would I pity you?"
"Because you think doubling my check erases what you did," you said softly, your words hitting him with the precision of a scalpel. "You realized you couldn't buy my forgiveness."
Jungkook’s chest heaved, his dark pupils blown out as he stared down at you from inside the ring. He had spent the last three weeks trying everything. He had pulled every string in his multi-million-network, pestering elite international design academies, demanding a seat, offering donations—only to be met with cold, institutional rejection. They didn't care about his fame or his money; the admissions cycles were closed, and age limits and rigid application windows were absolute. His wealth had proven completely useless buying you a seat to your dream, leaving him stranded with a crushing, suffocating realization of his own permanent damage.
And now, here you were, throwing his money back in his face.
A dark, dangerous flicker crossed his face, not of rage, but of a desperate, twisted logic. He couldn't give you back your dream, and he couldn't force you to take his money through logic. But he could gamble for it.
He reached down, grabbing the velcro of his right glove with his teeth, ripping it off with a harsh, tearing sound, followed quickly by the left. He tossed them onto the canvas with a dull thud.
"Get in the ring, Y/N," he commanded.
You didn't move an inch. "I'm not fighting you, Jungkook."
"Get in the fucking ring," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned to his head coach, snapping his fingers. "Give me your towel."
The trainer hesitated for a fraction of a second before handing over a thick, black microfiber cloth. Without taking his eyes off you, Jungkook folded the fabric into a dense strip, wrapped it securely over his eyes, and tied it tight behind his head. Then, with a cold, deliberate motion, he tucked his left arm firmly behind his back.
He stood in the center of the canvas—blinded, one-armed, an absolute titan of muscle stripped of two-thirds of his deadliest tools.
"Here's the deal," Jungkook rasped, his voice echoing in the darkness of the blindfold. "You get three minutes. One round. You land a single clean hit on me, and I revoke the raise. I keep your salary exactly where it was. You lose... or you fail to touch me... and you keep the money. No arguments. No returning it."
"This is ridiculous," you said, stepping back. "You're a professional heavyweight—"
"I am blind, and I have one arm," he interrupted, his head tilting slightly as he tracked the sound of your voice with terrifying precision. "What's the matter, Y/N? You had no problem slapping and punching me in the guts when I was looking right at you. Now I'm giving you a free shot to take everything out on me, and you're backing down?"
The provocation was deliberate, ugly, and effective.
Without another word, you dropped your tablet onto the bench, unbuttoned your jacket, and tossed it aside. You stepped up the steel stairs, unlatched the heavy turnbuckle gate, and walked onto the canvas.
The coach looked at you with wide, concerned eyes before slowly stepping out of the ring, holding up his digital timer. "Three minutes," the older man murmured. "Starting... now."
The buzzer sounded with a sharp, electronic beep.
Jungkook didn't move from the center. He stood casually, his chest bare, his broad shoulders relaxed, his left arm locked behind his back, relying entirely on his hyper-aware senses.
You circled him quietly, keeping your footsteps light on the padded floor. Your heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You weren't a fighter, but you had spent twelve months watching him train. You knew his weight shifts. You knew how he moved.
You lunged forward, throwing a fast, straight right toward his exposed jaw.
Before your knuckles could even graze his skin, Jungkook leaned his head back. The air shifted, and your fist passed harmlessly through empty space. In the same breath, his right hand shot out, his calloused palm catching your wrist with absolute, terrifying ease. He didn't twist or pull; he simply held you anchored for a fraction of a second, demonstrating the sheer, absurd gap in your physical power, before letting go.
"Too loud," he murmured, his blindfolded face turning toward you, a dark, ghostly shadow of a smirk touching his lips. "You're breathing too hard before you strike."
Gasping for air, you stepped back, your palm stinging from where his grip had clamped down. The humiliation of it burned hotter than your exhaustion.
You circled again, waiting for ten seconds, fifteen, letting the hum of the gym's air conditioner drown out your movements. You shifted your weight, fake-stepping to the left to throw off his hearing, before driving forward with all your weight, aiming a sharp blow directly at his exposed ribs.
Jungkook didn't even slip the punch. He simply shifted his hips an inch to the side, letting your wrist slide harmlessly against him. Before you could retract your arm, his right forearm swept around your waist.
With effortless, terrifying strength, he pulled you flush against his chest.
The sudden contact was suffocating. The heat radiating off his bare skin was oppressive, smelling of sweat, leather, and dominance. You were completely pinned against him, your chest pressed against his, his single arm wrapped around your back like a steel band, trapping you entirely.
"Time's ticking, Y/N," he whispered into your hair, his deep, gravelly breath brushing hot against the shell of your ear. "Minute and a half left."
"Let go of me!" you spat, struggling violently against his grip, driving your elbow back into his stomach. It was like striking a wall of solid concrete.
Jungkook didn't flinch. He held you tight against his body, feeling the frantic, rapid thudding of your heart against his ribs. His hand pressed firmly into the small of your back, keeping you anchored, keeping you forced to feel the raw, absolute magnitude of the beast you were trying to fight.
"You want to hurt me?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark murmur that vibrated right through your chest. "Do it properly then. Stop pulling your punches. Stop acting like you're just my manager."
With a sudden, fluid movement, he released his grip and stepped back two paces, opening his arm wide, exposing his bare chest and face to you completely.
"Hit me," he growled, standing blind folded in the center of the ring. "Hit me with everything you've carried since middle school. Take it out on me."
Your breath hitched. Tears of pure, unadulterated frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes. You hated him. You hated the way he controlled the room, hated the way he turned even his guilt into a game of dominance, hated that no matter how hard you pushed him away, he found a way to drag you back into his orbit.
You surged forward, swinging wildly, a sharp, desperate right hand aimed straight for his cheek.
CRACK.
Your bare fist connected flush against his jaw.
The impact sent a dull, shooting pain through your knuckles, vibrating up your forearm. Jungkook’s head snapped back slightly from the sheer velocity of the blow, a dark red mark instantly blooming along his jawline where your hand met his skin.
