➻ authors note: this is NOT a romantic, cute story. please read the warning tags & if you're not into this, don't read it. every person in this story is an adult and into this. ➻ this chapter is shorter than the last ones, i apologise. i’m cooking up something special for part 7 tho heh 🖤
➻ important note: i use the help of chat gpt to edit my works. NOT to create them. these are my own ideas, thoughts and words. english isn‘t my first language and i‘m having a hard time with grammar and sometimes natural phrasings- that‘s why i use ai to help me edit my stories. here is a detailed explanation. if you are against this or can‘t accept it- that‘s fine, don‘t read it. but it‘s only fair you should know.
The next days you’re surviving on three hours of sleep a night- your hands shake badly enough that you nearly spill coffee down the front of your shirt twice before noon. In the morning you find yourself standing outside a classroom you’ve walked into a hundred times before while your brain completely refuses to remember why you’re there in the first place.
“You lost?”
The voice cuts through the thick fog inside your head just enough to make you blink.
Jungkook is standing a few feet away, one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack while he studies you with a faint frown.
“What?” The word leaves you automatically, genuinely confused.
Jungkook’s eyebrows pull together slightly. For a second he just looks at you, then his gaze shifts toward the classroom door.
“We’ve got English.”
Your brain struggles to catch up. English. Right.
You just stare at him and Jungkook stares back. Then something almost resigned crosses his face and he lets out a quiet sigh through his nose.
“Sit next to me,” he says. “I’ll take notes for both of us.” Another sigh leaves him before he closes the distance between you, gently taking hold of your wrist.
“C’mon, princess.” There’s no teasing in his words, no flirtation. Just… patience. The realization feels strangely unsettling.
You let him guide you into the classroom without protest, still feeling vaguely disconnected from your own body while Jungkook leads you toward the back row and drops into a chair. A second later he tugs lightly on your wrist again until you finally sit beside him.
The lecture starts and you remember almost none of it. The only thing you do remember is looking down halfway through class and realizing Jungkook’s notebook is twice as full as everyone else’s.
Because he’d actually been taking notes for both of you.
The botanical gardens are nearly empty by the time you arrive.
Evening has begun settling over the winding paths, painting everything in shades of amber and gold as sunlight filters through the trees in fractured ribbons of light, the kind of scenery people usually describe as peaceful. Couples wander lazily through the distant walkways. A few students occupy benches scattered throughout the gardens. Somewhere nearby, water trickles softly from a stone fountain.
It should feel calming, instead, every step makes your stomach twist tighter. Then you spot Levi.
He looks completely at ease sitting on one of the benches near the center path, one arm draped across the backrest as though he’s simply enjoying the evening rather than waiting for the person he’s been tormenting for weeks. The moment his eyes find yours, a smile spreads slowly across his face.
The kind of smile that makes something instinctive inside you recoil.
“There you are...” The words are spoken lightly, almost affectionately, and somehow that makes them worse.
You stop several feet away because you simply don’t want to sit next to him, not even be in his direct vicinity…
He simply leans back against the bench and looks at you the way someone might admire a painting they already own- the mere thought makes you nauseous.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks, so the silence stretches. Levi seems content to let it, he likes this; he simply likes making you stand there, likes watching you squirm and knowing exactly why you’re here. The realization settles unpleasantly in your stomach.
“Well?” he asks eventually. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
“No.”
His smile widens. “Still got some fight left in you. That’s cute.”
Your jaw tightens. “I thought we could… talk.”
A laugh escapes him, low, amused. As though you’ve just said something truly entertaining. “Talk,” he repeats, stretching the word, „Sure.“
You hate him. You hate the way he manages to make every ordinary word sound filthy. Hate the way he looks at you and the fact that he knows you came anyway.
“Please, Levi…” you say before pride can stop you.
The change in his expression is immediate. “Oooh, there it is.” Your stomach drops. Levi slowly sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees while studying your face with unsettling concentration.
“I was wondering how long you’d hold out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” The amusement dancing in his eyes makes your skin crawl. “You’re finally desperate enough to say please.”
Heat floods your face- not ofembarrassment but because he’s enjoying this. Every second of it. Every ounce of your discomfort seems to delight him.
“I came because I want this to stop.”
Levi shoves his lower lip into a fake pout. “As if you’re the victim here.”
The words hit so hard that for a second you genuinely can’t respond. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. There.
That reaction. That was what he wanted.
“You know,” he continues casually, glancing toward the trees, “Marc used to talk about you all the time.”
The mention of Marc feels like someone driving a knife between your ribs. Levi notices immediately; predators always notice where the wound is.
“There-” his voice softens, almost fond. “You make the saddest face whenever I mention him.”
“Levi.”
“No, keep making that face. It’s adorable.”
Your hands curl into fists. “Delete it.”
For the first time, his smile fades. Not because you’ve upset him. Worse. Because he’s bored now. As though you’ve interrupted a conversation he was enjoying.
“You still think that’s what this is about.” The shift in his tone sends a chill down your spine. Levi rises from the bench with unhurried ease, and suddenly the distance between you feels far smaller than it did a moment ago.
Instinctively, you take a step backward and his eyes immediately drop to the movement before he smiles again; slowly, hungrily- and somehow that smile feels far worse than any anger could have.
“You know what I find interesting?” he asks. “All semester you’ve been pretending to be this sweet little thing. The innocent one. The good girl.” He takes a single step forward. “And now look at you.”
Disgust crawls beneath your skin. “You blackmailed me.”
“That’s one way to phrase it.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
Levi laughs softly. “You make it sound so ugly.”
“It is ugly!”
His gaze drifts over you with slow, deliberate consideration. The look alone makes you feel filthy. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “at first I thought I’d get bored.”
Your stomach tightens when he steps even closer. “But every time I think you’re finally going to break, you surprise me.” His smile returns.
“I just wanted a quick fuck at first but now? Now I think I‘m gonna keep you a bit longer, tugging on that invisible leash a bit more.“
Something cold settles in your chest because suddenly you understand: This isn’t about getting something from you. It never really was. The footage is just a leash. The real prize is watching you panic whenever he pulls it.
Watching you bargain. Watching you beg. Watching you stand in front of him knowing he has power over you.
Levi likes fear, he likes being the reason for it and the realization is somehow more terrifying than the blackmail itself.
“Please.” You hate how small your voice sounds, you hate even more that you’re saying it again.
Levi’s expression changes. Like he’s finally hearing exactly what he wanted. For several long seconds he simply stares at you. Then his smile widens.
“I knew you’d look pretty begging.” And just like that, he turns and walks away.
No deal. No answers. No compromise.
Leaving you standing alone beneath the fading sunlight while nausea churns violently in your stomach and humiliation burns hot behind your ribs.
You remain frozen long after he’s disappeared from view, staring at the path where he’d been standing as evening shadows stretch across the gardens and darkness slowly begins swallowing the last traces of gold.
Several paths away, concealed behind a dense wall of hedges and shrubs, Jungkook watches the space Levi just vacated. At first he’d only followed because something about the situation felt wrong.
First the text message you’d received during class: the way your expression had changed afterward. The fact that you’d spent the rest of the afternoon distracted and anxious before disappearing across campus without telling anyone where you were going.
Individually, none of it meant much. Together, it had been enough to catch his attention.
Now, standing partially hidden among the trees, he finds himself staring at the bench with a growing sense of unease. Because whatever he just witnessed wasn’t an argument between friends- the entire interaction had felt wrong from the beginning.
The way you’d approached this guy and the way you’d kept your distance… Your shoulders had remained tense the entire time. Most of all, it had been the look on your face.
Jungkook has seen people angry, embarrassed, heartbroken, jealous… What he’d seen on your face had been none of those things. It had looked frighteningly close to fear. Fuck.
His gaze drifts toward the path that fucker disappeared down. He hadn’t looked nervous once. Hadn’t looked uncertain. If anything, he’d looked fucking entertained.
And that detail bothers Jungkook more than anything else, because people don’t smile like that unless they think they’ve already won.
The thought follows him into the next morning and into the afternoon. Then into the day after that. By Wednesday he’s asking questions.
Not enough to attract attention, never enough to reveal why he’s interested. Just casual conversations scattered throughout campus, observations disguised as curiosity, names dropped into discussions whenever opportunities present themselves.
The answers begin accumulating slowly: A hesitation here, an uncomfortable laugh there. Expressions shifting the moment Levi’s name enters the conversation. Nobody seems surprised that Jungkook knows who Levi is. What surprises them is that he’d willingly bring him up.
By Thursday the pattern has become impossible to ignore: people don’t merely dislike Levi. They fucking avoid him.
The distinction matters- dislike is simple. Dislike is normal. But this? This feels different.
Every conversation leaves Jungkook with the same impression, as though everyone knows something but nobody wants to be the person who says it out loud. Cowards. Maybe.
Then rumors surface. Stories that don’t quite qualify as accusations. Warnings disguised as fucking jokes. Just enough fragments to suggest a much uglier picture hiding underneath.
And with every new piece, his thoughts return to the botanical gardens; to the way you’d looked standing across from Levi. The desperation in your posture. The expression on your face after he’d walked away.
By the end of the week, Jungkook stops asking whether Levi is a problem. The only question left is how dangerous that fucking problem actually is.
Because that little wanker is hiding something. Jungkook would bet money on it. And judging by the fear he’d seen in your eyes that evening, whatever Levi is hiding somehow leads directly back to you.
He doesn’t know how yet, doesn’t know why, but for the first time since this started, he has a direction.
And somewhere across campus, completely unaware of the attention quietly settling on him, Levi continues moving through life with the confidence of a man convinced he’s untouchable. Idiot.
Jungkook has met plenty of people like that.
None of them enjoyed what happened after he decided to shift his focus on them.
By friday afternoon, Jungkook tells himself he’s only still watching Levi because of you- the lie sounds reasonable enough in his head.
At first, the plan had been simple: figure out why you’d looked terrified in the botanical gardens, why you’d spent the last days moving through life like somebody was holding a knife to your future. And why you’d rather slowly tear yourself apart from the inside than ask for help.
Unfortunately, the more Jungkook learns about Levi, the uglier the picture becomes… On the surface, the guy is exactly what Jungkook expected: a spoiled little prick with too much confidence and not nearly enough substance. He sleeps through half his lectures, spends money he probably doesn’t have, drinks like his liver personally offended him, lies as naturally as breathing, and flirts with anything possessing a pulse and a functioning nervous system. Every interaction feels rehearsed, every smile manufactured, every apology delivered with the polished ease of somebody who has never once meant a fucking word coming out of his mouth.
The problem isn’t who Levi pretends to be- the problem is what keeps slipping through the cracks.
At the end of the week, Jungkook has memorized most of his routine without even meaning to. He knows which coffee shop Levi visits every morning, which campus buildings he cuts through between classes, which parking lot he disappears into whenever he thinks nobody is paying attention, and which groups of people he gravitates toward when he’s looking for an audience.
More importantly, Jungkook has started noticing the people Levi leaves behind: the girls.
There are always girls. Different faces and different conversations but always the same expressions in the end. At first, Jungkook thinks he’s imagining it, but it keeps happening- a flash of discomfort, forced smiles, nervous laughter. Their shoulders tense whenever Levi gets closer while their eyes dart toward exits. Entire conversations that somehow manage to look wrong from fifty feet away.
After a few days coincidences stop being a believable explanation and a cold feeling has settled permanently beneath his ribs.
At a little after four o’clock, he’s parked across from the humanities building with his motorcycle resting beneath him and his helmet balanced beside his leg while students stream through the glass doors in endless waves. His phone vibrates and the contact name immediately softens something inside his chest.
Princess: where are you? weren’t we studying today?
For a moment, Jungkook almost starts the bike. Almost.
The guilt hits instantly because he knows exactly what that message means. You don’t ask where he is because you’re impatient. You ask because you’ve spent the last week looking over your shoulder every five fucking seconds and somewhere along the way you’ve started checking for him without even realizing it. He fucking loves that you want him close and need him, even if you never admit it out loud, but he fucking hates that someone scared you so bad for it to happen.
Then movement near the entrance catches his attention. Levi.
The asshole exits the building while staring at his phone, smiling at something on the screen. He’s not alone.
A girl follows several steps behind him and Jungkook notices the distance immediately- not because it’s dramatic but because it’s deliberate. She’s clutching her bag tightly against her chest like it’s armor. Her shoulders are tense. Her gaze keeps flicking around the parking lot as though she’s searching for witnesses without wanting to admit she needs them. Every instinct Jungkook possesses starts screaming.
Another message appears.
Princess: you’re late.
His jaw tightens.
running late. sorry. be there soon.
The lie sends before he can reconsider it. Then he slips the phone back into his pocket and focuses on the scene unfolding below because something has changed.
The girl says something, something Jungkook can’t hear. Levi can. The smile vanishes from Levi’s face so quickly it almost looks unnatural. Interesting.
Levi takes two slow steps forward and she takes one back, her fingers burying even tighter into her backpack. Jungkook straightens slightly while his own fingers tighten around the edge of the seat.
The girl’s posture grows smaller while Levi’s grows larger. Not physically. Psychologically. Like a fucking predator sensing weakness. Like somebody who knows exactly how much space he occupies in another person’s head.
Levi says something- sharp enough that even from a distance Jungkook sees the reaction: She visibly flinches and Levi laughs. The sound carries across the parking lot. What a fucking annoying sound.
Jungkook’s jaw locks in pure anger. God, he wants to hit him. No warnings, no light punch… Hit him hard enough that he’d spend the next month drinking soup through a straw.
The girl finally shakes her head and Levi shrugs. Then his next words drift clearly across the open space. “You want me to leak it?” The girl visibly freezes.
Jungkook goes completely still, trying to gather even more from the conversation. Levi keeps talking. He‘s still calm and relaxed- like they’re discussing weather forecasts instead of whatever the fuck this is.
“Then get the money.” The girl’s eyes immediately fill with tears. “You have until tomorrow.” Levi checks his watch. “Last warning.”
The realization lands with a sickening certainty- not because Jungkook is slow. But part of him still wanted to be wrong. Blackmail. The little fucking psychopath is blackmailing her.
Not you.
Her. An entirely different girl. Which means this isn’t personal. It’s probably a habit. A routine even…
The girl starts crying and Levi instantly looks annoyed. Actually annoyed. As if her tears are inconveniencing him, as if she’s somehow making his day harder.
“Please,” she says, the word barely carrying across the distance. He rolls his eyes then reaches forward and hooks two fingers beneath her chin. The gesture is small- gentle, even. Which somehow makes it worse because nothing about it feels impulsive or emotional.
It feels practiced, like he’s done this before. Over and over again... The same conversation, the same fear, the same outcome. A hundred fucking times. Something ugly shifts deep inside Jungkook’s chest.
“Tomorrow.” Levi tells her once more. “Or don’t.” Another shrug, another filthy smile.
Another reminder that he genuinely doesn’t give a shit what happens to her afterward. Then he turns around and walks away. Just like he did with you in the botanical garden… Leaving her standing there.
She’s still crying long after he‘s gone. Jungkook can practically feel the fear and desperation radiating off her… after a while, she wipes at her face, turns and walks in the opposite direction where Levi walked off.
For a long moment, Jungkook doesn’t move. Students pass. Cars pull out. Conversations continue. Life keeps moving.
Meanwhile, something cold and deliberate begins assembling itself inside his head. Because now he understands the part that has been bothering him: Levi isn’t just a problem. Because problems have always been simple for Jungkook- problems have solutions.
Levi is a pattern. A system. A parasite that’s figured out exactly how much fear it takes to keep people quiet. And if he’s doing this to random girls on campus, then what the fuck has he been doing to you?
The thought hits hard enough to make Jungkook’s stomach twist. Suddenly all those late-night messages make sense. The panic in your eyes, the exhaustion during the day and at night during tutoring. The way you’d looked like a trapped animal every time Levi’s name came up.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You’d been drowning right in front of him and he’d spent weeks calling you stubborn instead of realizing somebody was holding your head underwater.
His phone vibrates again. Another message from you appears on the screen.
Princess: you better have a damn good excuse.
For a brief second, despite everything, a smile threatens to appear but then it’s gone again. Somewhere across campus, Levi is still walking around like he’s untouchable. Like nobody is paying attention or putting the pieces together.
Fucking idiot.
Jungkook slides his helmet over his head and starts the motorcycle. The engine growls beneath him, low and vicious, while his eyes remain fixed on the corner where Levi disappeared. Whatever secret the bastard is hiding, Jungkook is going to find it.
And if Levi is stupid enough to keep threatening people while believing nobody is watching, then he’s about to discover exactly how dangerous that assumption can be.
By the time Jungkook finally arrives at the sorority house, he’s nearly forty minutes late, which is exactly why the front door swings open before he even has a chance to knock and finds you already standing there with your arms crossed and a look on your face that promises violence.
“You’re late.”
Jungkook glances lazily at his watch before lifting his eyes back to yours. “Observation skills. Nice.”
Your expression immediately darkens. “Actually, I think you should leave.”
A slow grin begins pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Before he can step inside, you plant your palm directly against his forehead and begin pushing with all the determination of someone who has already committed to the bit and refuses to back down now.
Unfortunately, Jeon Jungkook is built like a concrete wall. He doesn’t move. Not even a little.
You keep trying anyway. “I waited.”
The pressure against his forehead increases dramatically, which might have been intimidating if he weren’t actively fighting a laugh.
“Did you?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Sounds… unbearable. Did ya miss me that bad, baby?”
“You’re the worst.”
Jungkook finally catches your wrist before you can shove him again, the movement so effortless it only makes the situation more irritating. One second you’re aggressively attempting to evict him from the premises and the next your finger is trapped between his while he bends slightly at the waist until his face is level with yours.
“Careful, princess.” His voice drops lower, playful amusement curling around every word. “You need me.”
Heat flashes across your face so quickly it feels unfair. “The ego on this man.”
“I’m the tutor.”
“The self-delusion on this man.”
His grin only widens, entirely too pleased with himself. “I seem to remember somebody failing quizzes.”
The offended gasp that leaves you could probably be heard from three rooms away. Jungkook looks delighted.
“You wound me.”
“You wound yourself.”
“I’ll have you know I got a solid seventy-three last week.”
“Congratulations.” The sarcasm practically drips from him. “That’s almost a real grade.”
You make the most angry face you can manage before sticking your tongue out at him like a child. Jungkook blinks. Then blinks again. And suddenly a laugh escapes him. Not the quiet chuckle he usually hides behind a smirk, but a real laugh that lights up his entire face and catches you completely off guard. For a moment, all you can do is stare.
“Cute.”
Your stomach immediately decides to become a problem. “Shut up.”
“No.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You suck.”
“Like, on that sweet pussy? If you insist.” He gives you a shameless wink and you feel your cheeks heat up. He just keeps smiling.
The worst part is that lately you’ve started noticing every version of that smile: the smug ones, the teasing ones, the rare genuine ones that appear when he forgets himself for a second. Most importantly, you’ve started noticing when they’re directed at you.
Jungkook, unfortunately, notices things too- especially when those things involve you. His eyes narrow slightly. Then the grin returns with renewed strength.
“Aw.”
You immediately know where this is going. “No.”
“She’s blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Jungkook.”
“Princess.”
A loud groan leaves you before you finally spin around and stomp toward the living room, abandoning the argument before he can make it worse. Behind you, Jungkook follows, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Asshole.
The studying begins surprisingly well- for approximately seven minutes…
Then Jungkook glances down at something you’ve written. Then back at you, back at the paper, then back at you again.
Your eye twitches. “What.” He just remains quiet and it annoys you even more.
“What?” you repeat, more aggressively this time.
Jungkook slowly lowers the page. “This sentence is shit.”
You stare at him, he stares back, neither of you blinks for a few seconds. Finally, you place a hand against your chest.
“Wow.”
“Constructive criticism.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m correct.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It literally is.”
You snatch the paper from his hand but he just grabs it back. You try to get a hold of it again but the page bends alarmingly between you.
“Stop fighting me.”
“Stop being wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
A long sigh leaves him, accompanied by the expression of a man attempting to explain basic survival instincts to someone determined to lick a power outlet.
“Princess,” he begins patiently, “you wrote four paragraphs and somehow managed to say absolutely nothing.”
Your jaw drops. “That’s rude.”
“It’s impressive.”
“You are so annoying.”
“You submitted this.”
You immediately launch a highlighter at his head. Without even looking, Jungkook catches it out of the air. Show-off.
“You know,” he says while opening your notebook again, “most students actually try to pass.”
“I am trying.”
“No, you’re improvising.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
The next thirty minutes disappear beneath arguments about thesis statements, grammar choices, sentence structure, citation formats, and whether Jungkook is intentionally making things difficult for his own entertainment.
The answer is almost certainly yes.
At some point, Minji wanders through the living room carrying a drink, pauses when she notices the two of you arguing over a textbook like a couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary through mutual irritation, then silently turns around and leaves without saying a word. Neither of you notices.
The strange thing is that nothing has actually changed. Levi still exists, the fear still exists. The pressure sitting permanently inside your chest hasn’t magically disappeared.
None of the real problems have gone anywhere.
And yet, somehow, the weight feels lighter- easy enough that you can breathe without feeling like your lungs are collapsing. Enough that laughter occasionally slips through the cracks.
Easy enough that when Jungkook eventually declares you a menace to higher education and you threaten to hit him with the nearest textbook, the familiar rhythm that always existed between the two of you settles naturally back into place.
The bickering. The teasing. The endless competition to have the final word. The comfort hidden beneath every insult and eye roll.
For the first time in days, everything feels familiar again, and for a little while, neither of you says a single thing about the subjects that actually matter.
By the end of the first hour, Jungkook is irritated. By the end of the second, he’s offended.
Somewhere during the third, while kneeling on Levi’s bedroom floor surrounded by enough junk to qualify as a biohazard, he seriously considers setting the entire mattress on fire out of principle.
Because there should be something.
There has to be.
The room isn’t spotless by any means. Levi still lives like a feral raccoon that somehow acquired a student loan and access to online shopping, but all the obvious places have already been checked. Every drawer has been emptied. Every shelf has been searched. Jungkook has flipped through textbooks, dug through storage bins shoved beneath the bed, checked jacket pockets, old backpacks, gym bags, and stacks of loose papers that looked important until they turned out to be useless.
Nothing.
No notebooks. No folders. No hidden collection of blackmail material waiting to be discovered. No convenient smoking gun. Just garbage.
Which is exactly why Jungkook keeps looking- because innocent people don’t spend their afternoons threatening girls for money. And Levi definitely isn’t innocent.
A floorboard creaks beneath his boot. The sound is subtle enough that most people wouldn’t even register it, but Jungkook freezes immediately, every instinct sharpening at once as his gaze drops toward the floor.
For several seconds he remains perfectly still. Then he slowly shifts his weight- the board creaks again. Interesting.
Nothing about it looks unusual. The wood isn’t damaged. There aren’t any visible pry marks. No scratches. No signs that anyone has been lifting it. Still, when Jungkook crouches and presses down near the edge, he feels something move. Just slightly.
A slow smile appears. “There you are.”
Two minutes later, the board comes loose and suddenly everything makes sense…
A second laptop sits hidden beneath the floor alongside several USB drives and an external hard drive, each item carefully wrapped in plastic as though Levi knows exactly how much trouble he’d be in if anyone ever found them.
For a moment Jungkook simply stares… then training takes over; his phone appears in his hand. A photograph. Another. The laptop, the serial numbers, the USB & hard drive. The compartment itself.
Every angle. Every detail. Every piece of evidence exactly where he found it.
When he’s finished, everything goes back beneath the floorboards. Taking it now would be stupid- Levi would notice and panic. And panicked people become reckless and even more dangerous
No. Jungkook needs him comfortable. Confident. Completely unaware that someone has already broken into the walls of his life and started pulling bricks loose.
Which is how he finds himself sitting inside Yoongi’s apartment an hour later.
The place looks exactly the same as always; coffee cups occupy every available surface. Multiple monitors cast pale light across the dark room. Half-finished projects litter the desk, and Yoongi himself appears to be functioning exclusively through caffeine, nicotine, and sheer stubbornness.
Jungkook drops into a chair and slides his phone across the desk. Yoongi scrolls through the photographs. Once. Twice.
Then reaches for his coffee. “Interesting.”
“Can you get into it?”
For the first time, Yoongi looks up. The expression on his face suggests he has been personally insulted.
“That’s what you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
A long pause follows before the older one gestures vaguely toward the screen.
“Jungkook.” Another pause. “That’s not even a challenge.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “I need thirty seconds.”
“Show-off.”
“Correct. And that’s also why you came here.”
The plan comes together quickly after that because predictable people are easy to manipulate.
And Levi is painfully predictable- another night and the idiot disappears into another party.
Jungkook knows he won’t return for the rest of the night. He drinks way too much for someone who can’t handle his liquor well.
Around 2am the idiot is unconscious behind a row of fraternity bushes, covered in dirt, soaked in stale alcohol, missing one shoe, and sleeping dangerously close to his own vomit.
Jungkook stares while Yoongi stands next to him. Neither looks impressed.
“You know,” Yoongi says eventually, “I expected better.” Jungkook just shakes his head. Levi snores. The disappointment somehow deepens.
Twenty minutes later they’re back inside his room. This time they have time and the tools. Yoongi settles into the desk chair, powers on the hidden laptop, and waits for the password screen to appear.
Jungkook watches while Yoongi doesn’t look remotely concerned. A small device disappears into one of the ports, then code begins scrolling across the screen. Twenty-three seconds later the desktop appears.
Jungkook blinks, Yoongi takes a sip of coffee. “Told you.”
Then he starts opening folders and very quickly the room changes because they stopped looking for evidence… now they stare right at it.
Folder after folder appears across the screen:
Names. Dozens of them.
Each one labeled carefully, belonging to different persons. Videos. Photographs. Screenshots. Private conversations. Class schedules. Social media accounts. Secrets. Mistakes. Embarrassing moments. Painful ones.
Every insecurity, every vulnerability, every weakness meticulously catalogued and stored. Not memories or keepsakes. Weapons.
For several seconds, neither man speaks. The laptop fan hums softly beneath years of accumulated files.
Yoongi scrolls and scrolls before he slowly leans back. “Jesus Christ.” The words come out quieter than usual.
Jungkook just keeps staring; another folder, another victim. Another life Levi decided he had the right to own.
“What a fucking loser.”
Yoongi’s expression darkens. “Nah.” His eyes remain fixed on the screen. “This is worse than loser.”
The silence stretches, then he exhales. “This is psychotic.”
Jungkook barely hears him- he’s already noticed something else. One specific folder. It’s recent. His hand moves before he consciously decides to.
The folder opens and a quiet curse leaves his lips. There are dozens of photographs of… you.
You leaving lectures, carrying coffee across campus, laughing beside Soomin, walking toward the sorority house, sitting outside academic buildings, glancing over your shoulder.
You were completely unaware someone was following you.
Jungkook’s stomach drops, not because he’s surprised, but suddenly every missing piece clicks into place: Every exhausted expression. Every nervous glance. Every time you’d looked like you were carrying something too heavy to say out loud.
He scrolls through the folder until a video appears. The thumbnail is only in black and white, not very sharp and kind of grainy but he recognises it immediately. The library.
The way you were kneeling for him, looking up while he stroked your hair.
Levi had seen it too… and used it against you.
Beside him, Yoongi leans forward. “Holy shit.” His gaze moves between the screen and Jungkook’s face. “Is that little asshole blackmailing you?”
Jungkook’s jaw tightens hard enough to hurt, then he slowly shakes his head. “No.”
The answer is quiet. Understanding settles across Yoongi’s face almost immediately.
“Oh.” A long pause follows. “Oh, he’s blackmailing her.”
Jungkook doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move nor blink. His eyes remain fixed on the screen. On the thumbnail of the video.
“My girl.” The words leave him without thought. Not even possessive, not performative just certain. Like a fact.
Yoongi closes his eyes briefly before rubbing a hand down his face. “Idiot.”
Jungkook finally glances over.
“Not you.” the older one quickly adds. “Him.” Yoongi points toward the screen.
Neither of them speaks for a long time, both just stare at the screen, trying to process what kind of fucked up rabbit hole they dug up.
Yoongi glances toward his friend, and the look on the younger man’s face should scare him. In fact, it probably would scare anyone else… but Min Yoongi knew one thing: Jeon Jungkook rarely got loud or angry, and even more rarely got physical unless he had a damn good reason…
Finally, Yoongi leans back. “Just make sure you leave no evidence.” The room falls silent.
Jungkook’s hand stops on the touchpad. Slowly, he turns his head.
Yoongi shrugs and gestures toward the screen.“I’ve known you long enough.”
His gaze drifts back to your folder, back to the photographs. Back to the proof of what Levi has been doing.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
Jungkook remains silent but a tiny twitch under his right eye tells Yoongi everything he needs to know.
Yoongi snorts. “Don’t give me that look.” The silence lingers for a few more seconds before his voice softens.
“Honestly…” He exhales slowly. “I get it.”
The words aren’t approval or encouragement. Not really. But they’re understanding. Because some people spend years building the walls of their own downfall. And Levi has spent years laying every single brick himself.
Yoongi finally looks back at him. “Just be careful.”A tiny humorless laugh escapes him. “You’re smart, so make sure you stay smart.”
Jungkook nods then carefully, almost deliberately, closes the laptop. “Good.”
Yoongi frowns. “Good?”
Jungkook slides the laptop back into the bag and into its hiding place under the floorboard. “Now I know.”
“Know what?”
For the first time all evening, something changes in his expression- and it’s colder than anything Yoongi has ever seen before on his friend’s face.
Something final.
The look of a man who has stopped asking questions and started making decisions.
“What kind of person he is.”
The answer sends a chill down Yoongi’s spine because it doesn’t sound like a discovery. It sounds like a verdict.
The day starts badly and somehow finds increasingly creative ways to make itself worse.
The first problem arrives shortly after lunch when one of the freshmen Levi has been leaning on for the better part of a month suddenly decides she doesn’t have the money. Not next week. Not tomorrow. Not after payday. Apparently she spent the entire amount on tuition and now breaks down crying every time he calls.
Pathetic.
Levi hangs up halfway through her latest sobbing apology and blocks the number without a second thought. If she’s stupid enough to force his hand, that’s her problem.
The second problem arrives during class when he realizes he’s probably going to fail another exam. The third when his professor asks him to stay behind afterward. And the fourth when he checks his bank account.
By the time evening rolls around, Levi is in a genuinely foul mood, which usually means somebody else is about to have a much worse night than he is.
The thought improves his mood considerably.
As he walks back toward the fraternity house, gym bag slung over one shoulder, his mind begins drifting through possibilities. A photograph would probably be enough. Maybe a video if he’s feeling generous. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away later.
Just enough. Enough humiliation, just enough fear. Just enough pressure to remind people what happens when they stop cooperating.
The familiar feeling settles warmly inside his chest. Control. Consequences. Fear.
People always respond best to fear.
Whistling softly beneath his breath, he climbs the stairs toward his room, fishes his keys from his pocket, unlocks the door, and steps inside.
Then he freezes- a weird sensation hits him... not because anything is obviously wrong. Nothing has been overturned or appears to be damaged.
The furniture remains exactly where he left it. The room looks normal. And yet something deep inside him immediately recoils. Wrong.
The realization crawls slowly up his spine.
For several long seconds he remains standing just inside the doorway while his eyes move across the room. Everything looks exactly the same, which somehow makes it worse.
A strange pressure begins building beneath his ribs and his pulse picks up slightly, the same way animals know they’re being watched before they understand why.
Levi tells himself he’s being ridiculous and walks across the room. His movements feel strangely careful now. Like somebody entering a house that may or may not contain a stranger.
When he finally kneels beside the floorboard, the unease inside his stomach sharpens. The board comes loose easily. Too easily.
The compartment beneath it is empty.
For a moment, his brain simply refuses to process what he’s looking at…
The laptop should be there… the hard drive... the USB drives... They’ve always been there!
The empty space seems impossible. Unreal.
Like his eyes are showing him the wrong image. Slowly, he reaches inside- his fingers scrape against bare wood. Nothing.
His stomach drops. “No.”
His hands move faster now, searching corners, feeling beneath edges, as though the devices might somehow reappear if he looks hard enough. Nothing.
The compartment remains empty. Completely, utterly, terrifyingly empty.
A cold rush shoots down his spine as the room feels different: violated. Someone was here and found it. Found the one place nobody was ever supposed to find.
“No, no, no…”
His breathing starts quickening. The floorboard slips from trembling fingers and crashes against the floor with a sharp crack that echoes through the room.
Because another realization is already crashing into him: Photographs, videos, folders, entire conversations and files… Every secret and threat. Every victim. Everything.
Gone…
Levi stumbles backward so quickly he nearly loses his footing. His pulse pounds violently inside his ears. Someone has it- has all of it.
And suddenly every person he’s ever threatened begins flashing through his mind. Every girl. Every guy.
Every desperate plea. Every ruined life. Every enemy he’d created. The list is much longer than he’d like it to be.
A strained sound escapes him, part laugh, part panic. Because this isn’t happening. It can’t be.
Then he sees the note.
A single folded piece of paper resting neatly at the bottom of the compartment. The sight sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him- suddenly the missing files aren’t the most frightening part.
The note is.
Whoever took everything wanted him to know, wanted him to come home. To look. Wanted him to understand.
His fingers shake as he unfolds the paper:
OLD SWIMMING POOL, MIDNIGHT
For several seconds he simply stares. The room around him seems to disappear, silence feels suffocating. Something awful begins crawling slowly up his spine: whoever did this could have vanished… They could have gone to the police, could have exposed him and leaked everything.
Instead, they left an invitation. Or maybe it isn’t an invitation. Maybe it’s a summons.
A cold sweat breaks across the back of his neck because now he isn’t imagining administrators or police officers. Not even angry victims demanding justice.
He’s imagining something much worse.
Someone patient, methodical. Someone who already has every card in their hand.
Someone confident enough to tell him where to be and fully expect him to show up.
The realization lands like a punch directly to the chest. This isn’t a warning… warnings happen before consequences but this? This feels like the consequence itself.
Slowly, Levi lifts his gaze and looks around the room. For the first time since moving into the fraternity house, a thought occurs to him that nearly makes him sick. What if someone has been standing in this room while he slept?
The possibility lodges itself inside his head and immediately begins growing teeth. If they found the floorboard, what else do they know? What else have they seen? How many times have they been here? How long have they been watching? A shiver runs through him.
The room no longer feels familiar, doesn’t even feel like his. Every corner suddenly seems capable of hiding eyes. Every shadow feels occupied.
Outside, darkness slowly settles over campus. Midnight remains hours away. Far too many hours. Hours he will spend imagining every possible outcome, wondering who found him.
Hours he will spend realizing that for the first time in years, he has absolutely no control over what happens next.
Yet despite the fear clawing through his chest, he already knows one thing with complete certainty: He’s going.
Because the person who left that note now owns every secret he ever buried.
And somehow, as he stares down at those simple words, the thing waiting for him at the old swimming pool feels infinitely more dangerous than prison ever could.
[if you want to be added to the taglist, please leave a comment below]
➻ You'll only find my work posted here, Wattpad and on my AO3 blog. I don't give consent for my work to be re-posted (in any language) onto any other platform, even if it is with credit. Thank you.
in which y/n is the new hire at a psychiatric ward and foolishly volunteers for the one patient everyone else is deadly afraid of. no therapist has ever lasted in his presence, and jungkook doesn't take them seriously to begin with. and since her staff doesn't take her seriously either, nobody expects her to survive. so next week, she gets fifty minutes to prove them all wrong.
genre : psycho!jungkook x therapist!oc
warnings : harsh & foul language, threatening, stereotyping, this plot starts off with misogyny since her job is male dominated ( but oc is a bad bitch wbk so she shuts their asses up ), gore related conversations, ptsd from DMV households, verbal harassment ( not from jk ), heavy obsessive & possessive vibes, unprotected sex, bigdick!jk, she sucks his dick so so good, breeding kink, ALOT of dirty talk bcs by now yall should know he’s a talker, he’s a munch, creampie, nipple play, nipple kink + more to add as I progress while writing this fic & there might be changes to warnings that are already stated above.
my notes : after long consideration, I’ve finally decided that psycho!jk & therapist!oc will be making their appearance on my blog!!!! super fucking excited for this one since this baby has been in my docs for the last 6 MONTHS. I’ve laughed, cried, punched a wall, fainted & kicked my feet while trying to make this fic work, and I’m so so glad it’s finally happening!! this is genuinely my personal favourite fic of mine yet!! & I’m so excited for you guys to read it once it’s out. it’ll take some time, but the wait will be worth it!!
ꫂ᭪݁ taglist is currently OPEN — to be apart of “patient zero’s” taglist, leave a comment below!! see you in the fic. 🖤
Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (GymOwner!JK/MotoRacer!JK/Biker!JK-TattoArtist!OC)
Genre: S2L - Smut - Fluff - Angst
Summary: Jeon Jungkook never let any distraction take him away from his motorcycle or his gym for more than one night. He just wants to speed around the track and feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the sex he gets thanks to his charm, is just a side dish to his life. A tough past brought him on that Ducati that he learned to love, a past you'll uncover, as you slowly seep in under his skin. It's a hell of a ride, in all senses, as you try to escape your own hell in the meanwhile.
Where will this ride bring you?
Will it be worth it in the end?
A/N: Pls be aware that this post may be subject to changes. New chapters and drabbles may be added to the list later in time. - Joy🐰
Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (GymOwner!JK/MotoRacer!JK/Biker!JK-TattoArtist!OC)
Genre: S2L - Smut - Fluff - Angst
Summary: Jeon Jungkook never let any distraction take him away from his motorcycle or his gym for more than one night. He just wants to speed around the track and feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the sex he gets thanks to his charm, is just a side dish to his life. A tough past brought him on that Ducati that he learned to love, a past you'll uncover, as you slowly seep in under his skin. It's a hell of a ride, in all senses, as you try to escape your own hell in the meanwhile.
Where will this ride bring you?
Will it be worth it in the end?
A/N: Pls be aware that this post may be subject to changes. New chapters and drabbles may be added to the list later in time. - Joy🐰
Jeon Jungkook is the world’s cheesiest fuckboy, and somehow he ends up tangled in your sheets. You, a quiet straight-A student who has always been too good, but everyone knows that's not entirely the case. You told him from the start you don’t do commitment. He swore he felt the same. That is…until he started falling for you.
Summary: Your new neighbor wants you bad, but you barely give him the time of day, leading him to ask you to make a list of tasks he can accomplish to get you to finally sleep with him.
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
Genre: Social Media AU, College Slice of Life, Neighbors to Friends to Lovers, Slow-Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Smut, Fluff
Word Count: N/A
Warnings: chapter specific warnings will be included on each individual post
Author’s Note: this is a social media au (aka smau) so the entire story is told through messages between the characters, with no written chapters. I just want everyone to be aware of that since this is my first time trying one! this wasn't something I ever planned on doing, but I had the idea and figured why not try it. plus, it gives me time to work on some of my long-standing wips while you guys are busy reading this for the next few weeks. I'll be releasing chapters biweekly on mondays and thursdays at 7 pm EST. some chapters are fairly short given the nature of smau, but I'm hopeful you'll still enjoy reading the new drops each week!
Jeon Jungkook is the world’s cheesiest fuckboy, and somehow he ends up tangled in your sheets, you, a quiet, straight-A student who’s always been too good for her own good. Quick and witty with your words but incomparable at pushing his buttons, friends with benefits becomes the easiest lie you tell yourselves. You told him from the start you don’t do commitment. He swore he felt the same. That is… until he starts falling for you.
synopsis: for a while now, weverse has allowed fans to ‘dm’ their favourite idols. it’s controlled, it’s monitored, it’s all very pc… until you come along one drunken night and break the rules. what is supposed to be a harmless act of communication quickly spirals into much, much more and begs the question, how far should communication between a fan and an idol really go?
a/n: hiiiiiiii! this is my first time posting on tumblr so pls bare with me while i figure out what i’m doing here <3 this mini-smau fic is just for funsies and to feed my own delulu brain so pls don’t expect too much. the whole story is gonna be told through messages between the characters and will have ZERO written chapters, so if that’s not your vibe… scram. the idea literally came to me on a whim and as of posting this i have absolutely NO plan for it at all, so we’re just gonna roll with it and see where we end up hehe. anyways!! i hope you like it, and if you wanna be added to a taglist just let me know in the comments ♡
the wrong club — jeon jungkook , series , taglist form
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-ˋˏ✄ context: he’s obviously not someone you should take seriously. still.. the late-night talks and dumb jokes with him make it hard to stay away.
-ˋˏ✄ pairing: gamer/team captain!jk x reader
-ˋˏ✄ genre / au / warnings: smau, humor, fluff here n there, nsfw implied, university au, esports au, side characters/ocs, group chat dynamics, emotionally unavailable characters, player jk, jealousy, toxic moments, complicated characters, angst, messy drama !
When you; rich, hot, and supposedly untouchable, get dumped over text out of seemingly nowhere, your pride takes the hit. You trace it back to Jungkook— your ex’s best friend, the boy who’s hated you since day one. He claims he can’t stand entitled, rich girls like you… and somehow, he’s always had a problem with your relationship, never missing a chance to put distance between you and your boyfriend.
But when hatred begins to taste like hunger, every argument becomes dangerous. Every glare lingers a second too long, a reminder of what’s always simmered between you. Some mistakes feel too good to stop. Because at the end of the day, hate sex is still sex.
🖇Warnings: 18+ content (mdni) heavy smut, hate sex–lots of it, commitment issues!reader, heavy banter and lots of arguments, slowburn, slight angst, domjk x sub!y/n, college au, yearning–lots of it.
🖇 A complicated and messy enemies-with-benefits story for my babies who love long, detailed, smutty and tension filled tropes— where Jungkook and oc hate eachother at first, but jk is undeniably down bad for oc, and oc is mean and runs from anything that feels real.
Jungkook loves ruining innocent things — and you look like the kind of faith he’d enjoy breaking at great cost to you both.
warnings: ⚠️explicit sexual content (graphic sex, oral f, lose of v), jk is very questionable here
an: this is a work of fiction: the characters and scenarios are entirely fictionalized and written for entertainment purposes only, with no intent to offend anyone
Jungkook had never understood girls like you.
Not in a curious way. More like the way you don't understand why someone would refuse dessert. It seemed like deprivation dressed up as virtue, a lifelong no to everything that made being young worth it. The heat of a stranger's mouth at 2 a.m., the reckless burning want that made you forget your own name, the kind of pleasure that left you breathless and shameless and alive.
He didn't judge it, exactly. He just couldn't relate.
Jungkook lived loudly. He collected experiences the way some people collected shoes: hookups at parties, tangled sheets in expensive apartments, mornings that smelled like someone else's perfume. He didn't apologize for it. Why would he? Life was short, and he was young, rich, and too good-looking to waste time on guilt.
And you? You were the opposite of everything he knew.
Soft-spoken but sharp. Polite but immovable. The kind of girl who dressed modestly, kept her circle small, and apparently believed that waiting until marriage was still a thing people did in the 21st century. Jungkook had heard rumors, sure. Everyone had. The girl who didn't date. The one who quoted scripture and turned down half the rugby team without blinking.
He'd probably never have thought about you twice if it wasn't for Political Science 304.
The class was an easy A, or it should have been. Show up, nod along, write a few essays about democracy or whatever. Jungkook usually sat in the back, barely listening, scrolling through his phone or nursing a hangover behind dark sunglasses.
But then came the debate.
The topic was something about religious freedom versus secular governance. Dry as hell, or so he thought. Jungkook had thrown out some half-assed argument about keeping church and state separate, the kind of thing that sounded smart if you didn't think about it too hard. He'd gotten a few nods from his buddies. Even the professor seemed fine with it.
And then you raised your hand.
"With all due respect," you said, voice calm but cutting, "that's an incredibly shallow reading of both history and ethics."
The room went quiet.
You didn't yell. You didn't have to. You dismantled his argument piece by piece, citing philosophers he'd never heard of, constitutional law he'd never bothered to read, and real-world examples that made him look like he'd gotten his politics from Twitter threads. You spoke with precision, with conviction, and worst of all, with thinly veiled disgust.
Not just for his argument.
For him.
By the time you finished, Jungkook felt like he'd been skinned alive in front of thirty people. A few classmates were staring. One guy actually whistled under his breath. And you? You just sat back down, expression unreadable, like you'd done nothing more than correct a typo.
Jungkook left that class with his jaw tight and his pride in his pocket.
Later that night, he met up with his usual crew at the apartment Taehyung's parents kept near campus: all floor-to-ceiling windows, imported liquor, and zero supervision. They were sprawled across the leather sectional, mid-argument about someone's latest breakup and cheating, when Jungkook brought you up.