He didn't counter. He didn't block. He stood there, absorbing the sting, taking the full brunt of your hatred without moving an inch.
The electronic buzzer echoed through the facility, signaling the end of the three minutes.
The heavy silence returned, thick and suffocating. You stood breathing heavily, your fist trembling, your knuckles raw and throbbing from the impact.
Slowly, Jungkook raised his right hand. He reached behind his head, untying the knot of the black cloth, and pulled the blindfold away.
His dark, blown-out pupils blinked against the harsh overhead lights, slowly adjusting until they locked onto you. A thin trickle of dark blood leaked from the corner of his lower lip where his inner cheek had smashed against his teeth.
He didn't wipe the blood away, he looked down at your trembling, reddened hand.
"Clean hit," he rasped, his voice rough, eyes fixed on your swollen knuckles.
You wiped the single stray tear from your cheek with the back of your uninjured hand, holding his dark, unreadable gaze. "Then the raise is canceled. Take the money back."
Jungkook looked at you for a long, agonizing moment.
"The raise stays," he said quietly, stepping toward the edge of the ring.
"We had a deal—"
"yes but I am your boss" Jungkook interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, final tone as he stepped through the ropes.
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Mad Dog (part 2)
Jungkook x y/n
Read part 1 first
The heavy, suffocating silence of the gym lingered long after Jungkook’s forehead left your shoulder. He didn't apologize, he didn't possess the vocabulary for it, but the raw violence that had filled the room slowly turned into something cold, focused, and utterly lethal. "if I win I get to do whatever I want with you, kick you out or kiss you or... And you wouldn't mind" he growled and you looked at his eyes that were full of hate, he would probably kick you out you thought to yourself knowing he wouldn't kiss you, he hates you so much to do that, so you shrugged "and if you lose I get to slap you and you do absolutely nothing" you said and he chuckled darkly nodding his head. You made a deal.
When he finally stepped back, the sudden space between you felt freezing. He wiped the sting of sweat from his eyes with the back of his taped forearm, his dark gaze dropping to the faint, blooming red marks his fingers had left on your jawline. A dark, ugly flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, before it was quickly swallowed by the return of his usual scowl.
"Now..." You let out a slow, controlled sigh, adjusting your rumpled collar. "Let's get a doctor to look at those knuckles."
You guided him toward the leather couch in the corner of the facility, pulling out your phone to ask for his personal physician, who had been waiting on standby in the outer offices. Within minutes, the doctor was quietly working, cleaning the split skin of Jungkook's knuckles, applying antiseptic, and re-wrapping the hands with clinical precision. Throughout the entire process, Jungkook sat like a statue, his eyes never leaving your face as you stood nearby, organizing his schedule on your tablet.
Once the doctor bowed and exited, you went to work on the next phase of his recovery. You prepped the tub, filling it with warm water and magnesium salts to draw the lactic acid from his tortured muscles.
When you led him to the bathroom, he was quiet. He was still rough, of course, rudely jerking his wrists away when you tried to help him unfasten his remaining wrist wraps. Yet, despite the underlying current of violence, he complied with your silent orders. He stepped into the tub, sinking his massive frame into the steaming water with a low, gravelly groan.
You moved to stand behind him at the head of the tub. Pouring a specialized, cooling shampoo into your palms, you reached down and began to wash his thick, sweat-matted hair. Your fingers worked methodically, massaging his scalp to ease the tension built up from hours of clenching his jaw. Jungkook’s head tilted back against the porcelain lip, his eyes closing as he surrendered to your touch. Moving lower, you dug your knuckles into his broad, sore shoulders, applying the deep, crushing pressure his dense muscle desperately needed. He flinched slightly at a particularly deep knot, but he didn't pull away, "too fucking good for your own good" he groaned his body relaxing further. He hated you and he made it his mission to remind you.
Leaving him to soak, you slipped back into the kitchen to prepare his immediate post-training nutrition. You mixed a blend of electrolytes to prevent the severe cramping that usually pained his calves after a midnight session, and prepared a warm bowl of oatmeal swirled with honey, giving his brain the glucose it desperately required.
When you returned, he was still socked in the tub. You sat on the stool opposite him. Without a word, you lifted the spoon, feeding him the warm meal, ensuring he chewed and swallowed. It was intimate, twisted, and entirely routine. It was your job, after all, to think for the beast when he no longer had the capacity to think for himself.
By 6:00 AM, you finally managed to get him back to his room. Jungkook practically collapsed into his king-sized bed, his massive body sinking deep into the mattress. Within seconds, the dark, suffocating weight of sheer physical exhaustion claimed him, throwing him into a dead, dreamless sleep.
You, however, did not sleep. You closed his blackout curtains, set his alarm for exactly four hours later, and sat in the living room with a lukewarm cup of black coffee, answering emails from promoters and organizing his dietary intake for the week.
When 10:00 AM struck, you walked back into the darkened bedroom.
"Jungkook," you called, standing a safe distance from the bed. "Wake up. Head Coach is meeting us at the facility in forty-five minutes."
A low, menacing growl vibrated from the pillows. A massive arm shot out, throwing a heavy down pillow directly at your head. You moved your head an inch to the left, letting it sail past you and hit the wall.
"Five minutes," he rasped, his voice deep, gravelly, and laced with morning malice.
"You don't have five minutes," you replied coldly, walking over to pull the curtains open, flooding the room with the blinding Seoul morning sun.
Jungkook hissed, shielding his eyes with his heavily tattooed forearm, cursing your entire lineage under his breath. But ten minutes later, he was dressed in the clothes you had laid out for him, eating the breakfast you had portioned, and sitting silently in the back of the SUV along side you.
The remaining six days before the rematch were a blur of absolute, calculated torture.
The meeting with his head coach had been tense. The older man laid out the tape of the previous fight, highlighting the exact moment Jungkook’s arrogance had failed to notice the incoming hook. Jungkook had looked ready to murder the man, his eyes flashing with that terrifying, familiar high school rage, but your calm presence at the edge of the ring, holding his water bottle, acted like an anchor holding back a hurricane.