"Anyone know the girl from PolySci? Y/N?"
Taehyung snorted into his drink, nearly spilling whiskey on the cream leather. "Oh, you mean the one who made you look like an idiot today?"
"She didn't make me look like anything," Jungkook shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "She just has opinions. Strong ones. It's kind of hot, actually."
"She destroyed you, man," Jimin cut in, grinning wide enough to show his teeth. "I heard about it from like three people already. Someone recorded it. It's in the group chat."
"There's a video?" Jungkook's jaw tightened, though his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "Good. Maybe she'll watch it and realize I was paying more attention to her mouth than her argument."
Jimin choked on his drink. "Jesus, man."
"Relax, it's only got like fifty views," Hoseok said, not looking up from his phone. Then, after a beat: "Wait, no. A hundred and twelve now."
"Perfect," Jungkook drawled, leaning back with his arms spread across the sectional like he owned it. "Free publicity."
"Free humiliation, more like," Hoseok finally glanced up, smirking. "You got academically destroyed by a girl who probably irons her cardigans. And now it's immortalized."
"It doesn't sting," Jungkook said, rolling his neck lazily. "It's a challenge. There's a difference."
"She's the religious one, right?" Hoseok said, scrolling again. "Doesn't go to parties. Doesn't drink. Doesn't…" He trailed off with a smirk, letting the silence fill in the rest. "Yeah. Doesn't do anything."
"Waiting until marriage," Taehyung added, like it was the punchline to a joke. He topped off his glass, ice clinking. "Serious about it, too. Like, aggressively serious. Turned down Namjoon last year without even blinking."
Jungkook blinked. "Namjoon? Kim Namjoon?"
"Yep. Man wrote her a whole letter and everything. Like a Victorian gentleman or some shit." Taehyung laughed, shaking his head. "Three pages. Hand-written. Quoted poetry."
"And?" Jimin asked, leaning forward.
"She said no in under ten words." Taehyung mimicked a flat, polite tone: "'I appreciate this, but I'm not interested. Thank you.'"
"She's probably one of those 'love is patient, love is kind' people," Taehyung said, voice dripping with mockery. "You know, thinks she's special because she's repressed."
"Or maybe she just hasn't met anyone worth breaking her rules and standards for," Jungkook said, his voice smooth as silk. He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Yet."
Taehyung barked out a laugh. "And you think you're that person? The guy who just got publicly humiliated by her, a college student acting like a 1950s housewife-in-training. That's not standards, that's a complex."
Jungkook didn't say anything for a moment. He was thinking about the way you'd looked at him in class. Not like he was attractive. Not like he was rich or charming or untouchable.
Like he was nothing.
Like he wasn't even worth the effort of contempt, just a nuisance to be corrected and dismissed.
"She really hates me," he said.
"Probably hates what you represent," Taehyung said, swirling his drink. "You know: shallow, shameless, morally bankrupt. Everything her little prayer group warns her about." He grinned. "No offense."
"None taken." Jungkook's smile widened, sharp and wolfish. "I've been called worse by better people."
"And yet here you are, still thinking about her," Jimin observed, pouring another drink. The bottle was already half-empty, and it wasn't even midnight. "She's like a fortress. No weak spots. No cracks. I don't even think she has Instagram."
"She doesn't," Hoseok confirmed. "I checked. Just LinkedIn. LinkedIn. Who our age has LinkedIn but not Instagram?"
"Someone who thinks she's above all this," Jungkook murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Then louder, with a reckless grin: "Which means she's exactly the type who's dying to let go. She just doesn't know it yet."
"Psychopaths," Taehyung said immediately.
"Or people with actual career plans," Jimin countered.
"Same thing."
"You're delusional," Hoseok said flatly. "She looked at you like you were gum on her shoe."
"Exactly," Jungkook said, eyes glinting. "That's what makes it interesting."
Taehyung's grin widened then, slow and dangerous. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that always ended badly. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Jungkook raised an eyebrow, his tongue dragging slowly across his lower lip. "Depends. Are you thinking I could have her on her knees by midterms?"
The room erupted. Hoseok choked on his drink, Jimin covered his face, Taehyung laughed so hard he had to set his glass down.
"What? I'm just being honest." Jungkook shrugged, shameless. "You all act like I'm the devil, but at least I don't pretend to be anything else."
"You're insane," Hoseok said, wiping tears from his eyes. "She would literally rather die."
"I'm thinking," Taehyung said slowly, ignoring them both, like he was savoring each word, "that even you couldn't crack someone like her."
The room went still.
Jungkook tilted his head, eyes narrowing, but there was heat there now, something dangerous and hungry. "That a challenge?"
"It's a bet."
Hoseok barked out a laugh, finally setting his phone down. "Oh, come on. That's not fair. She'd sniff him out in a second. This isn't some girl from a club who's three drinks in. She studies people like him."
"Exactly," Taehyung said, leaning back with satisfaction. "That's what makes it interesting. That's what makes it worth something."
Jimin was shaking his head, but he was smiling, the same way people smile at car crashes. "What are the terms?"
"Make her fall for you," Taehyung said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "For real. Not just a kiss or a coffee date or some hand-holding bullshit. I'm talking full-on, 'I trust you,' 'I'm breaking my rules for you,' 'you've changed me' territory."
"That's cruel," Jimin said, though he didn't sound particularly bothered by it.
"That's the point," Taehyung shot back. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be a bet."
Jungkook should have said no.
He should have laughed it off, called Taehyung an idiot, told him to sleep off the whiskey, and moved on.
But he kept thinking about the way you'd looked at him. Like he was less. And Jungkook had spent his whole life being more: more money, more charm, more attention, more everything. He didn't lose. Not at anything that mattered.
And this? This was starting to feel like it mattered.
Besides, he'd never met a rule he didn't want to break. Or a girl who didn't eventually want him to.
"What are we betting?" Jungkook asked, voice low and even, already leaning forward like a predator catching a scent.
Taehyung leaned back, thinking, tapping one finger against his glass. Then his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Your Porsche 911."
Jungkook's jaw tightened. The vintage '73 he'd spent two years restoring himself: forest green with cream leather interior, original wood-grain dash, engine he'd rebuilt by hand. His pride and joy. The one thing his father couldn't buy for him because he'd earned it himself.
He let the silence sit for a beat. Two. Then he smiled, slow, dangerous, certain.
"And what do I get when I win?"
"When?" Taehyung laughed. "I love the confidence. Alright." He tapped the platinum watch on his wrist, the one that caught light like a quiet threat. "My Rolex Daytona. The one my grandfather left me. The one I'm not supposed to gamble with."
Hoseok whistled low, actually looking up now. "Wait, you're serious? That watch is worth more than my tuition."
Jimin set his drink down, eyes wide. "That's a $200,000 watch."
"And that's a $150,000 car," Taehyung countered. "We're both gambling something we shouldn't. That's how you know it's real."
The room held its breath.
Jungkook met Taehyung's eyes across the table: dark, amused, daring him. Then he leaned back, arms spread wide, grin sharp enough to cut.
"Deal," he said, voice dripping with arrogance. "But just so we're clear, I'm not doing this for the watch."
"No?" Taehyung raised an eyebrow.
"No." Jungkook's smile turned wicked. "I'm doing it because I want to see what she looks like when she finally stops pretending she's a saint."
"You're going to crash and burn so hard," Hoseok muttered, but he was grinning.
"We'll see," Jungkook said smoothly.
They shook on it. Firm. Final.
And in that moment, Jungkook felt something settle in his chest. Not guilt. Not hesitation.
Certainty.
He was going to win. He always did.
—
You sat cross-legged on the worn carpet of the campus ministry lounge, your notebook balanced on your knee, half-listening to the discussion happening around you.
"I just think if we frame the outreach event as a community wellness fair instead of an evangelism thing, we'll get way more people to show up," Sarah was saying, her voice bright and earnest.
"But isn't that kind of... misleading?" Daniel asked, pushing his glasses up. "Like, we're still trying to share the Gospel, right?"
"It's not misleading, it's strategic," Sarah countered.
You made a note in the margin of your planner, tuning them out. You'd heard this debate a thousand times. Same script, different week.
Your phone buzzed on the floor beside you.
Mom: Your brother got expelled again. We're meeting with the dean tomorrow. How are your grades? Still maintaining that 4.0?
You stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
No "how are you." No "we miss you." Just another crisis with him, another expectation that you'd keep being perfect while they scrambled to fix his messes. The eternal assumption that your achievements didn't need celebration because they were simply expected.
You typed back: Yes. Hope the meeting goes well.
Then you muted the conversation and set your phone face-down.
"Y/N? What do you think?"
You looked up to find everyone staring at you. Sarah's smile was patient, but there was something performative about it, like she was waiting for you to say the right thing so they could all move on.
"I think both approaches have merit," you said carefully. "But we should prioritize authenticity over attendance numbers."
"See? That's what I'm saying," Daniel said, nodding enthusiastically.
Sarah's smile tightened. "Right. Of course. Authenticity."
You felt the familiar weight settle over your chest. The sense that you were always saying the right thing but never the real thing. That you could sit in a room full of people who shared your faith, your values, your entire worldview, and still feel completely alone.
Because none of them actually knew you. They knew the version of you that showed up on time, volunteered for everything, smiled through exhaustion, and never, ever complained.
They knew the performance. Not the person.
"Alright, let's take a quick break before we finalize the budget," Sarah announced, standing and stretching. "I'm going to grab some coffee. Anyone want anything?"
A chorus of polite nos.
You stayed where you were, staring at your planner. You'd color-coded every hour of your week. Church. Study groups. Volunteering. Tutoring. Not a single block marked "rest" or "fun" or "something just for me."
You used to like this. The structure. The purpose.
Now it just felt like a cage you'd built yourself.
The door to the lounge creaked open.
You didn't look up until you heard Daniel's voice, uncertain and confused.
"Uh... can we help you?"
You glanced toward the door.
And froze.
Jeon Jungkook stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking around the room with an expression that could only be described as amused curiosity. He was dressed down in black joggers, an oversized hoodie, a silver chain catching the light at his collarbone. But somehow he still looked like he'd walked off a magazine cover.
"Hey," he said, voice smooth and casual, like he belonged there. "This the campus ministry thing?"
Silence. Sarah blinked at him, coffee forgotten. Daniel looked like he'd short-circuited. Even Grace, who never got flustered, was staring.
You felt your entire body go rigid.
"No," you said flatly.
Jungkook's eyes found yours across the room, and his mouth curved into a slow, lazy smile. "No? That's weird, because the flyer outside said..."
"I don't care what the flyer said." You stood, closing your notebook with a sharp snap. "You're not here for ministry. So you can leave."
"Wow." Jungkook tilted his head, smile widening. "Hostile. I just wanted to check it out. I've been... thinking about faith lately. Exploring spirituality, you know?"
"Exploring spirituality," you repeated, voice dripping with disbelief.
"Yeah." He stepped further into the room, completely unbothered by your tone. "Figured I'd start somewhere. This seemed like a good place."
"Y/N," Sarah said gently, stepping forward with that welcoming smile she always used on newcomers, "maybe we should..."
"No." Your voice was sharp enough to cut. You didn't take your eyes off Jungkook. "He's not staying."
"That's not very... Christian of you," Jungkook said, and the way he said it (playful, teasing, like he was daring you to react) made your blood boil.
"Don't." Your voice was low, dangerous. "Don't you dare use that word in here like it's a joke."
"I'm not joking." He spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "I'm genuinely interested. I mean, you seem really passionate about it. I thought maybe you could... teach me."
The way he said teach me (slow, deliberate, with just enough edge to make it sound like something else entirely) made your stomach twist.
"Okay, that's enough." You crossed the room in three strides, stopping directly in front of him. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, but you didn't flinch. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but it's not going to work. Not here. Not with me."
"Game?" Jungkook raised an eyebrow, leaning down slightly so you were almost eye-level. His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. "You think pretty highly of yourself if you think I'd go through all this trouble just to mess with you."
"I know you would," you shot back, just as quietly. "Because people like you don't do anything unless there's something in it for you."
For a split second, something flickered in his expression. Something sharp and real. But then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk.
"People like me," he echoed, straightening up. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." You stepped back, raising your voice so the whole room could hear. "You're not welcome here. Leave."
"Y/N..." Daniel started, looking genuinely distressed. "We're supposed to be open to everyone."
"Not him," you said firmly. You turned to Daniel, then to Sarah, your voice steady and unyielding. "He's not here in good faith. And if we let him stay, he's going to make a mockery of everything we're trying to do."
"That's a pretty harsh judgment," Sarah said carefully, though she looked uncertain now.
"It's the truth." You turned back to Jungkook, crossing your arms. "So. Are you going to leave, or do I need to call campus security?"
The room went dead silent.
Jungkook studied you for a long moment, head tilted, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he smiled, slow and dangerous, like he'd just won something.
"Alright," he said softly. "I'll go."
He turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"But just so you know, I wasn't lying. I am curious. About faith. About you." His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the playfulness dropped away entirely. "Maybe that scares you more than you want to admit."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
You stood there, heart pounding, fists clenched at your sides.
"That was... intense," Grace said quietly.
"He wasn't serious," you said, though your voice sounded shakier than you wanted it to. "He was making fun of us."
"Are you sure?" Daniel asked, frowning. "I mean, he seemed..."
"I'm sure." You grabbed your bag, suddenly desperate to leave. "I'm going to head out. I'll see you all on Sunday."
"Y/N, wait..."
But you were already out the door, walking quickly down the hallway, trying to ignore the way your hands were shaking.
You didn't know what Jungkook was trying to do.
But you knew, with absolute certainty, that he was dangerous.
Not because of what he said.
Because for one terrible, fleeting second, when he'd looked at you like he actually saw you, not the performance but the person, you'd wanted to let him in.
And that terrified you more than anything else.
—
The next morning, you were determined to forget the entire incident.
You'd woken up early, gone for a run, made yourself breakfast, reviewed your notes for your afternoon exam. Normal routine. Normal day. Everything was fine.
Except you kept replaying that moment in your head: the way Jungkook had looked at you before he left. Maybe that scares you more than you want to admit.
It didn't scare you. It annoyed you.
Because he was wrong. He had to be wrong.
You were halfway across the quad, headphones in, when someone fell into step beside you.
"Morning."
You didn't need to look to know who it was. That voice, low and smooth and infuriatingly casual, was burned into your brain now.
You kept walking, eyes straight ahead. "Go away."
"That's rude," Jungkook said, matching your pace easily. "I'm just trying to have a conversation."
"I don't want to have a conversation with you."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't trust you."
"Fair." He tilted his head, considering. "But you didn't even give me a chance yesterday. You just... assumed the worst."
You stopped abruptly, turning to face him. A few students passing by glanced over, curious. You lowered your voice. "I didn't assume anything. I know exactly what you are."
"Oh yeah?" Jungkook's eyes glinted with something sharp. "Enlighten me."
"You're someone who thinks everything is a game. Someone who gets bored easily and looks for the next thrill. Someone who sees a girl who won't fall at his feet and decides she's a challenge."
His jaw tightened, just slightly. "You really think that little of me."
"I think realistically of you." You crossed your arms. "So whatever you're trying to do, showing up at my ministry group, pretending to be interested in faith, just stop. It's pathetic."
"Pathetic." He repeated the word slowly, like he was tasting it. Then he stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You want to know what's pathetic? The fact that you're so scared of letting anyone in that you've convinced yourself everyone has ulterior motives."
"I'm not scared..."
"You are." His voice dropped, quieter now, more intense. "You're terrified. Because what if I'm telling the truth? What if I actually do want to know you? What then?"
Your breath caught. He was too close. You could smell his cologne, something clean and expensive and distracting.
"You don't," you said, but your voice came out shakier than you intended. "You don't want to know me. You want to prove something. To yourself, to your friends, I don't know. But it's not real."
"How do you know?"
"Because..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "Look at us. We're from completely different worlds. You go to parties, you hook up with random people, you don't take anything seriously. I'm not like that. I never will be. So why would you actually be interested in me?"
"Maybe that's exactly why."
You blinked. "What?"
"Maybe I'm tired of my world," Jungkook said, and for the first time, there was something raw in his voice. Something that didn't sound like a performance. "Maybe I'm tired of people who don't give a shit about anything. Maybe I saw you, really saw you, and thought, 'That's someone who actually believes in something. Someone who actually cares.' Maybe that's what I'm interested in."
You stared at him, heart pounding. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Then prove it." You stepped closer, challenging him. "Tell me the real reason you showed up yesterday. Tell me what you really want."
His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might actually walk away. That you'd finally called his bluff.
But then he said, so quietly you almost didn't hear it: "I fell in love with you."
The world seemed to tilt.
"What?"
"I know how it sounds," Jungkook said quickly, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's insane. But I've been watching you for weeks. Not in a creepy way, just... noticing you. The way you light up when you're talking about something you care about. The way you're kind to everyone, even when they don't deserve it. The way you're so sure of who you are." He laughed, but it sounded almost bitter. "And I realized I wanted to understand that. Understand you. So yeah, I showed up at your ministry group because I thought maybe if I joined your world, even for a second, I could..."
"No." You shook your head, stepping back. "Absolutely not. You don't love me. You don't even know me."
"Then let me get to know you."
"Why would I do that?" Your voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through. "You're literally everything I stand against. You sleep around, you drink, you treat people like they're disposable. And you think you can just show up and say some pretty words and I'll what, fall into your arms?"
"I don't think that." His voice was steady, but his eyes were burning. "I think you're smart enough to see through bullshit. I think you're strong enough to tell me to go to hell if that's what you really want. But I also think..." He stepped closer again, and this time you didn't move back. "You're curious. Just a little. And it's killing you."
"You're delusional."
"Am I?" He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. "Tell me you don't feel it too."
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. Everything in you screamed to push him away, to run, to protect yourself.
But there was something in his eyes, something vulnerable and desperate and utterly sincere, that made you freeze.
"I..." Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I don't..."
"You do." His hand came up, hovering near your face but not quite touching. Asking permission. "You feel it. I know you do."
And God help you, he was right.
Because standing this close to him, looking up into those dark eyes, feeling the heat of his body just inches from yours, something was shifting inside you. Something dangerous and electric and completely terrifying.
You'd spent your whole life building walls. Carefully constructed boundaries that kept you safe, that kept you good. And in less than two days, Jungkook had found every single crack.
"This is wrong," you said, but you didn't move away. "Everything about this is wrong."
"Why?" His thumb brushed against your cheek, the barest touch, feather-light, and you felt it everywhere. "Because I'm not what you planned for? Because I don't fit into your perfect life?"
"Because you're going to hurt me." The words came out raw, honest. "You're going to make me feel things I shouldn't feel, want things I shouldn't want, and then you're going to walk away. Because that's what people like you do."
Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe, or recognition. His hand dropped. "What if I don't?"
"You will."
"How do you know?"
"Because..." You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "Because I've seen what happens when girls like me fall for guys like you. I've watched my friends lose themselves, compromise everything they believe in, all for someone who never actually loved them. And I refuse to be that girl."
"Then don't be." He stepped back, giving you space, but his eyes never left yours. "Don't lose yourself. Don't compromise. Just... let me in. Even a little. Let me prove I'm not who you think I am."
You wanted to say no. You wanted to walk away right now and never look back.
But that traitorous part of you, the part that had been waking up slowly over the past forty-eight hours, whispered: What if he's telling the truth?
"No."
The word came out firmer than you expected, cutting through whatever spell had settled between you. You took a deliberate step back, putting distance between your bodies, between the heat and the confusion and the dangerous pull you'd almost given in to.
"No," you repeated, stronger this time. "This, whatever this is, it stops here. I want you to leave me alone."
Jungkook's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his features. "Wait..."
"I mean it." You wrapped your arms around yourself, a physical barrier. "I don't care what you think you feel. I don't care about your reasons or your pretty words or any of it. Just... stay away from me."
Inside, your heart was screaming at you, a chaotic mess of confusion and fear and something else you refused to name. Every instinct told you to run, to get as far away from him as possible before you did something you'd regret.
Before you became someone you didn't recognize.
"Please," you added, and you hated how your voice wavered. "Just leave me alone."
For a long moment, Jungkook just looked at you. Something in his eyes had gone quiet, intense. Then he nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said. "If that's what you really want."
"It is."
You turned to leave, desperate to escape before the tears burning behind your eyes could fall. But his voice stopped you.
"I'm not giving up on you."
You froze, your back still to him.
"I know you want me to," Jungkook continued, and there was something almost gentle in his tone. "I know it would be easier if I just walked away. But I can't. I won't. So even if you don't want to see me, even if you think I'm everything you stand against, I'm not giving up. Not on this. Not on you."
You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you forced yourself to walk away, one foot in front of the other, your vision blurring.
You didn't look back.
—
By the time you reached your dorm, you were shaking.
You locked the door behind you and slid down against it, finally letting the tears come. They were hot and angry and confused. At him, at yourself, at this entire impossible situation.
Why? you thought desperately. Why is this happening to me?
You'd been so careful. So good. You'd followed the rules, kept your boundaries, protected your heart. You'd built a life that made sense, that aligned with everything you believed in.
And then Jungkook had to go and exist.
You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to stop the flood of emotions. But they kept coming, wave after wave of confusion, frustration, and underneath it all, that terrifying spark of want that you couldn't quite extinguish.
You cursed the day you'd decided to argue with him in that class. Cursed whatever impulse had made you speak up, had made you catch his attention. If you'd just kept your head down, stayed quiet, none of this would be happening.
He never would have noticed you. You never would have noticed him.
And you wouldn't be sitting here on your bedroom floor, crying over a boy who represented everything you were supposed to avoid, wondering why it hurt so much to push him away.
I'm not giving up on you.
His words echoed in your head, relentless.
You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, and let yourself feel the full weight of your confusion. Because as much as you wanted to believe you'd made the right choice, the only choice, some traitorous part of you was already wondering what would happen next. What it would feel like if he kept his word.
And whether you'd be strong enough to keep saying no.
—
The week had been a nightmare.
Not just bad. Catastrophic. The kind of week where the universe seemed to conspire against you, piling one disaster on top of another until you could barely breathe under the weight of it all.
Monday: Your sociology professor had announced a group project worth 40% of your final grade, due in two weeks. Your assigned partners? Three people who'd never once shown up to class on time.
Tuesday: Your theology paper, the one you'd been planning to start over spring break, got moved up. New deadline: next Friday. Ten pages, minimum, on the intersection of faith and modern ethics.