He trained like a man possessed. There were no more flying tantrums. The anger had become cold. Calculated. Elegant. He ran until his chest heaved, he hit the heavy bags until the leather split, he sparred with three different partners back-to-back until they were bruising and breathless.
And through every grueling second, you were there. Giving him his towels. Getting his heavy lifting machines ready. Keeping the doors locked to the media. Staying quiet when he needed to simmer, and pushing the water into his hands when he needed to hydrate.
Seven days after his first career defeat, the night of the grand rematch arrived.
The crowd was a sea of thousands, their chants vibrating through the concrete floors of the stadium. The media had spent the entire week predicting the downfall of Jeon Jungkook, calling him a broken genius whose temper had finally derailed his talent.
In the locker room, the air was deadly silent.
Jungkook stood in the center of the room, fully wrapped, wearing his silk black robe. He looked immense. The sheer mass of his shoulders and the terrifying focus in his dark eyes made the trainers and cutmen keep their distance.
You walked up to him, holding his custom mouthguard. He looked down at you, his breathing steady, the heavy scent of liniment clinging to him like a second skin.
"This is it," you said softly, your voice the only calm current in the stadium. "Go take back what's yours."
Jungkook didn't say a word. He leaned down slightly, letting you insert the mouthguard into his jaw. As you pulled your fingers away, his large, wrapped hand suddenly caught your chin, his thumb brushing over the faint, fading yellow bruise his fingers had left there a week ago. His eyes locked onto yours with a possessive, dark intensity that promised ruin to anyone who dared stand in his way.
Then, he turned and marched down the tunnel.
The arena erupted. The walkout music thundered.
The bell rang for Round One.
It wasn't a boxing match; it was an execution.
The opponent, the man who had scraped a split-decision victory a week prior, looked confident for exactly ten seconds. Then, Jungkook closed the distance. The absolute precision of his movement was terrifying. He didn't rush in with blind fury like before; he moved with the clinical, terrifying patience you had forced him to practice.
A devastating left jab shattered the opponent’s guard. A sickening crack echoed through the front rows as a right hook caught the man flush on the jaw.
By Round Three, the opponent was a bloody, broken mess, desperately trying to survive the onslaught. Jungkook loomed over him, a predator tracking a wounded animal. He didn't even look tired. His muscles shined under the stadium lights, mapping a portrait of absolute dominance.
With a final, terrifying combination, a body shot that took the man’s breath, followed by an uppercut that lifted the fighter slightly off his feet, it was over.
The opponent crashed to the canvas, completely unconscious before he even hit the floor.
The referee didn't even bother to count. He waved his arms, calling the fight.
The arena exploded into a feral roar. The championship belt was hoisted into the air, gleaming gold under the lights, but as the crowd screamed his name, Jungkook didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the promoters. He stood in the center of the ring, his glove raised by the referee, his dark, blown-out eyes scanning the edge of the canvas until they found you standing by the stairs, holding his white towel.
He stared straight at you, a proud, vicious smirk cutting through his sweat-streaked face. I won.
The gold plating of the championship belt caught the harsh, white glare of the arena lights, reflecting a fractured prism across Jungkook’s sweat-soaked chest. The stadium was still vibrating, thousands chanting his name, but inside his head the noise already died, his dark eyes locked entirely on you.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't play to the cameras. He simply walked down the steps of the turnbuckle, batting away the hands of his promoters and trainers like they were bothersome insects, and marched straight toward you.
Without a word, you stepped forward, raising the white towel to drape it over his massive, trembling shoulders. As you did, his hand—still encased in the heavy, bloody leather of his fight glove—shot out and gripped your wrist. Not enough to break it, but enough to anchor you to the spot. His smirk was feral, the sharp edge of his mouthguard still visible through his parted lips.
I won. The silent boast hung between you, heavy and thick with the terms of your dark wager.
"Get the bag," his voice was a gravelly, breathy scrape against your ear as he blew past you toward the locker room. "We're leaving. Now."
The ride back to his luxury high-rise penthouse was conducted in a suffocating, charged silence. Jungkook sat in the back of the SUV, the gold belt resting carelessly across his thick thighs. He hadn't stripped off his hand wraps; the frayed gauze was stained with his opponent's blood and his own sweat. You kept your gaze trained on the road ahead, your fingers wrapped around the work tablet, the weight of his looming victory pressing down on your chest.
When the elevator finally dinged, opening directly into his expansive apartment, the tension snapped.
Jungkook walked in first, tossing the multi-million-won championship belt onto the kitchen island with a dull, disrespectful thud. He didn't turn around. He simply stood there, a towering silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, deliberate cadence.
You stepped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind you. You didn't take off your coat. Instead, you walked straight past the kitchen, past the living room, and down the long corridor toward the small staff room he had assigned to you a year ago.
It was time to pay the debt. He had won, which meant he possessed total dominion over your contract. And knowing the bitter, black-hearted boy who had spent years making your childhood a waking nightmare, you knew exactly what was coming. He hated you, hated that you saw through his armor. He was going to throw your pride in the dirt and cast you out.
You pulled your duffel bag from the closet and laid it on the mattress, calmly folding your few uniform shirts.
A heavy, deliberate shadow fell across the doorway.
You didn't look up, keeping your fingers busy smoothing out a crease in the fabric. "I'll be out in ten minutes, Jungkook. I'll leave the keys on the counter. You'll need to contact the agency for a replacement by Monday morning."
A dark, low chuckle rumbled from the doorway—a sound that made the small hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Jungkook leaned against the doorframe, his massive frame completely obstructing any exit. His silk fight robe hung open, exposing the magnificent canvas of his chest, the purple bruises from the fight already beginning to bloom against his skin. His hands were finally free of the wraps, his raw, split knuckles exposed and trembling slightly from the adrenaline withdrawal.
"Who the fuck said you were leaving?" he asked, his voice dropping into a deep, dangerously smooth register.