Wednesday: Midterm exam in your hardest class. You'd barely had time to study between everything else.
And Thursday. Thursday, your brother had called.
You'd known something was wrong the moment you heard his voice. Too high, too fast, words tumbling over each other in a panic. It had taken twenty minutes to get the full story out of him, and when you finally did, your blood had run cold.
Gambling. A poker game that had gotten out of hand. Money borrowed from people who didn't take "I'll pay you back eventually" as an acceptable answer.
Dangerous people. The kind who broke bones first and asked questions later.
Your brother had begged you not to tell your parents. They'd already sacrificed so much to send you both to college. He couldn't bear to disappoint them, couldn't stand the thought of them finding out what he'd done.
So now you carried his secret like a stone in your chest, heavy and cold. You'd been trying to figure out how to help him, reaching out to financial aid offices, looking into emergency loans, calculating how many shifts you could pick up at your campus job without failing out of school entirely.
The math didn't work. It never worked.
And through it all, through every sleepless night, every panicked moment, every overwhelming deadline, your mind kept drifting somewhere it absolutely shouldn't.
To him.
To Jungkook.
You'd been running into each other all week. At first, you'd convinced yourself it was coincidence. The campus wasn't that big, after all. But by the third "accidental" encounter, he'd started calling it fate, that infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," he'd said on Monday, appearing beside you in the library. "People are going to talk."
"Then stop following me," you'd shot back, not looking up from your textbook.
"Following you? I was here first." He'd gestured at the study carrel across from yours, his backpack already sitting there. "But hey, if you want to think the universe is pushing us together, I'm not going to argue."
On Tuesday, you'd literally walked into him coming out of the coffee shop, his iced americano sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"Careful," he'd said, steadying you with one hand. "I know you're falling for me, but you don't have to be so literal about it."
You'd rolled your eyes and walked away, but not before catching the laugh in his voice.
Wednesday, he'd somehow ended up in line behind you at the dining hall.
"Are you stalking me?" you'd demanded.
"A man's got to eat," he'd replied, all innocence. "Not my fault you have excellent taste in mediocre cafeteria food."
By Thursday, you'd started (God help you) looking for him. Scanning crowds, checking corners, your heart doing a stupid little jump every time you caught a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders.
You hated that you'd started to enjoy it. Hated that his stupid comments and ridiculous observations had become the only thing making you smile during this absolute hell of a week.
Hated that every night, alone in your dorm room, your mind replayed his words: I fell in love with you.
Which was insane. He didn't love you. He barely knew you. This was just whatever game he was playing, whatever bet or challenge he'd set for himself.
Right?
By Friday afternoon, you were running on three hours of sleep and more caffeine than should be medically advisable. You'd finished your theology paper at 4 AM, printed it between classes, and now you were headed to your professor's office to turn it in before the deadline.
The stack of papers felt like gold in your hands. Ten pages of pure exhaustion, but it was done. One disaster averted. One small victory in a week of absolute chaos.
You were so focused on not dropping anything, so desperate to just make it to the office and collapse, that you didn't see him coming.
Neither did he.
You collided at the corner of the hallway. A full-body impact that sent both of you stumbling. Your coffee, which you'd been clutching in your other hand, went flying.
Time seemed to slow down.
You watched, horrified, as the cup arced through the air, lid popping off, the contents spilling out in a perfect catastrophic arc. It hit your papers (your beautiful, finished, done papers) and soaked through them instantly. Coffee spread across the pages like blood, turning your carefully formatted paragraphs into brown, illegible mush.
You and Jungkook both hit the ground. Hard.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You just sat there on the floor, surrounded by coffee-stained papers, your empty cup rolling sadly across the tile.
"Shit," Jungkook said, scrambling up. "Shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't see..."
He stopped.
You weren't looking at him. You were staring at your papers, at the ruined results of an all-nighter, at hours of work literally dissolving before your eyes. And you felt something inside you finally, completely shatter.
The tears came before you could stop them.
Not delicate, pretty crying. Ugly, gasping sobs that you couldn't control, couldn't hide, couldn't shove back down. Your entire body shook with them, weeks of stress and fear and exhaustion finally breaking through every wall you'd built.
"Hey," Jungkook's voice was suddenly gentle, concerned. "Hey, it's okay, we can..."
"It's not okay!" The words burst out of you, raw and desperate. "It's not... I don't..."
You couldn't even finish the sentence. You just sat there on the hallway floor, crying like your heart was breaking, while students walked past and pretended not to notice.
And Jungkook, infuriating, persistent, impossible Jungkook, sank down beside you without a word.
Jungkook looked at you (really looked at you) and something in his expression shifted. The usual playfulness vanished, replaced by something intense and determined.
"I'll fix this," he said firmly. "I'll fix everything."
You didn't respond. Couldn't. You were too exhausted, too broken, too tired to even process what he was saying. The tears kept coming, silent now, streaming down your face as you stared at the ruined papers.
It was all too much. The deadlines, your brother's crisis, the sleepless nights, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be strong, to hold everything together. And now this. This final, stupid disaster that felt like the universe laughing at your attempts to keep it all under control.
You were so tired of dealing with everything alone. So tired of being the one everyone relied on, the one who had to have all the answers. You were human too, after all. You were allowed to break down sometimes, weren't you?
"Stay here," Jungkook said, already pulling out his phone. "I'm going to print these out right now. I have quick access to the college paper office. I can use their printer."
You barely registered his words through the fog of exhaustion.
"How..." you started, but he was already standing up.
"Don't worry about it," he said quickly, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "I just know someone there. They owe me a favor."
The way he avoided your eyes, the awkward edge to his voice. It wasn't hard to read between the lines. You should probably care about the implications, but you were too drained to even process it.
And then he was gone, jogging down the hallway with your ruined papers in his hands.
You sat there on the floor, too stunned and exhausted to move. Students continued walking past, giving you wide berth. You should probably get up, find a chair, pull yourself together. But your body felt like lead.
You managed to drag yourself to a nearby bench, collapsing onto it and pressing your palms against your eyes. You focused on breathing (in and out, in and out) trying to calm the storm of emotions still swirling through your chest.
You'd barely settled when you heard footsteps approaching rapidly.
"Got it."
Your eyes snapped open. Jungkook was standing in front of you, slightly out of breath, holding a fresh stack of papers. Your papers. Perfectly printed, clean and crisp, no coffee stains in sight.
Goosebumps broke out across your arms.
"How..." You stared at him, then at the papers, then back at him. "How did you do that? That was maybe five minutes. The office is across campus, and you'd have to upload the file, and..."
"I ran," he said simply, handing you the stack. "And the printer was already warmed up."
"But why?" The question came out smaller than you intended. "Why would you do this?"
He looked at you like you'd asked why the sky was blue. "Because you needed help."
Something cracked open in your chest. Something you'd been keeping carefully locked away.
"Thank you," you said, and you meant it. Genuinely, completely meant it. "Really. Thank you."
You moved to stand up, to head to your professor's office before anything else could go wrong, but Jungkook's hand on your shoulder stopped you.
"Wait."
You looked up at him, and the expression on his face made your breath catch. He was looking at you like he was really seeing you, not the put-together, religious girl who always had the right answers in class. Not the person you tried so hard to be.
Just... you.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "And before you say you're fine, what actually happened? What's going on?"
"It's nothing," you said automatically, the default response you'd given everyone all week. "I'm just tired. Midterms, you know how it is."
"Bullshit."
You blinked at him.
"I've seen you tired," Jungkook continued, his voice gentle but firm. "I've seen you stressed about exams and projects. This isn't that." He crouched down so he was at eye level with you, his gaze unwavering. "You're always so strong. So together. It has to be something really big to break you down like this."
You opened your mouth to deny it, to brush him off, to rebuild the walls that had temporarily crumbled. But something about the way he was looking at you (concerned, patient, genuinely caring) made the words die in your throat.
And for the first time all week, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you didn't have to carry everything alone.
You took a shaky breath, your fingers twisting in your lap. The words felt heavy, dangerous even, like once you said them out loud, they'd become real in a way you couldn't take back.
"It's my brother," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "He... he got involved with some people. Bad people. They gave him money for something (I don't even know what) and now they're threatening him because he can't pay them back."
Jungkook's expression didn't change, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
"Who are they?" he asked quietly. "The people threatening him."
You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. "I don't know all their names, but my brother mentioned a few. There's someone called Dex. He's the main one, I think. The one who gave him the money initially. And there are a couple others who've been calling and showing up. They operate out of some bar or club off campus. I don't know exactly where, but it's supposedly near the old industrial district." You met his eyes. "They're into money lending with ridiculous interest rates. My brother said they also deal in... other things. Drugs, maybe. I don't know for sure, but he was terrified when he told me about them."
"How much does he owe them?"
"I don't know exactly. A lot. More than either of us has." You pressed your palms against your eyes again, trying to stop the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. "He's scared. Really scared. And I don't know what to do. I've been trying to figure it out all week, but I just... I can't..."
Your voice broke, and you couldn't continue.
Jungkook was quiet for a long moment. When you finally looked up at him, his lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes distant, like he was calculating something, running through options in his head.
And then you really looked at him.
Had he always been this handsome?
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. But now that you'd noticed, you couldn't un-see it. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the afternoon light caught the angles of his face. The intensity in his dark eyes, the way they seemed to hold entire universes when he focused on something. Or someone.
No wonder everyone on campus seemed to orbit around him despite his reputation. No wonder girls whispered about him in the dining hall, wrote his name in their journals, dreamed about being the one to finally pin him down.
You'd never understood it before. Had actively judged them for it, if you were being honest. How could they overlook everything he represented just because he was attractive?
But now, sitting here, with him looking at you like your problems were his problems, like he'd move mountains if you asked him to, you understood. Kind of.
There was something almost magical about the way he existed in the world. Untouchable and yet completely present. Confident in a way that bordered on arrogant but somehow never quite crossed that line when it mattered.
Stop it, you told yourself firmly. Stop thinking like that. This is exactly how people get hurt.
"I know those people," Jungkook said suddenly, pulling you back to reality.
You blinked. "What?"
"The ones your brother owes money to. I know them." His expression was unreadable now, carefully neutral. "I can get him out of it."
Your heart stopped. "No."
"Yes."
"Jungkook, no." You stood up abruptly, the papers nearly sliding from your lap. "You can't... you shouldn't... this isn't your problem."
"Seems like it's about to be." He stood too, infuriatingly calm. "I'll talk to them. They'll listen to me."
"Why would they listen to you?" The question came out sharper than you intended, edged with something close to panic. Because if he knew these people, if they'd listen to him, that meant...
You didn't want to finish that thought.
"Because I'm extremely charming," he said with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And devastatingly handsome. You said so yourself."
"I absolutely did not..."
"You were thinking it. I could tell." The smile widened, becoming more genuine. "Don't worry, I'm used to it. The effect I have on people can be overwhelming."
Despite everything (despite the terror coiling in your stomach, despite the moral alarm bells ringing in your head) you felt your lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost.
"This isn't a joke," you said, trying to sound firm. "These are dangerous people. You can't just walk up to them and... and charm them into letting my brother go."
"Watch me." There was something fierce in his expression now, something that made your breath catch. Not arrogance. Confidence. Pure, unshakeable confidence that he could do exactly what he said he'd do.
"Jungkook, please." You grabbed his arm without thinking. "This is too much. You barely know me. You don't owe me anything. You can't put yourself at risk for..."
"For you?" He looked down at your hand on his arm, then back up at your face. "Yeah, actually, I can. And I will."
"But..."
"No buts. Consider it done." He gently removed your hand from his arm, but his fingers lingered on yours for just a second too long. "Go turn in your paper. I'll handle the rest."
"You can't just..."
But he was already walking away, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like he'd just agreed to pick up coffee, not confront dangerous criminals on behalf of someone else's brother.
You stood there in the hallway, papers clutched to your chest, watching him disappear around the corner.
And for the first time in a week, the fear wasn't about your brother.
It was about the boy who'd just walked away. The boy who seemed to think he was invincible, who threw himself into danger with a smile and a joke, who looked at you like you were worth saving.
What had you done?
You didn't hear from Jungkook for the rest of the day.
At first, you told yourself it was fine. He was probably in class, or busy, or dealing with whatever he'd promised to deal with. But as the hours ticked by and your phone remained silent, the knot in your stomach grew tighter. Worse thoughts crept in uninvited: maybe he was at some party, maybe he'd already forgotten about you and your problems, maybe he was with someone else, tangled up in someone else's sheets, laughing at something they said, not thinking about you at all.
By evening, you'd convinced yourself something terrible had happened.
You tried to focus on other things: homework, dinner with your roommate, the Bible study group chat that was planning next week's meeting. But your mind kept circling back to Jungkook. To the casual way he'd walked away. To the confidence in his voice when he said he'd handle it.
What if that confidence had been misplaced? What if those people were more dangerous than he'd anticipated? What if he was hurt, or worse, and you were the reason?
Stop, you commanded yourself. Stop spiraling.
But you couldn't.
Around 9 PM, you finally broke down and did something you'd never imagined doing: you started asking around for Jungkook's number.
It was embarrassing. Humiliating, even. You'd spent two years carefully maintaining your distance from people like him and his world, and now here you were, approaching mutual acquaintances with increasingly desperate questions.
"Hey, do you happen to have Jungkook's number?"
Most people gave you strange looks. A few smirked knowingly, like they thought they understood what was happening. One girl from your sociology class raised her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.
"You want Jungkook's number?" she'd said, voice dripping with disbelief and barely concealed amusement.
You'd wanted to explain, to defend yourself, to make it clear this wasn't what it looked like. But you couldn't. Not without explaining about your brother, about the loan sharks, about everything you'd been trying to keep private.
So you just nodded, face burning, and accepted the number she eventually pulled up on her phone.
You texted him immediately.
Hey, this is Y/N. Are you okay? Please let me know you're safe.
No response.
You waited fifteen minutes, anxiety climbing with each passing second, then called.
Straight to voicemail.
You called again. And again. Each time, the same automated message, the same hollow beep inviting you to leave a message you didn't know how to articulate.
By midnight, you'd sent six texts and made twelve calls. Your roommate had given up trying to comfort you and had gone to bed, leaving you alone with your phone and your spiraling thoughts.
You barely slept. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jungkook's face: confident, smiling, completely unafraid. And then you saw it changing, crumpling, as faceless men with cruel intentions closed in around him.
This is your fault, the voice in your head whispered. You should never have told him. You should have figured it out yourself. Now he's hurt because of you.
The next morning came grey and cold, matching your mood perfectly. You dragged yourself through your routine on autopilot: shower, coffee, pretending to eat breakfast while your stomach churned with anxiety.
Your phone rang at 10:47 AM.
You lunged for it so fast you nearly knocked over your coffee mug, heart hammering against your ribs. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number, but you didn't care. Maybe it was Jungkook calling from someone else's phone. Maybe...
"Hello?" Your voice came out breathless, desperate.
"Y/N!"
You froze. Not Jungkook. Eliot.
Your brother's voice was bright, almost manic with happiness. It was a tone you hadn't heard from him in weeks. Maybe months.
"Yes, Eliot?" you managed, trying to mask your disappointment. Trying to focus on the fact that your brother was calling, which meant he was alive, which should have been a relief. But all you could think was: Not Jungkook. It's not Jungkook.
"I just... God, I had to call you. I had to tell you." He was talking fast, words tumbling over each other. "You're the best sister in the entire world. Like, actually. I don't tell you that enough, but you are. I love you so much. I'm so lucky to have you."
Your grip on the phone tightened. "Eliot, what happened?"
"They let me go!" The joy in his voice was almost painful to hear. "The guys who were after me, they just... they said I'm free. The debt's gone. Just like that. They said I can't ever take money from them again, but who cares? I can live with that. I'll happily live with that. I'm free, Y/N. I'm actually free."
The world seemed to tilt slightly. You sat down heavily on your bed, pressing the phone so tight against your ear it hurt.
"How?" The word came out barely audible. "How is that possible?"
"That's the crazy part." Eliot laughed, the sound bright and unburdened. "This guy showed up yesterday. Jungkook, his name was. He talked to Dex and the others, and I don't know what he said or did, but after that they just... backed off. Completely. They told me the slate's wiped clean. They actually apologized for scaring me." He laughed again, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "Can you believe that? They apologized."
Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs.
"Jungkook," you repeated numbly.
"Yeah! I didn't know who he was at first, but then I looked him up and found out he goes to your college. So I figured..." Eliot's voice took on a teasing quality. "Is he your boyfriend? You've been holding out on me, sis. I didn't even know you were seeing anyone."
"He's not..." you started, but the words caught in your throat.
Because what was Jungkook, exactly? Not your boyfriend. Not even really your friend. He was someone who'd seen you break down in a hallway and decided to walk straight into danger for you. Someone who'd disappeared for over twenty-four hours while dealing with criminals on your behalf. Someone you'd called twelve times last night, each unanswered ring feeling like a small death.
Someone you'd been terrified for in a way that felt far too intense for someone who was supposedly nothing to you.
"He's just a classmate," you finally managed, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. "Someone I know from school."
"Well, your 'classmate' saved my life." Eliot's voice went serious, the joy dimming just slightly. "I mean it, Y/N. Those guys were going to hurt me. Really hurt me. And now I'm free because of him. Because of you, probably. I'm guessing you asked him to help?"
"I... yes. Sort of. It's complicated."
"Well, uncomplicate it long enough to tell him thank you from me, okay? Tell him I owe him. Big time." He paused. "And thank you. For everything. For caring enough to help even when I got myself into this stupid mess."
"Eliot..."
"I know, I know. I'll be more careful. I'll make better choices. I promise." He sounded like he meant it. "I love you, sis."
"I love you too," you whispered.
After he hung up, you sat there on your bed, phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the silence.
Jungkook had done it. He'd actually done it.
Your brother was safe. Free. The nightmare that had been consuming you for weeks was over, just like that, because one boy had decided you were worth helping.
But where was he? Why hadn't he called? Why hadn't he answered any of your messages?
The relief you should have felt was tangled up with a different kind of fear now, sharper, more personal. Because somewhere in the past twenty-four hours, between the coffee-stained papers and the desperate phone calls and the image of Jungkook walking away like he had nothing to lose, something had shifted.
You cared about him. Really cared. In a way that felt dangerous and inevitable and completely, utterly terrifying.
And you had no idea if he was okay.
The second day of silence was unbearable.
You'd tried everything. Texted again. Called again. Even considered reaching out to people who might know him better, but you didn't know who those people were. Your worlds had never overlapped before this, before he'd decided to crash into yours like a force of nature, upending everything.
By mid-afternoon, desperation had overtaken dignity.
You found yourself walking toward the dining hall with your heart in your throat, hands clenched at your sides. It was a long shot, a prayer thrown into the void. Jungkook's circle rarely ate there. They preferred off-campus spots, places with more privacy and fewer rules. But maybe, just maybe, if God was listening...
You pushed through the double doors, scanning the crowded space.
And there they were.
Your breath caught. At a corner table near the windows: Hoseok, Jimin, and Taehyung. The golden trinity of Jungkook's inner circle, minus their centerpiece. They were mid-conversation, Hoseok gesturing animatedly about something while Jimin laughed and Taehyung leaned back in his chair with that effortlessly cool posture he always had.
Your feet were moving before you could talk yourself out of it.
As you approached, Hoseok was the first to notice you. His hands froze mid-gesture, the smile sliding off his face so quickly it was almost comical. Jimin's laughter cut off abruptly. Taehyung's eyes found you and something flickered there. Surprise, maybe, or something harder to name.
The three of them stared at you like you were a ghost materializing at their table.
"Hi," you said, hating how breathless you sounded. How desperate. But you were past caring. "Sorry to interrupt. I just need to ask you something."
Hoseok recovered first, his expression smoothing into something carefully neutral. "Y/N. Hey. What's up?"
You focused on him, the friendliest face of the three. "Where's Jungkook?"
The question hung in the air.
Instead of answering, Hoseok's eyes cut to Jimin. Then to Taehyung. Some silent communication passed between them, too quick for you to decipher. Your stomach twisted.
"What?" you demanded. "What was that? Why are you looking at each other like that?"
Hoseok cleared his throat. "I, uh... I haven't heard from him since last week."
Last week. Last week.
Something inside you snapped.
"Last week?" Your voice came out sharper than you'd intended, loud enough to turn a few heads at nearby tables. You didn't care. "What kind of friends are you? How do you not know where he is? He could be hurt. He could be in trouble." You cut yourself off, chest tight. "And you're just sitting here eating lunch like everything's fine?"
Jimin leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Why are you looking for him?" His eyes searched your face. "Are you mad at him? Did he do something?"
"I'm not mad," you said, frustration bleeding into every word. "I'm worried. I'm worried because he helped me with something and now he's gone and he won't answer his phone and I don't know if he's okay."
"Fuck."
The word came from Taehyung, sharp and annoyed. You turned to find him looking at his watch, jaw tight, then looking back up at you with an expression that made your skin prickle. Like you'd done something wrong. Like you were the problem here.
"What?" you asked, defensive now. "What's your problem?"
Taehyung just shook his head, mouth pressed into a thin line, still looking at you like you were a complication he hadn't accounted for.
"Whatever," you muttered, stepping back from their table. Your hands were shaking. "Thanks for nothing."
You turned and walked away, their stares burning into your back.
Weirdos, you thought viciously. What kind of friends don't even know where their best friend is?
But beneath the anger, fear coiled tighter in your chest.
Because if even they didn't know where Jungkook was, if even the people closest to him had no idea, then where the hell could he be?
—
By the third day, you were unraveling.
Sleep had become impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jungkook walking away from you in that hallway, shoulders squared like he was heading into battle. Every time you opened them, you reached for your phone, hoping and praying for a message that never came.
You'd exhausted every option. Called again. Texted again. Even walked past his usual haunts on campus: the library corner he sometimes occupied, the coffee shop he frequented, the parking lot where his motorcycle usually sat. Nothing. It was like he'd vanished into thin air.
There was only one place left.
The thought had been creeping around the edges of your mind for hours now, growing louder with each passing minute. The Jeon family mansion. You'd heard about it in passing: whispered references, casual mentions from people who moved in those circles. You'd never been there. Never had any reason to be.
You weren't even sure regular people were allowed there. But you were about to find out.
The address had been surprisingly easy to find. A quick search online, public records, the kind of information that was technically available but felt forbidden to access. You'd stared at it on your phone screen for a full minute before copying it into your maps app.
The drive took forty minutes, each one feeling like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once.