You paused, your hands resting on the edge of the bag. Slowly, you turned your head to meet his gaze. There was no victory high in his face; there was only a hungry, predatory focus.
"Our agreement," you said, your voice a model of clinical detachment. "You won. You said you get to do whatever you want. We both know how much you despise me, Jungkook. You've wanted me gone since the day I signed the paperwork."
Jungkook stepped into the small room. The space was instantly halved. He moved with that same elegance he had used in the ring tonight, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his skin washed over you.
"You really don't know anything, do you?" he murmured, looming over you until you were forced to tilt your head back just to keep him in frame. He reached down, his large, calloused hand gripping the edge of your duffel bag and violently throwing it across the room. It hit the wall with a loud smash, your clothes scattering across the floor.
You didn't flinch, but your breath hitched in your throat.
"You're a loyal dog, Y/N," he growled, his voice thick with a strange, toxic fondness that felt far more terrifying than his anger. His hand came up, his thick, bruised fingers wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb pressing firmly into the pulse point beneath your jaw. He squeezed just enough to make you hyper-aware of his absolute strength. "Why the fuck would I kick you out? Nobody else stays. Nobody else knows how to clean up the blood. I prefer something else."
"Jungkook—"
"Shut up," he whispered, stepping closer, his thighs crowding yours, pinning you against the edge of the mattress. "You stood there in that gym and told me I was pathetic. You told me my ego was too high. You think because you knew me when I was a kid, you get to look down on me? You think you're above me?"
"I don't think I'm above you," you breathed, your hands coming up instinctively to press against his bare chest, feeling the frantic, hammer-like beating of his heart.
Jungkook leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss that tasted of iron, adrenaline, and pure possession. Or maybe hate.
It wasn't gentle. It was a heavyweight fighter claiming his prize, his lips bruising yours with a desperate, crushing force that mirrored the way he wins his matches. He growled into the kiss, his teeth scraping against your lower lip until you gasped, allowing him to deepen the intrusion.
He pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged, "You're mine," he rasped, his thumb sweeping across your swollen bottom lip, pressing hard enough to hurt. "You don't get to quit. You don't get to leave."
He leaned down again, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, leaving a deep, dark mark that would match the bruises on his own skin by morning.
In the underground underbelly of Seoul’s premier boxing circuit, Jeon Jungkook wasn't just a fighter; he was a predator trapped in a cage of his own making. And when he lost, the cage shattered.
The dressing room door didn’t just open, it practically flew off its hinges, bouncing off the concrete wall with a crack.
You didn't flinch. You had learned exactly twelve months ago that flinching was an invitation for him to press harder. Instead, you kept your eyes trained on the floor, your hands methodically folding his white towel.
"Get out," Jungkook snarled, his voice a rough, breathless rasp. He wasn't talking to you. He was talking to his head coach, and the two PR reps who had foolishly followed him down the corridor trying to handle the fallout of his first major defeat in three years.
"Jungkook, we need to address the media—"
"I said, get the fuck out!"
A heavy, leather gym bag flew across the room, smashing into the water cooler. Water erupted across the floor. The entourage scrambled backward, slamming the door shut behind them.
Then, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing.
Jungkook was huge. The papers called him a heavyweight talented mad dog. His broad shoulders heaved under the sheen of sweat and bruised skin, his knuckles, even wrapped in blood-stained tape, looked lethal.
Slowly, his dark, blown-out pupils drifted through the room until they locked onto you.
"You're still here," he spat, stepping into your space. The heat radiating off him was oppressive.
"I am," you said softly, keeping your tone perfectly level. Monotone. Unbothered. It was the only armor you had.
"Why?" He loomed over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. "You love seeing me like this, don't you? Fucking happy that the great Jeon Jungkook finally hit the canvas."
You didn't answer. You stepped forward, entirely bypassing his glaring gaze, and reached up. Your small, pale hands contrasted sharply against the brutalized canvas of his body as you began to unlace his boxing gloves.
He didn't stop you, but he didn't make it easy either, keeping his forearms tense as iron bars.
This was the dance you had performed for a year. While five previous assistants had quit within their first week, driven out by his temper, his flying fists, and his verbal cruelty, you had stayed. Because to you, this Jungkook wasn't a shock.
You had known him back at school and at university. Back then, before the millions he made and the championship belts, he had been the school’s golden boy bully, and you had been his favorite target. He used to knock your books out of your hands just to watch you scramble on the floor. Now, he threw gym bags and water coolers.
The stage had changed, the years had passed, but the monster remained exactly the same. And ironically, knowing the worst of him from before was exactly why you were the only one who could survive him currently.
"Eat," you murmured, nodding toward the meal prep container sitting on the bench. "Steak, sweet potatoes, greens. I prepared it three hours ago."
Jungkook let out a dark, mocking laugh, the sound scraping against his throat. With a brutal swipe of his wrapped hand, he sent the container flying. The grilled steak and vegetables scattered across the dirty floor, mixing with the spilled water.
"I don't want your fucking food," he growled, stepping closer until his chest almost brushed your nose. "I just lost a split decision to a nobody, Y/N. My career is crumbling right now, and you're handing me a Tupperware container?"
You looked down at the ruined food, then back up into his eyes. There was a raw, dangerous flash of darkness in his gaze, the same look he used to give you in the high school hallways before making your life hell. He wanted a reaction. He starved for you to scream, to cry, to give him a reason to shatter the rest of the room.
"I will clean it up," you said, your voice entirely devoid of emotion. "And then I will prepare another one. Because tomorrow at 5:00 AM, you have roadwork. And if your body lacks glycogen, you will lag. And if you lag, you will lose again."
The word lose struck him like a physical blow.
Jungkook’s jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed in his temple. He grabbed your upper arm, his grip rough that would undoubtedly leave bruises on your skin by morning. He pulled you flush against him, forcing you to look up at his face, a cut above his eyebrow was leaking a slow trail of blood down his cheek.