The neighborhood changed gradually as you went, buildings growing sparser, lots growing larger, until suddenly you weren't in a neighborhood anymore. You were in an entirely different world. Tall iron gates. Long driveways disappearing into private forests. Houses so large they barely qualified as houses anymore.
And then you saw it.
The Jeon mansion sat at the end of a tree-lined drive, and calling it a house felt like a fundamental misunderstanding of language. It was massive. Three stories of pristine white stone and floor-to-ceiling windows, with wings extending in both directions like outstretched arms. Perfectly manicured gardens flanked the circular driveway. A fountain sat in the center, water cascading down multiple tiers in an elegant display that probably cost more than your family's entire house.
Your car felt absurdly small as you pulled up to the front entrance, the tires crunching on gravel that looked like it had been individually polished.
For a long moment, you just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring up at the imposing structure before you.
You'd known Jungkook was rich. He wore designer clothes like they were an afterthought, drove a motorcycle that cost more than a year's tuition, carried himself with the kind of ease that only came from never having to worry about money. You'd known.
But this...
This wasn't just rich. This was generational wealth. Old money. The kind of different that made the gap between your worlds feel less like a distance and more like an ocean.
What were you even doing here? Who were you to show up at a place like this, demanding to see someone who lived in a world you could barely comprehend? You didn't belong here. This wasn't your space, your life, your world.
He might be in danger because of you.
The thought cut through your spiral like a knife.
He'd walked into that situation for you. He'd faced down criminals, wiped out your brother's debt, disappeared for three days without a word, all because you'd asked him to help. Because he'd seen you breaking down in a hallway and decided you were worth the risk.
If he was hurt, if he was in trouble, if something had happened to him because he'd helped you...You couldn't just turn around. You couldn't just leave.Before you could second-guess yourself again, you got out of the car.
The front door was enormous. Solid wood with intricate carvings, flanked by columns that belonged in a museum. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the doorbell, which was actually an intercom system with a small camera.
You pressed it. Heard a soft chime echo somewhere inside.
For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then a voice crackled through the speaker, male, older, professionally polite. "May I help you?"
"Hi, I'm..." Your voice came out rough. You cleared your throat. "My name is Y/N. I'm here to see Jungkook. Please."
Another pause. You could almost feel yourself being assessed through the camera, judged, measured.
Then: "One moment, please."
The silence that followed felt eternal. You stood there on the doorstep, hands clasped in front of you to stop them from shaking, wondering if they were about to politely tell you to leave. Wondering if you'd just made a huge mistake.
But then you heard the distinctive sound of a lock disengaging. The door swung open smoothly, revealing a man in his sixties wearing an impeccably tailored suit. A butler. An actual butler.
"Miss Y/N," he said with a slight bow. "Please, come in."
You stepped inside, and the entry hall alone was bigger than your entire apartment. Marble floors gleamed under a crystal chandelier. A grand staircase curved upward to your right. Artwork that looked like it belonged in galleries lined the walls.
The butler closed the door behind you with a soft click that felt oddly final.
"You're here to see young master Jungkook?" he asked.
"Yes." The word came out desperate. "Is he here? Is he okay?"
Something in the butler's expression softened. "Master Jungkook is home, yes."
The relief that crashed through you was so intense you nearly swayed. He's here. He's alive. He's home.
"Thank God," you breathed. "Can I see him? Please?"
The butler hesitated, and dread crept back in.
"He is currently resting," the man said carefully. "In bed, actually. He's been... unwell, and requires peace and quiet. No stress." His eyes met yours, kind but firm. "If you wish to see him, I must ask that you not worry him or cause any disturbance. He needs rest above all else."
Unwell. In bed. Needs rest.
Your heart clenched. "What happened? Is he hurt?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the young master's condition," the butler said gently. "But if you promise to keep your visit brief and calm, I can take you to him."
You nodded quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Yes. I promise. I just need to see him. I need to know he's okay."
The butler studied you for another moment, then nodded. "Very well. Please, follow me."
He led you through hallways that seemed to stretch on forever, past rooms with doors closed against mysteries you couldn't begin to imagine. Up the grand staircase, down another corridor lined with family portraits. Serious faces in expensive frames, generations of Jeons staring down with expressions that ranged from stern to imperious.
Finally, the butler stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. Dark wood, understated compared to the ornate entrance downstairs, but somehow more intimate because of it.
"Master Jungkook's room," he said quietly. Then, with a pointed look: "Remember. Brief and calm."
"I will," you promised.
He knocked twice, then opened the door just enough to speak through. "Master Jungkook, you have a visitor. Miss Y/N."
You couldn't hear the response, but the butler stepped back and gestured you inside.
"I'll leave you two alone," he said, and there was something almost paternal in his expression. "But please do keep your voice down."
You nodded, throat too tight to speak.The door opened wider, and you stepped inside. The butler closed it behind you with a soft click, and suddenly you were alone in Jungkook's bedroom.
It was large. Of course it was large. But not ostentatious. Dark wood furniture, clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the gardens. A bookshelf packed with worn paperbacks. A desk with a laptop and scattered papers. It felt lived-in, personal, his in a way the rest of the house hadn't.
And there, in the center of it all, was Jungkook.
He was sitting up in bed, pillows propped behind him, wearing a simple white t-shirt. A book lay open in his lap. Some thick fantasy novel with a dragon on the cover. His hair was messy, unstyled, falling into his eyes. He looked up as you entered, and for a split second, his expression was pure surprise.
But he looked fine.
No visible injuries. No bruises. No blood. No broken bones. He looked perfectly, completely, maddeningly fine.
Something inside you broke.
"You..." The word came out choked. Your feet were moving before your brain caught up, carrying you across the room in a rush. "You asshole!"
"Y/N, what..."
You didn't let him finish. You reached the bed and threw yourself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, face burying against his neck. The book tumbled off the bed with a soft thud.
"You're okay," you gasped against his skin. "You're okay, you're..."
For a moment, Jungkook just sat there, frozen in shock. Then his arms came up around you, tentative at first, then tighter. Much tighter. Like he was trying to convince himself you were real.
"Hey," he said softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. "Hey, I'm okay. I'm fine."
That's when the tears came.
They hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and suddenly you were sobbing into his shoulder like a child. All the fear, all the worry, all the sleepless nights and unanswered calls and terrible imaginings came pouring out in great, heaving gasps.
"You disappeared," you choked out between sobs. "You just... you walked away and you didn't answer your phone and I didn't know if you were hurt or dead or..."
"I know," Jungkook murmured, his hand moving to rub soothing circles on your back. "I know, I'm sorry."
"Three days, Jungkook! Three days of nothing! Do you have any idea what I thought? What I..." You pulled back just enough to hit his chest with your fist, not hard, just desperate. "You stupid, reckless, idiotic..."
"I know." His voice was gentle, patient, like he was calming a frightened animal. His arms tightened around you again. "I know. I'm sorry."
You couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "You could have been killed. You could have been hurt. You walked into that place for me and I didn't even know if you made it out and..."
"But I did." He pulled you closer, until there was no space between you at all. "I made it out. I'm here. I'm okay."
Slowly, your sobs began to quiet, settling into shaky breaths. You pulled back just enough to look at him, really look at him, searching his face for any sign of injury you might have missed.
His eyes were dark and soft, fixed on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. Your gaze dropped involuntarily to his lips.
"Hey." Jungkook's voice was quieter now, almost tender. One hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away the tears still tracking down your cheeks. "Why are you crying like this? You think I'd let myself get hurt that easily?"
A laugh bubbled out of him then, low and a little cocky, so incredibly him that it made your chest ache.
"You really thought I wouldn't come back?" he continued, eyes crinkling with amusement even as his thumb kept wiping your tears. "Come on, Y/N. You think I'd let you go that easily? Not a chance. Only in your dreams."
The audacity of it. The sheer nerve of him to joke right now. It made you want to hit him again. So you did, your fist connecting with his shoulder in a light punch.
"Ow!" Jungkook immediately recoiled, face contorting in exaggerated pain. His hand flew to his shoulder like you'd actually wounded him. "Shit, that hurt..."
Your heart stopped. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... did I hurt you? Are you..."
But then you saw it: the corner of his mouth twitching. The barely suppressed smile.
He was faking.
"You..." You shoved him, not hard, just enough to make your point. "You asshole! I thought I actually hurt you!"
Jungkook burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine and so alive it made something in your chest settle. "Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist. Your face was..."
"Not funny!" But you were fighting a smile now too, even as fresh tears threatened to spill. "God, I hate you."
"No you don't." He was still grinning, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You took a shaky breath, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. "Why weren't you answering your phone? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
The smile faded from his face, replaced by something more serious. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.
"My phone's gone," he said. "Lost it during the altercation."
"Altercation," you repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"They tried to fight me," Jungkook continued, his voice taking on a matter-of-fact quality. "When I showed up to clear your brother's debt. Thought they could intimidate me, push me around." He shrugged. "Didn't go well for them."
Your heart clenched. "Did they hurt you?"
"No." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "Once they realized who I was, who my family is, they backed off pretty quick. But by then my phone was already smashed. And I just... I needed some time to rest. To decompress."
"You could have borrowed someone's phone," you said, but the anger had drained out of your voice. Now you just sounded tired. "You could have let me know you were okay."
"I know." He reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "I'm sorry. I didn't think... I didn't realize you'd worry this much."
Fresh tears welled up in your eyes. "Of course I worried, you idiot. You walked into a dangerous situation because of me and then disappeared for three days. What did you think I'd do?"
"Hey, hey, no more crying." But even as he said it, his own voice was rough. He pulled you back against his chest, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other hand coming up to cradle your head. "I'm fine. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You let yourself sink into him, let yourself believe it. He was warm and solid and alive, and for the first time in three days, you could breathe properly.
"I'm okay," he murmured into your hair. "I promise. I'm okay."
You nodded against his chest, not trusting your voice.
For a long moment, you just stayed like that, wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The fear that had gripped you for three days was finally loosening its hold, replaced by something warmer, something safer.
"Come here," Jungkook said softly, shifting back against the pillows. "Lie down. You look exhausted."
You hesitated for only a second before letting him guide you down onto the bed beside him. He was right. You wereexhausted. Three days of barely sleeping, of constant worry, had left you hollowed out.
The moment your head hit the pillow, something in you settled. His bed was soft, the sheets cool against your skin, and he was right there, solid and warm and alive. Right now, no other place in the world could be as safe and sound as being around him.
"See?" Jungkook's voice carried that familiar cocky edge as he settled beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. "I told you I'm fine. You worried for nothing."
"I didn't worry for nothing," you mumbled, but there was no heat in it. You turned onto your side to face him, taking in the sight of him. Really looking at him now that the panic had subsided.
He looked soft like this. Without the usual bravado and swagger he wore around campus. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. His expression was gentle, almost tender as he watched you. There was something about being in his space, in his bed, that made everything feel more intimate. More real.
You found comfort in this safe embrace of his, in the way his presence alone seemed to quiet all the noise in your head. Your eyes traced the lines of his face. The sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips.
Those lips.
Before you could second-guess yourself, before logic could catch up with impulse, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Jungkook went completely still, clearly startled by the sudden contact. For a split second, you thought you'd made a terrible mistake.
But then he responded.
His hand came up to cup your face, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you back with an intensity that made your head spin. His other hand pushed the forgotten book off the bed completely, sending it tumbling to the floor with a muted thud.
The kiss deepened, became something more urgent, more real. His lips were soft but firm, moving against yours with a confidence that made your breath catch. You felt his tongue brush against your lower lip and you opened for him without thinking, letting him in.
Heat bloomed in your core. Unfamiliar, overwhelming, terrifying in its intensity. You'd never felt anything like this before. Never wanted anything like you wanted this, wanted him.
Your hand found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent shivers down your spine.
His breath was coming faster now, matching yours. You could feel his heart racing under your palm, could feel the tension coiling in his body as he held himself back.
Then suddenly, he pulled away.
Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, to put a breath of space between you. His hand was still cradling your face, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting.
"Y/N." His voice came out rough, strained, like gravel scraping against his throat. A warning. "If you don't want this... if you want to stop... we need to stop now."
His eyes locked onto yours, dark as midnight, pupils blown wide with raw hunger. But beneath that fire, you saw the iron grip of control, the restraint he was barely holding onto. He was handing you an escape, even as his body thrummed with the need to claim you, to bury himself deep inside your heat.
"Because if we don't stop now," he continued, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing path across your cheekbone, "I don't know if I'll be able to pull back."
"No," you whispered, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like a lifeline. "I want this. I want you. Every inch of you, pounding into me until I can't remember my own name."
Something snapped in his expression, that fragile control fracturing like glass under pressure. Then his mouth crashed against yours, the kiss brutal and desperate, tongues tangling in a wet, frantic dance.
His hands shoved under your shirt, palms scorching your bare skin, rough calluses dragging sparks of electricity across your sides. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his growl as he pressed his hard length against your thigh, letting you feel the thick ridge of his cock straining through his jeans.
"Tell me if you want to stop," he murmured against your swollen lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Any time. Just say the word, and I'll fucking stop."
You nodded, words lost in the storm of your pounding heart, the way it hammered against your ribs like it was trying to break free and fuse with his.
His fingers hooked the hem of your shirt, and he paused, eyes searching yours one last time. A silent question hanging in the thick air. You raised your arms in silent permission, and he yanked it over your head, flinging it across the room without a second thought.
For a heartbeat, he just stared, his gaze raking over you like a physical touch, intense enough to make your skin prickle and your nipples tighten into hard peaks. You fought the urge to shield yourself, but before insecurity could take root, he descended, lips brushing yours in a softer kiss that quickly ignited into something deeper, hungrier.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed against your flushed skin, voice thick with awe and lust. "So fucking beautiful, I could devour you whole."
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you held his gaze, emboldened by the raw desire in his eyes. His hands roamed the dip of your waist, tracing the flare of your hips, then up along your ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts.
With a flick of his fingers, he unclasped your bra, letting the straps slide down your shoulders. It pooled at your elbows before you shrugged it off, baring your chest to him completely. Your breasts felt heavy, aching under his scrutiny, nipples begging for attention.
"Jungkook..."
"I've got you," he said quietly, the words a vow etched in the air between you. "I promise. Now let me worship this body like it deserves."
His mouth descended on your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin before soothing it with his tongue, hot and insistent. He trailed lower, lips ghosting over your collarbone, then latching onto the swell of one breast.
His tongue circled your nipple, flicking it with deliberate pressure before sucking it deep into his wet mouth. You arched into him, a sharp moan ripping from your throat, the pull of his lips sending jolts straight to your core, where slick heat was already pooling between your thighs.
Everything blurred into pure sensation: the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the firm grip of his hands kneading your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers until they throbbed. He switched to the other side, lavishing it with the same attention, his cock grinding against your leg in rhythm with his sucks, the friction making him groan low in his chest.
Your fingers wove into his dark hair, tugging as he kissed a scorching path down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel before continuing lower. When his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, you lifted your hips eagerly, helping him peel them down along with your soaked panties.
The cool air kissed your exposed pussy, making you shiver, but the distant echo of your religious upbringing faded to nothing against the roar of need in your veins. This was right. This was you, alive and burning.
"Still okay?" Jungkook asked, his voice a gravelly rasp, eyes fixed on your glistening folds like a man starved.
"Yes," you managed, voice breathy and broken. "Don't stop. Please, I need your mouth on me."
He parted your thighs wider, settling between them, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin. He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. Higher now, his lips brushing the crease where thigh met core, teasing, drawing out the anticipation until your clit pulsed with desperate want.
Then his tongue finally touched you, flat and broad, licking a slow stripe up your slit from entrance to clit.
You cried out, back bowing off the bed as stars burst behind your eyelids. He groaned against your pussy, the deep vibration humming through your clit, making your walls clench around nothing.
"Fuck," you gasped, the curse tumbling free without shame. Nothing had ever felt like this, his hot mouth devouring you, tongue swirling around your swollen clit with expert flicks that had your toes curling.
He lapped at you greedily, sucking your clit between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to edge the pleasure into something sharper, more intense. Your hips bucked, chasing the pressure, but his strong hands pinned you down, forearms flexing against your thighs as he held you open for his feast. Slick coated his chin, your arousal dripping down to your ass, but he didn't care, plunging his tongue inside your tight heat, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts that mimicked what you craved from his cock.
One thick finger breached you then, sliding through your wetness with ease, stretching you deliciously. You keened, the sound raw and animalistic, hips grinding down to take him deeper. He curled it upward, stroking that spongy spot inside that made your vision blur, and added a second finger, scissoring them to open you up, the burn blending with bliss.
Pressure built like a storm, coiling tight in your belly, every nerve alight as his fingers pumped faster, thumb circling your clit in tandem. Your thighs trembled, breaths coming in short, desperate pants, the room filled with the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers working you over.
"Come for me, baby," he murmured against your folds, voice muffled but commanding. "Let me feel this pussy squeeze my fingers while you scream."
It shattered you. The orgasm ripped through like lightning, waves of ecstasy crashing over you, your walls fluttering and gushing around his digits. You thrashed, crying out his name in a broken wail, tears spilling hot down your temples as pleasure consumed you whole, leaving you boneless and quivering.
When the aftershocks finally ebbed, you were a trembling mess, chest heaving. Jungkook crawled up your body, kissing your stomach with tender reverence, then your ribs, nuzzling into the valley between your breasts before reaching your face. He licked your tears away, murmuring praises you could barely process through the haze.
"You okay?" he asked softly, fingers combing your damp hair back, eyes searching yours with gentle concern.
You nodded, words still beyond you, your body humming with ethereal glow, every inch sated yet already craving more of him.
Your body still thrummed with the echoes of that shattering release, every muscle loose and heavy, but the ache deep inside refused to fade. It pulsed hotter now, demanding more, urging you to pull him closer, to feel him stretch you open and claim every inch.
Jungkook hovered above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, eyes locked on yours with a mix of tenderness and feral need. You reached for him, fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, tugging him up from between your thighs. The slick evidence of your pleasure smeared across his chin, his lips swollen and glistening, and the sight made your core clench with fresh hunger.
"Please," you whispered, voice raw and honest, stripped bare by the vulnerability of it all. "I need you inside me. Now. Fill me up until I can't think straight."
He groaned, low and guttural, his restraint cracking further at your plea. But he moved with deliberate slowness, muscles flexing under his skin as he shifted up your body, caging you in with his arms. "Easy, baby," he murmured, voice thick with effort, like holding back was pure torture. "We take this slow. Don't want to hurt you. Not when you're this perfect, this ready for me."
His playful smirk flickered, but his eyes burned with desire, pupils dark pools that promised ruin. He brought his fingers to his mouth, the same ones that had just fucked you through your orgasm, and sucked them clean with a deliberate swirl of his tongue, tasting you on his skin. The wet pop as he pulled them free sent a shiver racing down your spine.
He trailed those fingers lower, over your heaving breasts, pinching a nipple hard enough to draw a gasp, then down the quivering plane of your stomach. They circled your entrance, slick and swollen, teasing the sensitive folds before pressing one inside. Your walls fluttered around it, still hypersensitive, the intrusion sparking fresh sparks of pleasure that made your hips twitch.
"So tight," he breathed, pumping that finger in and out with agonizing leisure, watching your face twist in bliss. "Gonna feel so good wrapped around my cock."
You moaned, the sound desperate, arching into his hand as he added a second finger, stretching you wider, the burn delicious and insistent. "Twist them," you begged, voice breaking. "Deeper. Prepare me for you."
He curled them just right, stroking that inner spot that made your toes curl and your breath hitch. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in firm circles that had you grinding against his palm, chasing the building pressure. "Fuck, yes," you panted, exposing yourself fully, legs falling open wider in invitation. "I want all of you. Take me."
Jungkook's gaze darkened, admiration flashing hot as he drank in your willingness, your abandon. "You're incredible," he rasped, gripping your thigh with his free hand, nails digging into the soft flesh. "So open for me. So mine."
He withdrew his fingers slowly, the drag pulling a whine from your throat, leaving you achingly empty. Then he shifted, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and veined, the head flushed dark red and leaking pre-cum, curving up toward his taut abs. He fisted it at the base, guiding the blunt tip to your entrance, rubbing it through your folds, coating himself in your arousal.
Teasing you with just the tip, he nudged inside barely an inch, the stretch immediate and intoxicating. You both gasped, breaths mingling in the charged air. "Okay?" he asked, voice strained, forehead beading with sweat as he fought the urge to thrust.
"Yes," you breathed, nodding frantically, hands roaming his back, nails scraping lightly. "More. Give me everything."
He pushed in then, inch by torturous inch, his girth splitting you open, filling you so completely that stars danced at the edges of your vision. The sensation was overwhelming: the hot slide of skin on skin, the way your walls gripped him like a vice, fluttering around his length as he sank deeper. You felt every ridge, every pulse of his cock as it claimed you, bottoming out with a shared groan when his hips met yours.
Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his ass to pull him closer, adjusting the angle until he hit that perfect spot inside. A sharp gasp tore from you, pleasure spiking white-hot, your pussy clenching around him in response.
Jungkook paused, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, breaths harsh against your lips. "You feel... fuck, so good. Taking me like this." He kissed you then, slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a mimicry of what joined your bodies, his hips rocking in tiny circles that ground his pubic bone against your clit.
"You okay?" he whispered against your mouth, one hand cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheek with aching gentleness. "Tell me if it's too much."
"Perfect," you murmured, voice husky, lost in the fullness of him. "You feel so big. So right. Move. Please."
He started with shallow thrusts, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room, obscene and intoxicating. Each drag sent ripples of ecstasy through you, his cockhead kissing your cervix on every plunge. Sweat slicked your skin where you connected, bodies sliding together in a rhythm that built like a storm.
"Faster," you urged, nails raking down his shoulders, leaving red trails that made him hiss in pleasure. "Harder. I can take it."
He obliged, pace quickening, hips snapping with more force, the slap of flesh echoing louder. He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he angled deeper, hitting every sensitive nerve. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples grazing his chest, adding friction that had you keening into him.
The friction was relentless, his thick length dragging along your walls, the head pounding that spot that made your vision blur. Pressure coiled tight in your core, hotter than before, every thrust pushing you higher, your clit throbbing against his grinding pelvis.
"Jungkook," you gasped, breaking the kiss, head falling back as stars exploded behind your eyes. "I'm close. Don't stop."
He growled, thrusts turning powerful, piston-like, one hand sliding under your ass to lift you, driving even deeper. "Come for me again," he demanded, voice wrecked, lips at your ear. "Milk my cock. Let me feel you shatter."