"You think you're so smart," he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. "You think because you knew me when I was a kid, you can predict me? You’re just a maid, Y/N. A glorified servant I hired because nobody else could stomach the sight of me."
"I am," you agreed, refusing to let your voice show the deep rooted fear you have towards him. "I am exactly what you pay me to be. Now, let me get the ice."
For a long, agonizing moment, he didn't move. The tension in the room was a living, breathing entity, thick with a year's worth of unspoken history and dark, twisted codependency. He hated that he needed you. He hated that you were the only person in his entire empire who didn't look at him with fear or greed—just a cold, unyielding perception.
Slowly, his grip loosened. Not out of kindness, but out of a sudden, exhausted defeat.
He sat onto the leather bench, burying his face in his wrapped hands. The great, terrifying Jeon Jungkook looked small for a fraction of a second, swallowed by the silence of the locker room.
You didn't offer words of comfort. You didn't tell him he did his best. You knew him too well for that. Instead, you grabbed a fresh cloth, wet it with ice water, and stepped between his heavy thighs.
Gently, firmly, you pressed the cloth to the bleeding cut on his eyebrow.
Jungkook flinched, his eyes snapping open, burning into yours. But he didn't pull away. He sat perfectly still, letting you clean the blood from his skin, his massive hands resting heavily on his knees, gripping the fabric of his shorts until his knuckles turned white.
He let out a long, ragged exhale, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips before shifting back to your unreadable eyes. "You really hate me, don't you?"
You pulled the cloth away, throwing it into the laundry bin with a dull thud. You grabbed his gym bag and slung it over your shoulder.
"I don't have the luxury of hating you, Jungkook," you said, looking back at him over your shoulder. "I'm on the clock."
The rhythmic, bone-deep thud-thud-thud of leather tearing into the sandbag had been the sole soundtrack to your night.
It was 4:15 AM. Jungkook's private gym was illuminated only by the harsh, buzzing fluorescent tubes directly above the boxing ring. The air was thick, hot, and smelled heavily of sweat, iron, and a desperate, toxic pride.
He hadn't slept. You knew this because you hadn't slept either. You had spent the last six hours in the adjacent breakroom, monitoring his vitals via the smart-tracker synced to your tablet. You watched his heart rate spike into dangerous, red-lined zones hours ago, staying there like a flatline of pure fury.
Now, you stood at the edge of the mat. In your hands, you held a fresh gallon of electrolyte water and a cold compress.
Jungkook was a vision of raw, unchecked self-destruction. His shirt was long gone, discarded somewhere in the dark corners of the room. His massive back, mapped with thick, dense muscles that was slick with a layer of sweat. He was throwing combinations at the heavy leather sandbag—brutal, terrifying shots that echoed through the empty facility like gunfire.
"You should take a rest," you said. Your voice was flat, cutting through the heavy, rhythmic violence of the gym.
He didn't even acknowledged you. A sharp punch rattled the heavy steel chains anchoring the bag to the ceiling. Crack.
"Jungkook—"
"Shut the fuck up!" he growled, his voice a gravelly bark. He didn't break his rhythm. He threw a devastating right cross, the sheer velocity of the impact violently distorting the shape of the dense sandbag. He was punching with enough force to shatter his own bones, completely disregarding the fact that his hands had been wrapped for nearly twelve hours straight.
You took a deliberate step forward, standing between him and the sandbag.
"You pay me to ensure you have exactly what it takes to win," you said, looking him dead in his bloodshot eyes. "I am doing the job I am paid for. You need to do a lot of things if you want that belt back, Jungkook. And it starts with resting."
Jungkook’s chest heaved, his ribs expanding violently as he fought for oxygen. The sheer size of him was overwhelming up close; dense, unyielding muscle locked and right now, every single inch of him was vibrating with a dangerous warning, he didn't mind punching you.
"I pay you to follow my fucking orders," he snarled. "Don't forget your fucking place."
Before you could draw a breath, his wrapped hand shot out, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. His damp, sweat-soaked hair fell over his eyes, casting his face in shadow, making him look less like a man and more like a monster, a real mad dog, an effect only amplified by the staggering size difference between you.
You didn't flinch. You looked straight through the curtain of his hair, into his dark, burning eyes.
"You used to be aggressive back in school because it was the only way you knew how to grab attention," you said, your voice steady, hitting him with the precise weapon of your shared history. "And now you're doing it again. You're rough, you're aggressive, pushing your body to the edge because you're terrified that no one will ever look at you if it wasn't for your wins."
Jungkook growled, a low, animalistic sound tearing from his throat. With terrifying ease, he lifted you off the floor by your collar, driving you backward until your spine hit the concrete wall. Your toes barely scraped the floor.
"What did you just say?" His voice was laced with a cocktail of self-hatred, the agony of defeat, exhaustion, and above all, pure spite that the quiet, weak girl he used to bully was the one stripping him naked to his core.
"You heard me—"
BOOM.
His free fist slammed into the concrete right beside your head, the shockwave vibrating through the wall and into your skull. He didn't let go of your collar. Instead, the hand he had just cracked against the wall shifted, his large, taped fingers gripping your jaw tightly, forcing your face up.
"Don't act so strong," he whispered, his hot, ragged breath wiping across your skin, "when we both know how fucking pathetic you are."
"I know exactly how pathetic I am, Jungkook," you retorted, refusing to let the trembling in your bones reach your voice. You reached up, your small hands wrapping around the thick wrist holding your jaw. "I live with it. I face it every day, and that's why I'm stronger than you. You can't even face a single loss. Please..."
He clenched his jaw, his thumb pressing dangerously hard into your cheekbone.
"I hate you," you whispered, looking past the beast to the boy who used to ruin your childhood. "But I hate seeing you lose this pathetically even more. So let me do my job. Let the coach do his. Allow your body to actually get ready to win. Because your loss last night wasn't because of weakness. No you are pure muscle Jungkook, a real mad dog. But... your ego was just too high to notice the hit coming."
For a long, agonizing second, the gym fell completely silent. The only sound was the erratic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath his ribs. You could feel the raw tremor in his grip—not from weakness, but from the sheer, exhausting effort it took to keep himself from breaking you. He wanted to break something. He wanted to break you. But the absolute truth in your words had pierced through him.
Slowly, his hand slipped from your collar, and your feet hit the solid ground again.
He didn't walk away. He lowered his forehead until it rested against your shoulder, his massive, sweating body slumped against yours, letting his dead weight lean into you. It was an incredibly heavy, stifling embrace, born out of pure exhaustion and a toxic, twisted dependency he would never admit to.
"If I lose the rematch," Jungkook muttered, his voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt, dark and lethal, "I'll tear this whole place down. And I'll start with you."
"You won't lose," you said softly, your hands remaining on his wrists, feeling the heavy, steady pulse of the predator finally calming down.
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY. GO FIND SOME FLUFF SOMEWHERE ELSE AFTER THIS–COOL? COOL.
Two days after your high school graduation, Jungkook proposed to you.
Granted, it was with a plastic ring sprayed with a flaking silver paint and tucked inside–an equally as cheaply made–plastic egg with a bright yellow bottom. He’d put three coins into one of those horrible, half broken, children’s toy machines and presented you his new treasure by getting down on one knee. At first, you’d laughed; Jungkook was always joking, so it had to be a prank. Who would propose to their high school sweetheart right there, in the middle of a busy street, when both knew their plans were about as solid as the sand at the beach they were heading to.
But, when he jerked his chin towards your hand and continued to stare at you as if waiting, you could only feel all of the blood rush to your face, ears and brain as he spoke those three words you would never forget.
“Marry me, YN.” It wasn’t a question because he already knew the answer–he always found the answers to life so quickly; it was one of his many talents. Sometimes his greatness infuriated you when you wanted to be right too, but that moment was not one of them. You couldn’t even get the words out properly before he was sliding the shitty ring onto your finger.
and the fact that it was yoongi that posted the news first.
the one that was dreaming and wishing and working hard for a grammy—the peak of musical acknowledgment for years—not being afraid (albeit a bit shy at times) saying it’s his goal.
the one that knows what a monster project like an entire album and tour takes, both with a group and solo, from the production team to the songwriting team to the A&R team to the engineering team to the promotional team and on and on and on.
the man that wrote that giving up decisively also counts as courage.
that was intentional through and through. and only bts can tell me otherwise.
pairing: college student!jungkook x college student!reader
synopsis: Y/N only meant for the date to last an hour. Just long enough to make the point of it worth it, but short enough to keep things professional. But between stolen glances and intertwined fingers, time just seems to go by far too fast. Especially with Jungkook.
Jungkook, who’s so gentle and so easy to be around. Jungkook, who doesn’t ever judge you for the way you complicate something as simple as painting.
And him? Oh, he’s screwed.
Because the only thing on his mind after that date is a certain law student, who has no business being in his life.
𓍯𓂃𓏧♡
“I have to see her again, it can’t end like this.”
𓍯𓂃𓏧♡
genres: fake-dating ish?, angst (sorry 😞), romance, rom-com, dual pov for a bit, MAJOR yearning, coming of age, college!au, slow burn, opposites attract, academic fmc x artistic mmc, fluff, explicit content, flirty, tension, college!jk, slice of life, mature language, hopeless romantic
wc: 2.8k (sorry i got carried away…)
preview, pt1 (current)
Chapter 1: The Date
The word “date,” nor the concept of keeping your Saturday night free of all studies for said “date,” was ever in your vocabulary. In fact, the only time “date” ever showed up was the date to your next final or project. So getting ready for something that didn’t involve having your tote bag filled with textbooks hanging off your shoulder was so incredibly foreign, that you had no other choice but to turn to Teddy for outfit inspo.
She went on a damn spiral, tossing clothes out of your closet until she finally found the one that looked perfect.
“I’m telling you right now, Jungkook will go insane over this outfit,” she said proudly with a grin so wide she might as well have turned into the Cheshire Cat. And you prayed to God that she was wrong in every way possible, because you didn’t need Jungkook thinking you looked good. Or worse, asking for another date. This was strictly professional; a hangout, if you must, to raise money for whatever showcase the art students had.
𓍯𓂃𓏧♡
When you first made plans with Jungkook for your “date,” he didn’t say much at all, and you wondered if you remembered wrong, considering it was 7:10 PM and there was no sign of him.
“Meet me at the front of the art building. 7 pm, don’t be late or I’ll find you myself.” Jungkook said with a devastating grin.
He’s late, and you started to think that maybe he even forgot. Or ditched.
This was a terrible idea.
You contemplate texting Teddy something dramatic (like “I’ve been stood up, hope you’re happy”) but your thoughts were cut off as the door to the building swings open.
Out came Jungkook, dressed casually in jeans and a white shirt, sleeves straining against his biceps. Tattoos on full display too and, unfortunately, you struggled to not stare.
He grins, his eyes lighting up, and leans his forearm against the doorframe. “You came,” he said, voice easy.
“Mm,” you nod and rock back and forth on your heels in a nervous manner. “I thought we’d just be going for coffee or something?”
“Coffee?” He repeated, almost seeming offended. “I actually want my girl to enjoy her date,” he scoffed and held the door open wider for you.
You ignored the way your heart skipped a beat at the way he said my girl so casually, and stick your head inside in a cautious manner.
You hesitated, but eventually stepped inside. The studio smelled like turpentine, old wood, and something fairly metallic—paint drying, canvases breathing.
It wasn’t polished or neat. Supplies were scattered everywhere: brushes, half-finished sculptures, canvases leaning at strange angles. A battered stereo played low music in the background, something steady and old.
You stood awkwardly while Jungkook moved about the studio freely, as if he lived here.
“Hope you don’t mind getting dirty,” he said, eyeing you over his shoulder as he set up some sort of wheel mechanism.
You stared at him, heart pounding. “What…kind of dirty are we talking?”