It hit you like a tidal wave, orgasm ripping through your body, walls convulsing around him in rhythmic squeezes that pulled him under too. You cried his name, a broken chant, trembling as ecstasy flooded every cell, gushing wetness around his pounding cock.
"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned, burying himself deep with a final, brutal thrust, spilling hot inside you, pulse after pulse of cum flooding your depths. His body shuddered against yours, hearts slamming in unison, the shared release binding you in sweat-soaked bliss.
He collapsed onto you gently, still sheathed inside, peppering your face with soft kisses as you both caught your breath, the afterglow wrapping you in warm, sated haze.
—
The next month felt like something out of a dream. Surreal, intoxicating, magical in ways you'd never imagined possible. You'd never thought you'd be dating someone, let alone Jungkook of all people. The campus bad boy who'd somehow become the person who knew you better than anyone.
He took care of you in ways you didn't know you needed. Small things: remembering how you liked your coffee, texting to make sure you'd eaten, showing up with your favorite snacks when you were stressed about exams. Big things: listening when you talked about your fears, holding you when the weight of everything became too much, making you feel seen in a way you'd never experienced before.
You'd never had that before. Not really. And it terrified you how much you'd come to depend on it, on him.
You still kept your distance on campus, not quite ready to go fully public. The thought of your church community finding out, of facing their judgment and disappointment, made your stomach twist with anxiety. But Jungkook never pushed, never complained. He'd just smile that soft smile reserved only for you and say he'd wait as long as you needed.
He'd give you rides to your dorm after late study sessions, his hand warm in yours in the privacy of his car. He'd take you on dates to places outside campus where no one would recognize you. Quiet cafes, hiking trails, that little bookshop you'd mentioned once in passing. He remembered everything.
Today he'd texted you to meet him by the arts building. Your heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when you saw his name on your screen, and you'd grabbed your bag with perhaps too much enthusiasm.
The late afternoon sun cast golden light across campus as you made your way toward the meeting spot. You spotted him easily. He always stood out, that magnetic presence impossible to ignore. But he wasn't alone.
Jimin was with him, and something about their body language made you slow your approach. They were standing close, voices low but intense. You couldn't hear what they were saying from this distance, but Jimin's expression was serious, almost concerned.
You should've announced yourself. Should've called out or texted that you were there. But something made you hesitate, made you drift closer without making your presence known.
"We haven't seen you in a month," Jimin was saying, shaking his head. "Isn't this too much devotion for a bet?"
The word hit you like a physical blow. Bet.
Your feet stopped moving. The world seemed to tilt sideways.
"She is not a bet." Jungkook's voice was sharp, dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. He grabbed Jimin's shirt, yanking him closer. "I told you. I love her."
"She doesn't know that she was a bet, right?" Jimin pulled away, his expression turning harder. "This isn't fair, Jungkook. If you truly love her, you should have said that..."
"Seriously, Jungkook." Your voice came out surprisingly steady, almost amused. You stepped into view, and both of them froze. "So I was a bet?"
You were laughing. Why were you laughing? Maybe because if you didn't laugh, you'd break completely. Maybe because this felt so absurdly, perfectly predictable. Of course this was too good to be true. Of course there was a catch.
The color drained from Jungkook's face. "Y/N..."
"No, please." You held up a hand, that hollow laugh still spilling from your lips. "Don't let me interrupt. I'm curious now. What were the terms? How much was I worth?"
"It's not like that..." Jungkook started toward you but you stepped back, and something in his expression shattered at the movement.
"Not like what?" Your voice was still light, conversational, even as your chest felt like it was caving in. "Not like you made a bet about me? Not like everything was a lie? Everything?"
"It was a bet." The words came out raw, desperate. "At first. I'm not going to lie to you about that. But Y/N, please, it stopped being about that the second I actually got to know you."
"When?" The question cracked through the air like a whip. "When did it stop being about the bet? After our first conversation? Our first date?" Your voice dropped, became something sharp and cruel. "After I slept with you?"
Jungkook flinched like you'd struck him, then stepped forward, closing the distance. "Don't. Don't do that."
"Why not?" You shoved him hard in the chest, your hands trembling. He stumbled back but immediately moved closer again. "I gave you everything. My first kiss, my virginity, my trust. Things I'd been saving my whole life because they meant something to me. And you..." Your voice finally broke. "It was all just part of winning a fucking bet."
"No." He grabbed your wrists as you tried to push him again, desperation bleeding through his touch. "No, Y/N, I love you. I love you. That's real. Everything between us is real."
"Let go of me!" You wrenched away from him, tears streaming down your face. "How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe anything you say when it all started with a lie? When I was just a game to you?"
"You weren't. You aren't..." He reached for you again but you backed away, laughing bitterly through your sobs.
"What was the prize, Jungkook? Money? Bragging rights?" Your voice turned vicious, sharp as broken glass. "Did you tell them? Did you tell your friends every detail? Did you laugh about how easy I was, how naive?"
"Stop it." His voice cracked, eyes wet. "I know I fucked up. I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have told you from the beginning. I should have..."
"You should have never started this." You were shaking now, rage and heartbreak warring inside you. "You took something sacred to me and turned it into a joke. You made me believe..." Your breath hitched. "You made me believe I mattered."
"You do matter. You're everything to me."
"Don't you dare." The words came out raw, feral. You stepped forward and shoved him again, harder this time. "Don't you dare say that to me. You don't get to pretend this meant something after what you did."
He caught your wrists again when you tried to push him a third time, holding on even as you struggled. "Please, Y/N. Please, just let me..."
"Let me go!" You finally broke free, stumbling backward. The tears were blinding you now, but you could still see his face. Stricken, devastated, guilty. "You ruined me, Jungkook. You made me question everything I believe in, made me go against everything I was raised to be, and it was all for a bet."
"It stopped being a bet..."
"I don't care when it stopped!" Your voice broke on a sob. "It never should have started! I trusted you with parts of myself I've never given anyone, and you used me. You used me."
"I didn't..."
"Yes, you did!" The scream tore from your throat. "And the worst part? I would have done anything for you. I loved you. I thought..." You laughed, the sound hollow and broken. "I actually thought you were different."
You turned away, vision blurred with tears, and started walking.
"Y/N, please!" His voice was ragged, desperate. You heard him following, his footsteps quick behind you. "Just let me explain..."
"Don't follow me." You didn't look back, didn't stop. "Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't look at me." Your voice dropped to something cold and final. "You're dead to me, Jungkook. Do you understand? Dead."
You kept walking, leaving him standing there in the golden afternoon light. Leaving behind the best month of your life.
Leaving behind the first person who'd ever made you feel like you mattered.
All of it built on a lie.
.
.
part 2 is here (with the best smut scene i ever wrote tbh) 🩵
SUℳMARY ╋━ You hated the fact you were invisible. Until you weren’t. He’s everywhere around you : on campus, online, in your head. You try to ignore him, try to be normal, try to pretend that the past doesn’t still hurt you. But he knows the effect he has on you. You keep on watching, wanting and losing control, and this boy doesn’t play fair.
PAIℛING ˖˙ ── Campus BadBoy/Streamer ! Jungkook x F ! Reader
NAVI | W.C 4K | 𓊈 PART 𝒪NE 𓊉 The past follows you everywhere, every day. With Valentine’s Day creeping closer, you can’t help but hope for something to change. Mistakes are made, words are said, and one thing is clear: Jeon Jungkook is nothing but trouble for you
TAGS / WARNINGS ╋━ COLLEGE AU, mentions of bullying, some angst, toxic relationships, cheating, suggestive content, sexual tension, slow burn, enemies to lovers ( ? ), jungkook is a jerk in this one, themes of obsession, humiliation, reader is mentally unstable pretty much, mentions of head ( m receiving ), implied masturbation. ( let me know if i missed anything )
You had thought the card was harmless. Cute, even. You had spent all night on it. Little hearts cut out from colored paper, shaky handwriting, a few dumb jokes, and then finally signing it with your name. You told yourself it was brave, so did you friend. That it was funny, that maybe it would make the most untouchable boy notice you and see you more than the person he could get info about missed courses from.
The next morning, you walked to him with the card in your hand, because you told yourself you shouldn't be afraid of how you felt. Big mistake. You tried to act normal, even though your hands were clammy from the glue and sweat, and your stomach refused to stop twisting.
"H—appy Valentine's Day." You squeak, handing him the neatly folded envelope. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes.
"This is some anime shit, dude." One of his friends snorted whilst motioning to the card in your hands.
He looked up with an eyebrow raised, stared at you with that look you had memorized over endless late nights at the library, that always spread across his face when you tried to explain to him basic algebra.
He took the card and opened it. A few seconds passed before Jungkook laughed, loud enough that you wished the floor would swallow you whole.
He then showed it to his friends as if you weren't literally standing one meter in front of him. "Look at this." he said. "Your enamored love bug." He coos, but you could tell by his voice there was nothing endearing in it. He was mocking you.
Your chest dropped. You wanted to grab the card back. Hide it, eat it. Crawl under a table. You froze instead. His friends laughed as he leaned back against the wall. "Can you believe this, guys? My own love bug."
You forced a smile. It was small and awkward, a twitch that probably made him find you even more pathetic. "I—uh… thought you might like it." You muster up the courage to finally say something.
He tilted his head at you, as if he was studying some strange creature never seen by humas before. "Like it?" he asked. "Yeah, I'm sure everyone's dying to see more of your little stupid notes."
You wanted to disappear. Even that was an understatement. You hadn’t even realized you were biting at your lower lip hard enough to draw some blood. You took in a long breath and snatched the card from his hands before storming off.
"Hey, I wanted to frame that, bug." He yells after you.
You couldn’t hold your tears in anymore, you had to let it out. Making a fool of yourself in front of all those people was enough, you weren't going to give them the satisfaction by seeing you cry.
Stupid brain. Stupid heart and stupid love bugs.
One year has passed since then. And yet, nothing had changed. A year later and he was still more popular than ever. Everyone at school knew his name, and almost everyone knew you as the bug.
It's funny, really. Before that you weren't even friends. Far from it. You hadn't even interacted much other than helping him with school work.
You hadn't talked since that day, not to him directly. Couldn't even look him in the eyes after that. And still, here you were, remembering, thinking, reliving that moment, wishing it could've went another way. Maybe that's what hurt the most : You were still in love with him.
You hated yourself for still thinking about him. Hated how your stomach flipped whenever he walked by you on campus, hated that it still mattered to you— that he mattered. Hated that all you were to him was a bug.
People were noticing you more than ever. Not because you’d changed, or because you wanted them to. Valentine's day was a couple of weeks away and people loved reliving 'nostalgic' moments, even if it may be torture for others.
It wasn't that much different than your day to day interactions but more people were getting cockier. Snide remarks and snarky comments popped up more often, all covered under the pretense that "it's just a joke" and "learn to live a little, bug"
But it wasn't all just a joke. It was cruel no matter how hard you tried to pretend it wasn't.
──────────────
Earlier today you were in the library, trying to focus, when Jungkook’s girlfriend slid past your table, holding a stack of notes. "Hey, bug." she said brightly, her voice not matching the look on her face. "What're doing? Need help figuring out whose enamored pest you'll be this year?" She pouts.
Yet, you smiled weakly and shook your head, pretending it didn’t get to you though it was obvious it did, and her smile couldn't be contained.
"Whatever keeps you busy. Try to stay away from Jungkook this year, yeah? Don't wanna give people like you the idea they'd ever have a chance with my boyfriend." She pats your back.
"If it makes you sleep better tonight, Sidney." You sigh, focusing your gaze back to your book. She snorts in response before poking your forehead repeatedly.
"Hey.." she kept poking.
Tears were already brimming at the corner of your eyes but you had to control them, otherwise she'd have yet another year's worth of material to bully you with.
"Don't try to get smart with me, bitch." Sidney whispers with a smile, like she didn't say what she just did. "If you want people to stop treating you like a pathetic loser then maybe stop acting like one."
"What do you want, Sidney?" You frown, tears threatening to fall as you swiftly look up at her, and she rolls her eyes.
"Nothing. Just hoped to remind you you're a freakazoid." She steps back before blowing you a kiss that you swear burned at least a layer of your skin off. "Bye, bug!"
You don’t cry until you’re back in your room. Just a few tears slipping out while you kick your shoes off and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the wall like it personally wronged you. You wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie and tell yourself to get over it. You’ve had worse days. You always do.
You open your laptop because you’re supposed to study. You even pull up your notes, scroll through them for a solid thirty seconds, pretend you’re locked in.
Then your cursor drifts. Muscle memory. One click, then another.
He’s live.
You don’t react right away, as if there's someone watching you and you're trying your best to not act desperate. You just sit there for a moment, staring at the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad like you might still close it if you wait long enough. But you don’t.
You lower the volume, like that makes this any better, and lean back in your chair. Jungkook’s in a dark hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess. He’s talking to the chat, reading messages out loud, saying what games he plans on playing, laughing at things that aren’t even that funny. You recognize the rhythm of it. When he leans closer to the camera. When he pulls back. When he pretends he didn’t see a comment but definitely did.
You’ve watched him enough to know.
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes glued to the screen, and let your brain quiet down for the first time all day. No Sidney, no whispers. no cruel jerks, just this. Just him talking.
"Relax, chat." He laughs, shaking his head. "I’m not ignoring you. I can’t read that fast." His smile is warm. You huff out a breath without thinking. Then freeze like someone might’ve heard you. Pathetic.
You shift in your seat, pulling one knee up, the glow of the screen washing over your face. It feels stupid how familiar this is. How natural. It's a routine you never agreed to but kept anyway.
Someone in the chat asks about Valentine’s Day and you tense without meaning to. He smirks, leaning back. "Valentine’s Day is overrated." He shrugs. "Too much pressure."
The chat explodes. You swallow, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. You wonder if he even remembers the card. If the nickname still means anything to him, or if it’s just background noise now. Something he laughs about with friends when he’s bored.
You don’t let yourself think about what he might say about you when you’re not around. You tell yourself that part doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t.
You shift in your chair, eyes still on the screen. He’s rambling now, talking about nothing in particular, answering questions you don’t care about. You don’t read the chat. You never do. You learned early on that it ruins things.
This is better. Just him. His voice filling your room.
You’ve done worse than this. You know that. Watching his lives late at night. Rewatching clips you saved without even realizing you were doing it. Memorizing the way his expression changes when he’s tired versus when he’s showing off. Noticing when he’s drunk. When he’s bored. When he’s feeling himself a little too much.
There was that one time and you try not to think about it, but your brain is cruel.
It had been a normal live, with no gaming and no setup. Just him sitting there, talking about nothing. You remember you were almost half studying, more than half listening.
At some point, he stood up. Stepped out of frame for a second and came back adjusting his hoodie, tugging it over his head to show off his new shoulder tattoo.
Nothing more happened. And that somehow made it worse.
Your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up. Heat rushed through you so fast it startled you. It still makes your head spin when it resurfaces at the worst possible times. Your roommate hadn’t been there that night and you remember noticing that after you'd already shoved your hand down your soaked panties. You remember sitting very still afterward, staring at the wall, feeling ridiculous and gross and way too aware of yourself and the skin on your body.
You told yourself it was a one time thing. Stress. Loneliness. But it didn’t stop you from doing the same watching the next live. Or the one after that.
You shift in your chair, uncomfortable with how easily he still gets to you. "Get a grip." you mutter.
You stand up, pace your room once, then twice. Like movement might shake the thoughts loose or the heat in your lower belly. It doesn’t. You’ve never been reckless. Never loud about wanting anyone. Never the kind of girl who throws herself into things without thinking.
You just.. hold onto them. Somehow. Until they sink in too deep. And Valentine’s Day is getting closer, and control is slipping further away.
──────────────────
You’re sitting on the grass outside the humanities building, back against the cool brick, legs stretched out in front of you. It’s too sunny, and too many people are laughing like they don’t have midterms breathing down their necks.
Your friend drops down beside you with a dramatic sigh and lets her bag fall between you. "So.." she says "Any news with the account?"
You don’t look at her. You keep watching people walk by, a couple, a friend group of girls holding iced coffees. "What account?"
She laughs. "Don’t play dumb. The burner, dur. The one that watches your stories immediately. Follows you for a week, disappears, comes back."
You tug at the sleeve of your blouse. "I don’t know. Probably Sidney"
"Sidney?" she perks up. "Or Sidney and her little crew."
You exhale a giggle. "Yeah, her and the Musty Cinematic Universe."
"Not the MCU!"
"You know how they are.." you say. "Keeping tabs. Making sure I haven’t suddenly become confident or something. Like I'd wanna have anything to do with their already balding boyfriends."
She tilts her head at you. "Or maybe someone is trying to get in your pants."
You choke. "What?"
"I’m serious!" she shrugs. "No hate messages. No weird comments. Just lurking? That’s not bullying, that’s interest, my dear daughter."
You shake your head immediately. "No— way. That doesn’t happen to people like me."
"People like you.." she repeats, nodding her head. "Cute and smart."
"Weird and embarrassing." you correct.
She smiles. "Same thing, different words."
You pull your knees closer. "Plus.. Everyone here is so casual about the hookups. Like it’s nothing. They meet at a party and that’s it."
"Oh, yeah, that's scarier than the whole Conjuring series." she says, rolling her eyes.
"Yes, scary! It just feels empty." you admit. "Even if I wanted to do it I couldn’t. Even if you paid me!"
She laughs softly. "You wouldn't fuck anyone for, like, a million bucks?"
You groan. "I'd want it to mean something!"
She bumps your shoulder. "Big talk for a virgin."
You groan and drop your head back. "I hate it here."
"Yeah, well.. At least you have me, and you love me, so—" She shrugs.
You nod as she stands and slings her bag over her shoulder.
"If that account turns out to be Sidney I’ll rip out those cheap extensions she always wears." she continues. "If it’s someone else, which means I was right.." she purses her lips. "You will have to buy me coffee for the rest of the year."
"I already buy you coffee everyday." You mutter. "And nothing is happening."
She grins. "Sure. Take care today, yeah?"
When she walks off you reach for your phone without thinking. One new story view from the same account. You lock your phone and shove it away. Somewhere between wanting and being wanted you keep choosing silence.
──────────────────
You ducked into the bathroom between classes. Just a minute to yourself.
What you didn't expect was a private show in one of the stalls. You knew immediately who it was. Jungkook, and one of Sidney's friends— Brittany perhaps?
Your stomach dropped, your hands froze on the stall door. You pressed yourself flat against the wall, heart hammering. Every sound made your skin crawl, made your face burn and somehow bothered you all at once. You didn’t know what to do.
It was clear what was happening by the unmistakable gagging sound echoing throughout the bathroom and Jungkook's rough voice urging her to "Use less teeth." and the occasional curse words.
It was clear what you had to do. You had no choice. You pulled out your phone, pressed record, and held it tight against your palm. You felt ridiculous, disgusting, guilty, and strangely captivated. Maybe Sidney deserved to get cheated on, or maybe this was payback, who knows. The universe works in strange ways.
Seconds stretched into minutes and you stayed in your stall, barely breathing. When it was over, the bathroom returned to quiet. You slid down the stall door, knees pulled to your chest. Tears burned your eyes yet you didn’t understand why.
You didn’t tell anyone, not a soul. You kept the recording on your phone, unsure of what to do but after three days you couldn’t hold it in you anymore. You opened a burner account and sent the recording to Sidney. Just the file. No words and no explanation. You tell yourself it’s not about revenge. It’s about something else— the guilt, fascination, maybe a little justice.
Either way it felt liberating, and you decided to spend a little more time getting ready, a dress, bit more makeup. Were you wasting time to not be there when the bomb blows? Maybe. Still, you felt pretty and it totally had nothing to do with messing up Sidney's reputation.
By second course, the rumor had spread. You hear the curious whispers, then loud gasps and laughs.
Sidney storms down the hallway like she’s leading an army. Brittany was by herself, looking smaller than usual, shoulders tense. Sidney stops in front of her, pointing like a general, and yelling at the top of her lungs. "How could you do this to me?" She shrieks, voice bouncing off the walls, making everyone turn their heads.
Brittany shrinks, trying to say something, but Sidney ends up grabbing a handful of her hair, pulling her closer.
"You little whore— you thought you could just slip in, think I wouldn’t notice? Think again! I made you! Hah, don't forget your only achievemen before being my friend was suckin Mr. Braisleighs dick." she grits her teeth
People are staring. You stay hidden behind a group of student, heart hammering and a smile creeping upon your face.
Sidney grabs Brittany by the shoulder, spinning her around. "Look at you, do you have any idea what you've done? Making me look like a dumbass for ever giving you the time of day!"
Brittany opens her mouth and stammers, with tears in her eyes. "I—I didn’t.."
"You did! Don’t even try to lie to me! Everyone heard. Everyone knows!" Sidney’s voice drops, venomous now. She turns, pointing at Jungkook who has appeared behind the crowd, looking calm and almost amused.
"And you!" Sidney yells at him, slapping him hard across the face. "You limp dicked asshole! What were you thinking?"
Jungkook rubs his cheek, smiling and barely holding back a laugh. "Sidney, dear, calm down."
"Calm down?" she laughs. "I called you mine, and you!" She glares at Brittany again. "You stupid—!"
Britney flinches under the barrage. The crowd is growing, laughing, recording on their phones. You should feel guilt. You feel excitement, adrenaline, shame, desire, all tangled together.
You hate how hilarious it all is.
──────────────────
The air’s cold enough to raise goosebumps on your arms. You regret the dress right about now. Whatever, get to the dorm quick, make yourself a tea and contemplate life decisions then.
"Hey."
You keep walking.
"Bug."
You stop in your tracks. You hate that nickname. Hate that it still works. You turn slowly, already annoyed. "What do you want?"
Jungkook is standing in the middle of the path, phone in his hand, shoulders lazy like he’s been waiting for you for hours. "I know it was you."
You scoff. "What?"
He smiles. "Come on. The account that sent Sidney the recording is literally called I hate bugs. At least pretend you’re subtle." Your stomach drops.
You cross your arms over your chest. "That proves nothing."
"It proves everything." He steps closer, eyes flicking over you once, lingering over your bare legs and neck. "You think I didn’t hear you come in?"
You swallow. "You’re imagining things."
He laughs under his breath. "No. I just remember the way you breathe when you’re nervous."
"You don’t get to do this." Your voice wobbles but you keep going. "Don’t try to pin your shit on me."
"Pin it on you?" He tilts his head. "Aw, bug. You recorded it. You listened. And you stayed." With each word he gets closer.