Jungkook laughed, low and warm. “Relax. It’s just clay.”
He handed you an oversized apron, his fingers brushing yours for half a second too long…not that you were counting.
“Rule number one for tonight,” he began, putting his own apron around his waist. “Don’t think, just do.”
“That’s a terrible rule.” You muttered and followed suit, clumsily tying on the apron.
Jungkook chuckled and his shoulders shook with amusement while he watched you struggle to put on the apron. He casually stepped up behind you and took the strings from your hands, tying it for you instead.
You mentally berated yourself for the way your breath stuttered in your chest, and then you swear that the next time your heart is gonna skip a beat like that is because of nervousness for a test. Not for him; never for him.
“There is nothing terrible about being in the art studio,” he said while his large palms glided over the expanse of your waist, smoothing out the material of the apron. “Here, you just let go.”
You didn’t realize he moved away from you because you were still caught up in the way he so casually touched you, almost in a reverent manner. So much for not letting your heart skip for him.
You cleared your throat and turned to face him once more, watching as he continued to set up, what you assumed, the pottery machine. “Um, so, what exactly are we doing?”
“We’re doing pottery, obviously,” he paused and glanced at you, big eyes catching yours from under the fringes of his hair. “Have you ever?”
You carefully approached him next to the machine, watching as he pulled up a single stool in front of the wheel. “Um, no. Never.” Pottery, or anything art related, was never really your thing. The last time you ever did something remotely close to arts was probably in elementary.
He stood up with a huff, hands on his hips, and nudged his head towards the stool. “Sit,” he said, “I’ll teach you.”
“Wait so, we’re just getting right into it? We’re not…talking?” You asked before hesitantly taking a seat on the stool, staring at the wheel like it was completely foreign and would eat you alive within seconds.
“I don’t mean to be rude but judging by your body language, I think it’s best to skip the small talk.” He chuckled softly and before you could retaliate, you felt his chest brush right up against your back. You might as well have gotten whiplash from how fast your head turned to look at him.
Cheeks flushed and eyes widened, you glanced up at him, sitting so close you could basically smell his cologne. Something woodsy and citrusy, but also clean like detergent. Your eyes met his and from this close, you noticed things you probably would never have paid attention to.
The tiny mole under his bottom lip; the slight crinkle around his eyes when he smiled. The glint of his lip ring, twitching every time he brushed his tongue against it.
What the hell? Stop staring!
“What do you think you’re doing?” You asked, voice stuttering despite how desperately you tried to keep it steady.
He blinked down at you before breaking into a dimpled grin. “Relax. Just gonna help you get your flow then I’ll move to my own spot.” He reassured, before giving your arms a gentle pat.
Okay. There's two things you’ve learned about Jungkook so far. He smells awfully too good, and is insanely unaware of how naturally charming he is. Well, isn’t that great for you?
He slapped a heap of clay on the wheel before dipping his hands in a nearby bowl with water, then gestured for you to do the same.
“Pottery is easy,” he started. “You just need to have steady hands and the rest comes naturally.”
Easy was solving limits and linear equations. Easy was learning and memorizing civil wrongs and harmful acts. Easy was not molding a piece of clay into some mug or pot.
But regardless, because you literally had no other choice, you dipped your hands in the water and hovered them over the clay awkwardly.
“So…” you shifted to get comfortable and positioned your hands awkwardly over the clay. “How does this work?”
“Basically,” he hesitated for a second before gently resting his hands over yours. Big and warm, the contact had goosebumps rising on your skin. You prayed he wouldn't point it out because your best excuse would be because of air conditioning…but the room felt awfully hot. “You press down on this pedal,” he nudged your foot with his, letting you press down as a quick demonstration. “There you go,” he mumbled quietly, tone holding a hint of praise and encouragement behind it. “And your hands just kinda…move over the clay. It’s easier said than done.” He chuckled and you hated the way his breath brushed against your ear, because it sent that awful fluttery sensation down your spine again.
“Right,” you mumbled before clearing your throat. “Why are we doing pottery again?” You couldn’t help but ask. There were literally a hundred other things to do, and this guy had to choose the most messy, nuisance of an activity? Is he setting you up for failure or what?
“Because it’s fun,” he shrugged. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He encouraged you to press on the pedal again and when the wheel hummed to life, he gently guided your fingers to the clay. “It’s mostly about feeling where the clay wants to go.”
“That sounds strangely philosophical,” you frowned, earning another soft laugh from him.
Soft and breathy and oh so ridiculously heartstopping.
God, stop. stopstopstop–
At first, Jungkook let you feel around with the clay by yourself.
Your hands glided carefully over the spinning clay, slow and deliberate, approaching it the same way you approached everything else in life—with caution, precision, and the quiet confidence that if you followed the instructions, you'd get it right.
You'd always gotten it right.
So naturally, you assumed this wouldn't be any different.
The clay promptly collapsed in on itself with a pathetic thud.
You stared at it.
"...Seriously?"
A quiet laugh sounded behind you.
"No stress," Jungkook said, his voice low and reassuring by your ear. "It's a little finicky at first."
Your brows pinched together.
"I can—"
Before you could finish insisting you were fine, his fingers slipped gently between yours.
"I've got you."
His hands guided yours back to the clay with practiced ease, steadying the uneven pressure until the wheel began to cooperate again.
You should've been focused on what he was showing you.
Instead, all you could think about was how warm his hands were despite the cool slip of water and clay coating both of your fingers. How his broad chest brushed up against your back every time he leaned an inch too close.
It should've felt strange.
Messy and uncomfortable. Instead, it felt…oddly natural.
And that realization alone was enough to send an embarrassing rush of butterflies tumbling through your stomach.
For God's sake...
It was just pottery.
So why did your heart insist on making it feel like something more?
“There you go,” he praised softly, head right next to yours, voice deep and honey-like in your ear. You had half a heart to shove him away but somehow, you kept still.