Your face burns. "I was trapped."
"Mhm." He hums, frowning. "Funny way of being trapped."
You take a step back and he follows.
"You’re weird." His voice drops. "You know that? Strange little thing.. Hiding in a bathroom listening to me fuck another's girl mouth and you don’t even try to leave."
"Jungkook—"
"Tried to play the hero, or you into that?"
You clench your jaw as tears start to flood your vision. "Stop."
"Bet you pictured it was you." His eyes flick back to your face. Dark, curious maybe. Cruel. "But you’d do it better though, huh? She was sloppy and clumsy.. Almost bit my dick off." He pouts.
You gasp, looking away. "Just— Don’t."
He smirks. "Hit a nerve?"
"This is not my fault." Your hands shake. "You cheated!"
"No, Sidney did. Weeks ago. With Brittany, actually. I just wanted her to see what kind of friend she keeps. 's why I have my own recording."
"And I was just collateral." You spit the word.
"You were convenient. Happened to be in the right place." He shrugs. "And so damn curious." Silence stretches. The campus feels too open and too quiet.
"You don’t get to talk to me like this, Jungkook. Not after what you did." You say it softly. "You don’t get to turn this into something about me."
He studies you for a second. The dress, your flushed cheeks, the way you’re holding yourself together by force. "Right." He says finally. Your throat tightens.
"You’re a mess." Jungkook steps back at last. "A little freak in a place that eats girls like you alive. Surprised you're still standing."
You hate that your eyes sting. He turns away, then pauses. "Next time.. be a big girl and let me know if you want to join in, yeah?"
Then he walks off, leaving you standing there. You hadn't imagined this would be the first conversation you'd have with him after one year.
Finally you’re back in your dorm, the room dim except for the desk lamp. Your roommate is gone again. You drop onto your bed, still shaking, the image of him replaying in a loop. Your hands can’t stop fiddling with the hem of your dress.
Your phone vibrates. Another view on your stories. Same account. You stare at it like it’s going to explain itself. It doesn’t. You bite your lip, angry, half something else. You didn’t know if it was curiosity, shame, or the sick twist of thrill that kept drawing you back to him.
You crawl into your pajamas, legs tucked up, scrolling mindlessly through clips of his old livestreams. Each one a trap, each one pulling you deeper. He talks. He laughs. He leans into the camera and you swear he’s staring straight at you.
Somewhere between math formulas you don’t care about and memes you pretend to find funny, you realize you’re still breathless from the way he talked to you. For some twisted reason, it felt good. And you hate that it felt good.
You've been scrolling for what feels like an eternity and your friend texts asking if you want to grab late night coffee in the lounge. Fuck it, you need to stay far away from all screens.
You pull your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, smoothing the skirt of your dress as you walk, heels clicking against the pavement.
Your friend sidles up beside you, practically bouncing on her heels.
"So, where are we getting coffee from?"
She laughs. "Coffee? Pfft. Come on, we’re already out. Club’s way more fun. Music, lights, no thinking."
You hesitate, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. "Club? Now?"
"Yeah, why not?" she grins, poking your nose. "Move around. Dance. Forget about exams for a few hours. You'll thank me later."
You bite your lip, toes digging into the sidewalk. Part of you wants to just head back to your dorm, curl up, scroll through livestreams, and pretend tonight never happened. But another part wants to let loose and try to forget at least a bit about him.
"Fine." you speak up finally. "But if I end up shit faced on the floor, you’re carrying me back."
summary. jeon jungkook is the university’s star, a baseball player—untouchable, adored, and infamous for leaving damage in his wake. and you’re just a student trying to survive lectures, deadlines, and the quiet loneliness of starting over. crossing paths with him was never part of the plan but college has a way of turning bad decisions into inevitable ones. and jungkook might be the worst you make.
pairing. baseball player!jungkook x fem!reader ﹒♡﹒ genre, au. angst, smut / college au ﹒♡﹒ 18+ mdni! ﹒♡﹒ a blurb series by yours truly, tomie ♡
pairing: college au (sigma tau president/student council president!mingyu x kappa alpha theta president/dean's advising board president!reader)
wc: 23.3k
warnings: p in v; protected sex!!!! (do not tap if not wrapped); some heavy makeout seshes (seshs?); some fingering, oral (m & f receiving), orgasm control if u squint; nipple play if u squint; multiple orgasms; mingyu pretending hes in control; mingyu being pussydrunk; big dick!mingyu (hes mean w it); that should be it but tbh u know me i probs forgot smth
a/n: ik this is really long first part but trust me when i say its worth it. also this fic is just long in general so...
masterlist | part 2
part 1
You already know what this is before you even open the email.
Urgent: Gala Collaboration Meeting
It has one red exclamation point that flashes like a little disco ball in the order of the subject and Dean Whitaker’s specialty all-caps and bolded title looks especially menacing this Thursday afternoon.
You really should be used to it by now: the steady expectation that you’ll fix things, polish the mess, make it all appear effortless. But the irritation still blooms, dull and familiar, beneath your ribs. And it’s fine. Really, it is. Even if you’re 89% convinced that your partner for this “collaboration project” is going to be the fucking hunk of an idiot you’re usually paired with.
The dean’s office smells faintly of carpet cleaner and too much coffee. The overhead lights are sharp enough to make everything look sterile, and the door is cracked open already, and you can hear the muffled conversation between the devil’s incarnate and Dean Whitaker.
You push open the door.
Mingyu sits in the chair opposite the dean’s desk, one ankle balanced over his knee, posture a lazy sprawl that somehow still looks deliberate. The first thing you notice, despite yourself, is the way light hits his forearm when he moves. He looks tanner than three periods ago, which you chalk up to him either hitting his frat’s secret tanning salon or something. Either that or he went tanning at the beach, which is only slightly more believable than the secret tanning salon. His sleeves are rolled, his shirt half-open, some type of weird oil thing somehow glistening on his neck. Tanning oil?
Whatever.
He glances up, eyes flicking to you before the smile follows – slow, practiced, familiar. The kind that should bounce off your irritation but it really doesn’t. It actually digs in a little more.
“Ah, Y/n,” the dean hums, tone too cheerful. “Right on time. Sit, please.”
You clear your throat, pulling out the other sofa with a pointed look towards Mingyu when he grins at you.
You lower yourself into the chair beside him. The air feels crowded when you sit, your presence brushing up against his without ever really touching. He smells warm and woody, something cedar and musk (and a hint of some type of secondhand Axe bodyspray), and the faint sound of scraping of his watch against the armrest is louder than it should be.
The dean speak, words blurring into a rhythm you already know by heart: event, collaboration, chaos, deadline.
“The Spring Gala,” she says, with a pointed look between the two of you. “In three weeks. We’d like your organizations to co-host.”
You blink and try to shove the high-pitched and questionable sound back into the depths of your throat. “Co-host,” you repeat, flat.
The Spring Gala was never co-host. It was either you or him. Never both.
Beside you, Mingyu’s grin curves up as she leans forward. “Sounds like a party, Dean W.”
You glance at him, grimacing. “Or a logistical nightmare,” you mutter.
“Sorry what? Thought you said nightmare,” Mingyu shoots back.
You scoff, arms folding. “Yeah, I said you’re a fu- nightmare.”
He laughs softly, the kind that means he’s not really taking you seriously. It prickles at the edge of your composure.
Dean Whitaker clears her throat, looking pointedly between the two of you. “Clearly you two have just demonstrated why we need two organizers for this year’s Spring Gala.” She folds her hands together. “Y/n, your sorority’s track record with events is stellar. Mingyu, it’s safe to say your fraternity’s network is unmatched on this campus, though the deans would really prefer if you would use it to host more underage friendly functions and not just supply booze for all fraternity socials.”
You take small joy in seeing Mingyu sheepishly laugh.
Dean Whitaker suppresses a smile. “I expect a good Spring Gala from the two of you. Yes?”
Mingyu leans forward, elbows on his knees with the stupidest smile on his face. “We’ll make it happen, Dean,” he says easily, voice a shade too confident and airy. He turns to you, cheek against his palm. “Right, Y/n?”
You turn to him, legs crossing. Your brows narrow. “We’ll get it done,” you reply, clipped.
“Same thing,” he shrugs. Infuriating, really.
Dean Whitaker doesn’t seem to notice the strain in your silence of thinly pursed lips. “Good,” she hums, reaching for something inside of her desk drawer. “Then I’ll expect a draft of your proposal by Friday.” She slides a blue folder across the desk.
Almost immediately, you both reach for it.
His fingertips brush yours.
It’s a second too long before either of you move. His fingers are warm, calloused, and when he finally lets go, you’re overcome with some strange urge to go and wash your hand.
“I can take that,” he mumbles.
You click your tongue, laughing. “No, I’ve got it.” You pull the folder to your side.
“No, really, I can take it,” Mingyu rebuts, dragging the folder across the table to his side.
You glare at him. “No, really, Min-”
“-Finish this outside, would you?” You selectively ignore the Dean’s tone of amusement.
Mingyu’s brows furrow. “Dean Whit–”
Before he can finish his sentence, you jerk the folder towards you and wrench it out from under his hand, tucking it close against your chest like a shield. You scramble to your feet, chair thick against the carpeted floor. Your chin tilts up just the slightest. You’re not too proud of how Dean Whitaker shakes her head at the two of you (mostly you, but you digress).
“I’ll send you the meeting schedule,” you say, words clipped and final.
Mingyu huffs, hand brushing through his hair as he rises as well, rolling his eyes. “Looking forward to it,” he replies, and when you turn towards the door, you swear you hear him mumble a quiet “your majesty” and Dean Whitaker’s soft snort of laughter, but you chalk it up to sleep deprivation from studying through two nights in a row.
You didn’t have enough caffeine in your system for a full fight anyways.
And then, just as you reach the threshold, his voice follows close behind like some unstable, annoying ghost: “They’re cleaning the left side.”
You pause. “Of what?”
“The hallway,” Mingyu says easily, arms crossed, looking down at you now. “Thought you’d like to know, considering you always take the left side.”
You squint up at him, before scoffing.
“Text me the meeting times?” His stupid voice.
You don’t look back.
“Can’t fucking wait,” you grumble.
You walk on the right.
Just to prove him wrong.
The folder digs into your ribs, an edge of cardboard pressed hard against the spot between your third and fourth rib bone. It serves as a small, physical reminder of the mistake (and future pain) of what you’ve just agreed to live through.
The hallway right outside of the Office of the Deans is too bright and the sound of sudden chatter echoes down the hall. Laughter spills from somewhere down the corridor. It’s an effortless and careless sound that makes your skin crawl. You can still feel the weight of Mingyu’s stare clinging to your shoulder blades and hear his shoes against the marble of the hallway.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of meetings, of negotiations, of pretending not to notice the way his entire frat starts to whisper when you walk into your Econ class.
You can hear the lingering echo of your final exchange. And the memory drags like sandpaper across your nerves. The smug warmth of it. The easy confidence, as if he already knows you’ll play along with whatever he has in store for you.
When you get to the next turn of the hallway, you stifle a groan. One of the reasons you never take the left side is because the right side is longer, looping around the east wing before cutting back towards the student lounge. But whatever. It’s a small rebellion – stupid and invisible to his eyes. You imagine him noticing anyway, that slow grin tugging at his mouth and the way his eyebrows scrunch when he thinks that something you’re doing is useless. It makes you walk faster.
When you jerk open the doors to the student lounge, it’s blessedly empty. One low lamp hums in the corner, and the fluorescent ceiling lights flicker faintly like a warning.
God, you told Amiyah to change those lights weeks ago.
You stare up at one flickering light, standing in the middle of the entrance carpet for a good minute before you click your tongue and move away, shaking your head.
Clearly you’re already losing it.
You trudge over to the nearest table, dropping your bag down. The sound is too loud in the quiet. Then the folder – the fucking folder – lands beside your crumpled bag, papers shifting like they’re mocking you for having to work on this instead of studying for your Urban Planning 401 class.
You exhale, sharp and uneven. The irritation tastes metallic in your mouth. Three weeks. Three weeks of Mingyu’s charm masquerading as competence. Three weeks of that half-laugh, that tilt of his head when he’s pretending to listen as he plays Clash Royale under the table. Three weeks of forcing your eyes off of his eyes when he runs into the group study room, fifteen minutes late with the excuse that he was helping someone benchpress four plates, whatever that means. Three weeks of trying to ignore how good he smells when he brushes past you in the cafe pick-up line, only to look back and give you the goofiest grin and wave you hello. Three weeks of stifling sighs because you’ve learned over the years that the more you sigh, the more eager he gets to overcompensate.
You pull out your phone from your pocket. Your reflection glints in the black screen – eyes sharp, mouth set. You fix a lash cluster with your nail. You unlock your phone to a new message.
Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau):
it’s mingyu
just in case u deleted my number
He’s so fucking annoying. Every time you do a group thing he does this: retexts his name to you, as if you’d delete his number after every single group project. He’s been in at least three of your classes each year, and that’s minus all the other socials and functions you have to plan and throw together. It’s be a terrible waste of time if you deleted his number after every single time.
You roll your eyes as you type out your text.
You:
library 7pm. don’t be late
The reply comes so fast like he’d been waiting for your text.
Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau):
need to set up for a party at 7 babe
how about 8
Your thumb stills over the keyboard and you push down the urge to throw your phone across the room.
Babe? Babe? The word is too casual. Too warm. It’s one thing hearing it be yelled across campus and another thing reading it on your phone in the quiet of the student lounge. Like he has the right to shape it around your name. Like you’re dating or something.
You type slowly, each word a pin pushed through your irritation.
You:
7 or dont bother
When you hit send, you take small pride in how the three dots appear immediately, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Kim Mingyu (Sigma Tau):
damn ur wound up 😂
You can almost see it – him leaning back in his stupid gaming chair, tapping that message out one-handed, that lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He probably thinks this is funny. You, the overachiever. Him, the fun one.
Your jaw tightens.
How the fuck were you going to get through these three weeks.
You:
im not wound up
im efficient
idiot frat boy:
sure
u probably even alphabetize ur sock drawer
Your scoff, pulling out your chair, one leg pulled up to your chest.
You can picture the way he’d say it – voice low and teasing, his stupid cute dimples showing on his cheeks. And you hate that your stomach feels a little twisty at the thought of him smiling.
You:
at least i HAVE a sock drawer
You send it before you can fully think about what your retort even means. After two times of quick re-scanning, you conclude that Mingyu will have no idea what you’re saying because you have no idea what you meant by that. It’s just childish and petty.
idiot frat boy:
and here i thought u were above frat boy joke
You snort, the sound breaking through the silence.
You:
i am
ironic considering deanwhit paired me w one
This time, the pause before the three dots is longer. Long enough for your thumb to press long on the text you just sent, wishing you could just delete it or just have never sent it. Long enough to make your pulse jump. There was no way you had actually hurt–
idiot frat boy:
yeah sure whatever
youd miss me if i wasnt there
The words sit there, bright against your screen. You read them once, twice. You shouldn’t react – not really. But something uncoils anyway. It’s not really irritation but rather some sort of strange heat of being seen too clearly. Even if you didn’t say anything.
Because he’s not really wrong.
Because even though he’s a stupid idiot, he notices.
He notices everything. From the way you color code your notes to the way your take your coffee (no coffee, either tea or matcha with oat milk), to the fucking side of the hallway you walk on. And the way you always arrive early because “I can choose my seat” when the real reason is because it gives you a false sense of control.
So you don’t reply.
You shove your phone as low as it’ll go in your bag and tell yourself that you have better things to do – that you’re busy.
7:07 PM
The library hums with that hollow kind of silence that makes every sound too loud. Even the clock on the wall in the study room you booked in the afternoon sounds impatient – tick, tick, tick, tick – carving the air into uneven slices of time.
You’ve been here since 6:30. 18:30. Not because you needed to be, but you were worried that the study room wouldn’t be cleaned up before your time and you also needed to finish your paper for your Architecture in the Urban Spheres class.
Your notes are spread across the table. Printouts are stacked by priority and the clear folders stacked on one side are for your newest spring Rush girls, which you need to go back and package into the envelopes June hopefully actually bought. Your laptop glows in soft color, opened to an excel sheet that you shared with Mingyu last night (which he responded with a literal thumbs up across the student computer section of Welles Library.
Blue sections out venues, green for caterers, yellow for budget lines (which you’ve triple-checked), and you’ve even added in a backup vendor tab, just in case Mingyu’s “connections” inevitably flakes. The excel sheet soothes you. Order. Predictability. Control.
Yet the one thing you somehow cannot control stays in the circumference of your peripheral.
The chair across from you stays terribly empty and the longer it does, the tighter your chest feels with either anger, frustration, exasperation, or all three, nevermind that they’re all synonyms.
He’s late. Of course he’s late.
Your fingers drum against the wood. You try to focus on the spreadsheet, which has only been edited by you. You focus on the tidy little numbers that don’t talk back or flirt or show up with those stupid acid-wash jeans or those stupid muscled arms in that stupid tight, white tank. Like he’s some model rolling out of a GQ photoshoot. But the thought of him, in all of his golden, unbothered somehow puppy-like thing keeps interrupting your focus.
The image of him as he was in class that morning (your last class with him, which would be your Architecture in Urban Spheres class), burns through your mind as you stare blankly at your screen. Black sweatpants that you swear Lyon was complaining about having to wait three hours for just to get a glimpse of in the Tokyo Chrome Hearts store, paired with a cream quarter zip and Nikes. He had on his black cap that he wears when he’s hungover from the night before and those black frame glasses that sometimes just really made his eyes–
No. What the hell?
You should not be thinking about–
The door creaks open. A burst of cooler air slips in before the sound of sneakers on polished tile.
You look up.
He’s in the same black sweatpants and a dark navy blue Ralph Lauren sweater.
You have the exact same one.
It’s really unfair how he looks better in it than you.
“Sorry,” he says, voice smooth and easy. “Traffic.”
You glance at the clock behind you and then back at him with a raised eyebrow. “You walked here.”
The chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it out, loud enough to echo through the entire study floor. He drops into it like it’s his living room couch, bag thunking against the table.
He gives you a silly little smile as he sits, pushing up his glasses. “M not late,” he says, canines showing. “You’re early.”
He sets something in front of you – a coffee up. When you raise your brows, he rolls his eyes, sighing, and opens the cap. A hot matcha greets you, a little foamy at the edges. It’s sprinkled with cinnamon.
You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.
“Oat milk, Nakamura Tokichi on medium. Right?” He phrases it as a question but the way his eyes sparkle with knowing makes you just a teensy bit annoyed (after you’re just the slightest bit impressed). He turns the cup around so you can see the Sharpie-d in order on the side of the cup. “Am I the best partner or what?” he laughs, pushing the cup to you, bringing out his own. His is some kind of iced coffee.
You blink at your cup, then at him.
His hair is damp, dark strands curling just enough to look accidental. The scent coming off of him is clean, sharp – something sea-side misty with a hint of some type of Creed cologne. You can only stare as he pulls off his sweater, mumbling about the room being hotter than outside, and straightens his shirt underneath. It’s unbuttoned until three buttons from the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and there’s a thin silver chain glinting at the base of his neck that you swear you’ve seen before, but you’re not too sure where. He throws the sweater onto the back of another chair, grinning at you as he pulls out his computer.
“So?”
You squint. “Seven means seven.”
He shrugs. “And yet,” he gestures at the table, “here we both are. Right on schedule.”
You ignore the steaming opened matcha. You ignore him. You point to thes spreadsheet as you turn your computer around, trying also to ignore how he blinks at the lack of table space to place his computer on. You try to not snap when he just starts stacking stuff to the side.
“Mingyu,” you sigh.
“Hm?”
“We have three weeks.”
He hums, leaning back in his chair. “Plenty of time, I know.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to not let out yet another sigh. “The venue,” you say, “needs to be booked by Monday.” You point to another tab. “The caterer finalized by Wednesday.” Another tab. “The invitations by–”
“-Y/n,” he interrupts, voice lower now, softer. He sips his coffee. “Breathe.”
You blink, reeling back like he just slapped you. “Excuse me?”
“We’re not curing cancer,” he says, lips tugging upwards. “We’re planning a party. You know, like the ones you hold after Rush?”
You bristle. “It’s not a party. It’s a gala. With donors and alumni and faculty and the deans.” You choose to ignore the statement about the thing about Rush.
“So?” His tone is light, teasing, but he doesn’t look away from you. “It’ll be fine. Trust.”
“It’ll be fine if we do it right.”
He tilts his head, studying you for a moment like he’s memorizing something you didn’t mean to show him. Then he says, soft but deliberate, “It’ll be fine because we’re doing it.”
You exhale sharply, trying to not dwell on the way he accents “we’re.”
“You’re insufferable,” you grumble.
He laughs. Quiet and low in his throat – the kind that rolls through your body starting from your chest. “I’ve been called worse.”
You grab your pen, maybe a little too tightly, the cheap plastic cracking under your grip.
His eyes flick down. “You just–”
You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Can you please just–”
“-Focus?” he finishes for you, leaning forward now, elbows braced on the table. The movement brings him close. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble along his jaw and the flecks of honey in his eyes and the way his golden skin shines under the library’s study room lights.
“I am focusing,” he says.
His eyes are really pretty.
“On the spreadsheet,” you hiss.
He hums, his voice dipping lower. “I dunno. I’m good at multitasking.” He gives you a sly grin, poking your hand.
You feel the heat crawl up your neck before you can stop it. You don’t even know what to do with your hands after you slap his fingers off your skin.
Quietly, to yourself, you mutter, “I am not worked up.”
His grin widens, slow and dangerous, and you know he’s heard what you said. “Never said you were.” His knee bumps yours under the table, lingering. “But if you were, I’d take it as a compliment.”
You should pull away. You should. But your body refuses to obey. You grab the matcha instead, the heat searing your tongue, and swallow.
“I hate you,” you mumble, glaring at him.
Mingyu laughs again, soft this time, like he can’t help it. He grabs the pen from your fingers, twirling it around in his hand. “And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are. Still sitting across from me.”
You don’t have a comeback.
You hate that you don’t.
It’s quiet between you for a heavy beat. You can feel his leg brush up against yours under the table, hesitate, and then pull away almost sheepishly. You watch him pull your laptop towards him, scrolling through the spreadsheet as if he’s yielded to you. You try to not flinch when he nods, flipping the computer back, reaching across the table for the list in front of you, warm fingers brushing yours. And that stupid smile making his stupid handsome face light up.