“Okay…this is weird.” You mumbled, watching as the clay molded perfectly with the help of his hands guiding yours. Fingers slipped across the slippery, slick material, gliding up and down while the wheel spun in a slow, easy manner and the clay rose gradually.
Calling it weird was the only way you could deflect how you were really feeling.
“Weird?” He repeated, glancing at the side of your face with slightly furrowed brows. “It’s just clay.”
Well, this boy was clueless. How could you explain that the clay wasn’t the thing that was weird; the immediate dynamic; the way both your hands moved so perfectly in sync, was the thing that was weird. Because nobody had actually fallen into such an easygoing rhythm with you before so quickly.
You were difficult, demanding, but he just…made everything so easy. You realized you weren’t even thinking about your classes or exams, just the boy who was oh so gentle with you, and the clay that changed in whatever way you wanted, giving you full control.
“Um,” you eventually cleared your throat, realizing you had been zoning out. “I dunno…just feels slimy.” You deflected because what else were you supposed to say? The truth? Never.
“Slimy,” he repeated with a small snort. “That’s a new one.”
Christ, being with this guy was going to be nothing short of a nightmare.
𓍯𓂃𓏧♡
“There, all done.” Jungkook finally eased back with a proud smile, and you wondered why the hell you felt disappointed from the lack of warmth.
Between casual chatter and frustrated sighs, you ended up making a mug. Crooked, but a mug nevertheless. Its handle was slightly askew as well, but Jungkook picked it up as if it was a masterpiece.
You, on the other hand, couldn't help but frown. It looked ridiculous.
“Not bad for a newbie,” Jungkook teased, poking you on the rib to which he earned a startled noise from you.
“It looks like a two year old made it.” You grumbled, a slight pout in your tone.
“No,” he stands from his seat and places the mug carefully on the drying rack. “It’s got character.”
You rolled your eyes because obviously he was trying to make you feel better…and oddly enough, it was working.
“Whatever,” untying your apron, you tossed it in the dirty cloth rack before turning to Jungkook, watching as he cleaned up the wheel. He was unfairly attractive, you had to admit. Veins popping along his strong forearms every time he scrubbed a little too hard, brows furrowed in concentration, tongue tucked under his lip ring.
“Are we done now?” You asked after clearing your throat, looking everywhere but at him now. Way to be discreet.
“Done?” He repeated around a snort, standing up and dusting his hands off on his apron. “We’re just getting started.”
𓍯𓂃𓏧
You told yourself you’d stay for just an hour, because you had a civil procedures textbook waiting for you back at your apartment. You told yourself you wouldnt do anything too artsy or too messy–wanted to keep your hands clean.
So how, on God’s green earth, did you end up sitting next to this damn art major, shoulders brushing occasionally, and painting mugs?
Not even the heavens could answer that.
"You know..." Jungkook glanced over at your mug before looking at his own. "I don't think I've ever seen someone paint with such serious concentration."
You didn't bother looking up.
"I'm trying not to ruin it."
"You look like you're taking an exam."
"I practically am."
He laughed, dipping his brush into a bright orange paint.
"See? That's your problem."
"My problem?"
"You think too much."
"And you don't think enough."
"...Fair."
You blinked.
"...You agreed with me?"
"I'm an artist, not delusional."
Before you could question further, he spoke up.
“Would you look at that,” Jungkook started, holding up his mug next to yours. His was coloured in bright oranges and yellows; intricate flower designs that only artists could perfect the details of. Yours?
Neutral browns and greys, because you didn’t know how to be creative. Even painting was like a perfectly curated task; it had to look perfect, be perfect.
“You’re a natural.” He said with a dimpled grin, nudging your side with his elbow. That simple comment had you snapping out of your mind, blinking up at him like some lost deer. You never knew how to take compliments.
“It’s all right,” you mumbled as you placed the mug on the drying rack, right next to Jungkook’s, The contrast was almost comical.
“Well, this was…nice. But I really should get going now.” You immediately deflected, grabbing your tote bag from the floor, paint smudging over the fabric. You had already overstayed your welcome, and if you stayed any damn longer, you didn’t know what you would end up doing.
“Oh,” Jungkook nodded, brushing his hands off on his jeans, caught off guard by the sudden shift in your demeanor. Had you two not just been getting along? He almost sounded disappointed but you told yourself it was your mind playing tricks. “Yeah, no, of course.”
A beat passed.
"I guess it did get kinda late."
It was only ten.
The sun had barely started to set.
But neither of you pointed that out.
“Thanks for helping with the fundraiser,” he said as he followed you to the door like some lost puppy; doe eyes staring into the back of your head. “I can tell this isn’t your thing but I appreciate it.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly with a smile that had your stomach flipping.
Why? You refused to acknowledge that.
“Yeah, no problem. Hope the art gala goes well.”
“Thanks! Maybe I–”
You didn’t even let Jungkook finish before you were scurrying off, desperate to get out of this situation. To get your damn bearings together and eliminate all of these stupid, fuzzy feelings in your chest.
Meanwhile, Jungkook?
Oh, that boy was a mess.
Not only did he never even plan on getting as far as painting the mugs with you, he also didn’t realize how effortless it was to be around you. Sure, you were a little dense about things, a little stuck up. But conversations came naturally–he learned you were a law major, lived by yourself, and had a cat–and the more he learned, the more he wanted to be around you.
Oh, this was bad. So, so bad.
Because this was supposed to be a one time thing, but as Jungkook watched your retreating figure like a fool–hand clutching that tote bag he recognized from the auction, soft pink babydoll top complementing your skin, and white maxiskirt flowing gently in the breeze–he realized that this wasn’t enough.
He had to see you again, one way or another.
a/n: omg guys much anticipated chapter 1!! finally omg. i love these two sm like i was a giggling fool writing this entire chapter. sorry it was so late! i've been so so busy with work and stuff but i tried super hard to get it done for you guys! hope it's up to ur expectations and i hope u guys love it as much as i do. they're literally my babies :> (also i didn't think ppl would actually like this so lmk if u wanna be tagged for the next part!) and sorry for any typos!