“Alright,” he sighs, mock surrender, “We’ll do this your way.”
The words linger between you, thick with something neither of you will admit to. With something neither of you have admitted to. Your pulse beats against your throat, and you’re half-sure that Mingyu can hear it in the thick silence of the room.
And the worst part is that you like it.
You like it so much that you wordlessly let him mess with your colored tabs.
You hate that you like it.
You hate it so much that you can’t pull away.
monday; 9:26 AM
You’re late.
Not by much – 25 minutes, maybe – but it digs into you. You’ve never been late to class.
You really don’t care, it’s just one class. But the universe has a sick sense of humor and today it decided to test how much you could take in the morning.
Your alarm didn’t go off, first of all, and then your foamer broke mid-whir and your matcha splattered all across your white sweater. And somewhere between the crosswalk and the architecture building, you dropped your favorite (and only) pen and a scooter ran over it and you watched as it snapped clean in two. And when you bent down to grab and throw it away, someone stepped on the hem of your skirt and left dirt marks on the back hem of it.
The skirt was like 70 dollars.
So by the time you reach the doors to the lecture hall, you’ve given up on trying to dust the dirt off of the pale blue, and you can hear the hum of the room on the other side, the professor already mid-lecture.
You inhale once, twice, trying to smooth out the angry thump of your pulse. Then, you push open the door just wide enough to slip through.
The hinges creak so loud that at least the entire back half of the room turns in their seat to look up at you.
Your cheeks burn.
When you slip in, the room is much brighter than the hallway and every seat is filled. The air smells faintly of cold coffee and printer ink and the faint musk of too many people in close quarters. You scan the rows from the back once, twice, three times.
You can almost scream when you finally see it.
And then see the person sitting right beside the only open chair in the entire 150-person lecture hall.
Mingyu, leaning back in his chair like he’d rather be anywhere else, one long arm draped along the backrest, a pen spinning and spinning between his fingers. It’s really just carelessness. His hair falls over his forehead in small waves, a stark contrast to the Brutalist architecture on the projector screen. He’s wearing a soft gray sweatshirt with the university logo, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the fabric stretching across the width of his god-given shoulders like it’s trying to keep up with his every movement.
He lifts his head.
And then he’s looking right at you.
The moment your eyes meet, his mouth curves. It’s not a full smile, but it’s that almost-smile. The one he uses when he gloats on you or wants to say I knew this would happen! with that stupid little lilt and lisp of his words.
Your bottled-up sigh whines to be let free from your lungs and you seem to be stuck in your place at the back of the room.
There are other options. Technically.
You could stand.
You could drop out.
You could fake an asthma attack and run.
You could leave and move those fucking creaking hinges again.
But then the professor glances up, the briefest flicker of irritation in her eyes, and you know the only thing worse than sitting next to Mingyu would be sitting next to Mingyu after you’ve drawn more attention to yourself.
So, you walk down the aisle stairs, chin up, bag strap digging into your shoulder, eyes tracking you, steps too loud, and watching as Mingyu’s grin widens with each footfall.
You stop in his row, mumbling apologies as you squeeze past the legs of at least 5 other people to reach the one empty seat.
You don’t look directly at him, but you can feel the teasing gaze.
You slide into your seat with as much dignity as you can manage.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Wonwoo – normally Mingyu’s seatmate – now half-turned in the chair right next to yours, squeezed uncomfortably close to another student. He gives you a little nod.
You pull your laptop from your bag. The screen flares bright white before it flashes to a picture of you and your double figure skating partner on the ice. It’s a flimsy barrier between you and the six feet of smugness to your left.
Mingyu doesn’t say a word at first. You can feel his amusement radiating off of him and hear the subtle scrape of his chair as he shifts just enough to angle himself towards you.
When he finally speaks, it’s low.
“Didn’t think I’d live to see the day,” he murmurs, voice warm, a smile curling beneath it.
You stare straight ahead, fingers tight on your keyboard. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Start.”
He leans in slightly, just enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. His cologne is faint, the same light, ocean breeze mixed with his Creed perfume. It catches in your throat in the best way.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he hums, though his grin tells a different story. “I’m just proud of you. Growth, you know?” his grin widens. “Being fashionably late looks good on you. You even had enough time to get dirt on the back of your skirt.”
You type harder than necessary, the clack of keys cutting through his laughter.
Wonwoo glances over when you hit the backspace key with too much force, brows raised.
The professor says something about taking out your worksheets, which you do, after rummaging in your overflowing folders for it.
The professor keeps talking about Brutalist architecture in Russia, but you can’t hear a word. The only thing you can focus on is the warmth beside you, the occasional creak of Mingyu’s chair as he shifts, the way your heartbeat syncs annoyingly with the rhythm of his pen tapping.
You stare at the worksheet and pretend you don’t notice the way his arm brushes the edge of your desk. Pretend you don’t notice him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Pretend that sitting next to him doesn’t feel like standing too close to an open flame and that this proves absolutely nothing about you. Well, actually no. This is why you’ve gone out of your way to sit away from him through every single class you’ve had together.
When you finally come-to (after the Professor accidentally drops her textbook), you glance down again.
Right. No pen.
You reach into your bag automatically, going through loose papers and dried-out ink cartridges and the small box of architecture models. No backup. You close your eyes briefly, the exhale slipping out high-pitched between your teeth.
You turn Wonwoo, poking his bicep.
“Wonwoo,” you whisper, “Can I borrow a pen?”
He looks up, startled, glasses falling down his nose, like you’ve just asked for the answer to life itself. “Uh… I don’t have–" His eyes dart to something behind you. "Yeah, I don’t have another pen, sorry.” He gives you a sheepish grin.
You breathe out through your nose, fighting the urge to groan.
When you look up again, Mingyu’s already holding one out like he’d been waiting for the moment you’d need it. The pen glides faintly in the overhead light, his fingers steady. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just tilts it towards you with a little flick of his wrist, brows raised. Ironically, it’s the same pen as you have – or had, since it broke.
You stare at it like it's a trap.
Then, inevitably, he grins. “Take it. Or are you gonna use your own blood for the notes instead?”
Your hand moves before your brain catches up. You snatch it from his fingers.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
“Anytime,” he murmurs, voice warm and soft in a way that sneaks under your guard. The words should sound cocky but they don’t. They sound genuine, like he actually means it.
You force your attention forward, gripping the pen too tightly. It writes smoothly, annoyingly so. You can feel him next to you, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the cologne drifting from his sweatshirt. It’s maddening.
He’s focused, though. More than you expect, at least. His handwriting sprawls across the page in sharp, uneven angles, letters looping around in his cursive. He underlines, stars, annotates. You catch glimpses of small doodles in the margins—a sketch of a coffee cup, a tiny basketball hoop, a half-drawn cat. It’s ridiculous, and weirdly endearing.
You hate that it’s endearing.
You hate that he’s endearing.
He shifts slightly, elbow brushing yours. The smallest touch, but your pulse stumbles.
“You good?” he murmurs without looking up, pen still gliding.
“Fine,” you say too quickly.
“You sure?” His voice dips lower, smooth as velvet, teasing. “You’re staring.”
Your breath catches, head whipping towards him. “I am not–”
“-You are.” He turns his head just enough for you to catch the curve of his mouth, the faintest dimple in his cheek. “Don’t worry. It’s…” he trails off, “cute.”
You glare at the whiteboard like you can burn through it and hope and pray that he can’t see your cheeks heat up.
He chuckles, quiet, under his breath.
You try to ignore him. You really do (not).
Your gaze drifts again, unbidden, to his notebook. He’s scribbling something between his neat bullet points, the handwriting a little slanted.
Ask me for my notes later :)
You blink. Then, despite everything you have in yourself, your lips twitch. You bite the inside of your cheek to hide it, but it’s too late.
He sees.
His shoulder bumps yours, gentle.
“See?” he murmurs, not looking at you. His next words are so casual that it doesn’t register until five seconds later. “I was right. You look good when you smile.”
You don’t reply. It’s too late anyways. That and you don’t trust your voice to work. So, you just keep writing, heart pounding too loud, pretending the warmth in your chest is irritation.
Pretending that you don’t notice the way Mingyu’s still watching you, out of the corner of his eye.
He’s weird today.
Yes, let’s chalk it up to that.
He’s in a weirdly good mood or maybe he won beer pong last night, you’re not sure. But it’s confusing.
You’ve never had this problem before.
God, what is wrong with you?
10:17 PM
Your phone buzzes against your desk, cutting through the low hum of music drifting from your speaker. You don’t think much of it until you see the name lighting up your screen.
idiot frat boy:
notes?
my place?
You blink once. Then twice.
you:
the library.
You stare at the text like it’ll make his response come in faster.
idiot frat boy:
the librarys closed
you:
then the 24 hr study lounge
idiot frat boy:
have u ever seen anyone talk for more than 1 sec in that place???
you:
we're not gonna talk
idiot frat boy:
we're not?
then how r u gonna get my notes
you:
shut up
ur frat house is NOT an option
idiot frat boy:
my office is!
and its clean
scouts honor
you:
u were never a scout
idiot frat boy:
details
how would u know that
so?
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You should say no. You know you should say no. Every rational cell in your body is telling you that this is a bad idea. That being alone with Mingyu, especially after 10 PM, is exactly the kind of decision people in cautionary tales make right before things go batshit crazy.
But you do need his notes. And it’s not like you’re scared of him.
Well, not him, per say.
You type out your answer before you can overthink.
you:
fine.
but if its not clean im leaving
idiot frat boy:
its clean
mostly
you:
…
idiot frat boy:
i hid the beer cans
happy?
You don’t bother replying.
Instead, you’re slipping into the nearest pair of ugg tazmans, pulling a clean uni sweater over your head, and spritzing perfume all over you. No shame, really, until you’re halfway out of your sorority house door with a tote over your shoulder with your computer and folders and you swear to God, you hear someone say asking who’s leaving and another person saying that they’re probably going out to fuck.
You are not fucking.
The frat office is quieter than you expected. Well, you’ve never really been in the frat house when it’s not in party use, so you guess you wouldn’t really know every-day frat lifestyle anyways. It’s cleaner than you imagined, too. It’s not spotless, but not a disaster: the desk is cleared off exxcept for a half-opened laptop and a stack of flyers for some charity mixer. The couch in the corner looks freshly de-linted, even if a sweatshirt is slung across one arm. The TV is on an episode of Modern Family, volume low and unheard over the music.
Mingyu’s sprawled in the desk chair, clad in a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up like it usually is, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he scrolls through his phone. There’s a half-empty cup of what looks like a highball sweating beside his laptop, ringed by condensation circles.
He looks up when you step in, and that smile slides into place effortlessly as he stands.
“Took you long enough,” he says, like you’re late to something.
“I had to walk across campus,” you reply, deadpan, dropping your bag onto the desk with a dull thud.
He rounds the corner of the desk, walking towards you. You hate that when he stretches up, you can see the shadows of his abs.
“Hey, you chose to walk across campus. I offered to pick you up.”
“I don’t need a ride.”
“Was just an offer.” He turns to you, leaning against the desk, close enough to make you aware of how close he actually is. “But you’re here now. Notes?”
You open your laptop and set it between you like a barrier. “Yeah. Notes.”
He slides a chair close, knees bumping yours under the desk. His stupid cologne still wafts in the air. He watches as you finalize something on your computer.
“You always look so serious when you’re working,” he says, after a moment.
“That’s because I’m working,” you mutter, fingers tapping the trackpad.
He hums, a soft sound of amusement. “Do you ever do anything halfway?”
You glance up at him, ready with a tired retort, but the words stick. He’s watching you – not in that lazy, teasing way you’ve come to expect but quieter. His eyes are lingering.
It’s honestly disarming. You don’t like it.
“What?” you say sharply.
He blinks. “Nothing. Just–” he clears his throat, leaning back in his chair, “it’s kinda nice seeing you out of the council office. Or just any academic setting, really. You don’t glare as much in this lighting.”
“Maybe it’s ‘cause you haven’t said anything too stupid yet.”
He laughs. “I doubt it.”
You look away.
He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at you. “Relax, Hong. It’s just planning and notes.”
He says that, yet it really doesn’t just feel like “just notes.” Actually, scratch that. You know it’s not just notes. You know he knows that too. The air between you hums with the weight of everything unspoken, and it’s way too late for you to be pretending not to see the way he stares at you when he thinks you’re not looking.
“Here.” He reaches over the desk to grab his computer, typing in the password. When he turns it to you, it’s opened to a Google Doc, class notes typed up neatly. “Copy up. I’m gonna go down and get us beers.”
You roll your eyes, tugging his computer towards you, scrolling through. “I don’t want beer.”
Mingyu shrugs. “Well, then I’m gonna get a beer for myself and I’ll bring up more because you’re probably gonna want some.”
“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter under your breath.
Mingyu leaves the room with a small click of the door.
His notes are really good, you realize when you actually start copying them down. And you’re maybe half way through speed-typing it into your computer when his computer dings quietly with a notification.
An i-message bubble pops up in the corner of his screen.
won-won:
bro no way u have y/n hong in the FRAT OFFICE
You blink.
What the hell?
And then, another one.
wonwon:
this is legendary
Your fingers pause.
cheol hyung:
no way y/ns here
its like 11
r u guys gonna hook up????
Some weird noise pops out from your throat.
Literally what the hell were you reading?
You feel a little violated but at the same time, like you’re violating Mingyu’s privacy.
kim mingyu's iphone:
shut up lol
won-won:
u fucking shut up
ur fucking glowing
kim mingyu's iphone:
fuck OFF
You keep clicking the ‘x’ button until all the notifications disappear. You don’t react. You’re not sure how to react.
And then, like the devil himself, the door creaks open and Mingyu strolls in (and you thank God that you don’t flinch), four beer bottles clinking between his fingers.
“Peace offering,” he says, sliding one towards you. “You look like you’re two seconds away from setting my laptop on fire.”
You don’t look up. “I am.”
He laughs, which doesn’t help because it’s infuriatingly charming. He cracks open his beer. “Drink. It’ll help.”
You should refuse.
But you don’t.
Which seems to be the pattern tonight.
Your fingers over the keyboard for a beat before you snatch the beer, slam the cap on the edge of the desk, and take a long swig. It’s bitter but it’s good. Cold. Foamy.
When Mingyu gives you a pointed look, you roll your eyes. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” you mutter, setting the bottle down with a clink.
“Didn’t say anything,” he says, grinning as he drops into the chair beside you.
You scoff, keys clacking, The Weeknd smoothing over from the speakers.
By 11:03 PM, you’ve drunk more than a half of your first beer, warmth spreading through your chest as you finish typing up the last of the notes. Mingyu looks up from scrolling through endless TikToks on his phone, amused, as you take another sip and push his laptop toward him.
“Done,” you state. “Now let’s actually talk about the gala.”
“It’s pretty late. Thought your bedtime was at eleven,” he teases, taking another sip of beer.
You roll your eyes. “I’m already here. We might as well make the most of my time.”
“Your time?”
“Yeah,” you huff, the corners of your lips twitching upwards. “I’m not free, you know.”
Mingyu lets out a laugh, saluting with his beer before setting it down, grabbing a whiteboard marker. “Yes, ma’am.” He stands. “Themes. Go.”
You follow him to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker of your own. “I was thinking,” you start, uncapping it and starting to write, “Midnight in Paris.” You circle it. “Classy, timeless, but still fun.”
Mingyu hums, underlining it. He turns to you with eyebrows raised. “So… lots of black and gold? Chandeliers? French music?”
“Kind of?” you say, pointing the marker at him. “Maybe not French music.”
“You’re snobbing out French music now?” he teases, but he’s already scribbling down what you said underneath the theme. “I’m thinking twinkly lights, centerpieces, champagne–”
“-Real champagne,” you correct, taking the last swig of your beer. “None of that cheap frat swill.”
“Ouch,” he mock-gasps, clutching his chest. “That hurt. We spend fortunes on that ‘cheap frat swill.’”
You roll your eyes but you smile. “Deal with it, frat brat.”
His grins widens, like you smiling makes him happy or something. Then, he reaches for the other two beer bottles on the desk. “Round two?”
You should say no.
But, like clock work, you don’t.
And by 11:47 PM, the second bottle is almost finished, and the whiteboard is a mess of scribbled ideas: midnight in pairs, great gatsby, enchanted forest, Hollywood glam, masquerade. Mingyu’s gone to doodle stars and other characters in the black white spaces.
“Okay,” he says, tapping the board, “wait, hear me out. What if we did like a Decades theme? Like, each room is a different era. Like 20’s, 30’s, 80’s–”
“-That’s like ten different themes, Mingyu,” you point out, but you find yourself laughing.
What the hell is wrong with you?
“It’s versatile,” he counters, stepping closer to you, bicep brushing your shoulder. “And fun.”
“It’s gonna be chaotic,” you say, but you don’t move away.
He scoffs. “You love chaos,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something lower and warmer.
You should argue.
But you don’t
Because then he’s right there and his free hand suddenly finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer to him. “Admit it,” he says, breath warm against your ear. “You’re having fun.”
Honestly?
You are.
And that seems to be the problem.
Especially when the analog clock on the desk reads 12:01 AM and both of your beer bottles are empty and the whiteboard holds no more white space and your brain is just about done pretending that whatever is going on is just about the gala.
The air in the frat office is thick with tension that makes your skin hum. The caps of the whiteboard markers are scattered across the table like abandoned soldiers. Your beer sits empty beside Mingyu’s condensation pooling on the wood, the faint bitter aftertaste still lingering on your tongue. You should’ve stopped at one. You knew better. But you couldn’t turn down a challenge, especially when Mingyu looked at you like he knew you would take it.
Now, his hand is on your waist, thumb tracing slow and maddening circles over your sweater. Your legs swing from your seat on top of the desk. You should push him away, put some space between you, remind yourself that this is Mingyu – the boy who drives you insane, who teases you relentlessly, who you’ve spent most of your years pretending isn’t hot.
But the beer has melted the ice around your resolve, and the way his fingers press into your skin, the warmth of his boy so close to yours, makes your breath catch.
“So,” he starts, voice quiet from in front of you. He looks down at you but you can’t bring yourself to look up.
“Are we done here, then?” you ask, fiddling with your sweater sleeve. How do you tell someone you don’t want to go without actually saying those words?
“I mean, we can always work on more,” Mingyu replies. You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand is warm.
You look up, just slightly. Just to brush hair out of your eyes.
But then, his face is inches from yours and his lips are crashing down.
It’s not gentle or slow. It’s desperate. Like he’s been waiting to kiss you for months. Like something just snapped in him.
You really don’t have time to react because his hands tangle in your hair, his fingers curling against your scalp, and you gasp into his mouth as he pulls you closer. Your hands find the front of his hoodie, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. The gala, the notes, the whole world fades into the background. The only thing that matters is the way he kisses you—like he’s starving, like he’s finally getting something he’s wanted for too long.
The whiteboard marker clatters to the floor, rolling away unnoticed.
Mingyu’s chest presses against yours, his heart pounding so hard you can feel it through his hoodie—or maybe that’s yours. His glasses fog up between you, and he pulls back just long enough to yank them off and toss them onto the desk behind him. They clatter against the wood, but neither of you cares.
Then he’s back, his mouth on yours, harder this time, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. You moan, the sound swallowed by his kiss, your fingers tightening in his hair. He groans in response, the vibration humming against your lips, and his hands slide down to your waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath your shirt.
You arch into him, your body acting on instinct, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he makes you feel like you’re burning.
His grip on you is bruising, possessive. He steps between your legs, his thighs pressing against yours, and the table creaks under your weight. You don’t care. His hands slide up your thighs, his thumbs brushing the hem of your sweats, and you shiver, your breath hitching. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours, demanding, taking. It’s embarrassing how you whimper, fingers clawing at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, like you can’t get enough.
The room spins, the air thick with the sound of your ragged breaths, the creak of the table beneath you, the rustle of papers scattering to the floor. His hands roam over your back, his touch searing through the fabric of your shirt, and you melt into him, your body aching for more.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, his voice raw, unsteady. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”
You should stop him. You should push him away, tell him this is a bad idea, that you’re supposed to be working, that this changes everything. But then his mouth trails down your jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, and your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.
“Mingyu—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he smirks against your skin, his breath hot, his fingers tightening in your hair.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
It’s ridiculous, how instead of breaking away, you grip his hair and yank him down – his lips back on yours, kissing him harder now.
His hands slide up your back, under your shirt, his touch searing against your skin. You gasp as his fingers trace the line of your spine, his other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you deeper.
The table shudders as he steps closer, his thighs pressing against yours, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him flush against you. His hips roll once, and you break—a sound tearing from your throat that’s half moan, half his name.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, his lips swollen, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile.
“This was a mistake,” you breathe, your voice unsteady, your fingers still tangled in his hair.
His grin is wicked, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, his touch light but possessive. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his gaze locked on yours. “Let’s do it again.”
And then his mouth is on yours once more, and this time, there’s no holding back.
His hands are everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch into him, a whimper spilling from your lips, and he swallows it, kissing you like he’s starving, like he’ll die if he stops. His hips roll against yours, and you moan, your nails scraping down his back, gripping the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
The room spins, the world narrowing to just this—the heat of his body, the taste of him, the way his hands claim you like he’s been waiting for this forever.
And when his hand slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, you melt into him, kissing him back with everything you’ve got—because god, you’ve wanted this, too.
You’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.
His mouth is everywhere—on yours, along your jaw, down the column of your throat—and you melt into him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs parted around him as he steps closer, his hips flush against yours. The table creaks under your weight, but you don’t care. The only thing that matters is the way his touch burns through you, the way his breath hitches when you arch into him, the way his name spills from your lips like a prayer.
One of his hands slides behind you, bracing against the table, his fingers splayed wide as he leans into you, his chest pressing against yours. The other hand—slow, deliberate—traces up your side, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. Your skin tingles under his touch, your breath catching as his fingers trail higher, higher.
You should stop him.
His mouth finds yours again, hungry, desperate, and you kiss him back with everything you’ve got—because god, you’ve wanted this, too. You’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.
His hand glides up your ribcage, his thumb skimming the underside of your breast, and you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groans against your lips, his kiss turning deeper, hotter, as his fingers tease the curve of your breast, his thumb brushing just beneath the swell.
“Y/n—” His voice is rough, a plea, as his hand finally cups you, his thumb grazing over the peak through the thin fabric of your bra.
A sound tears from your throat—half moan, half his name—and his lips crash back onto yours, swallowing it. His touch is firm, possessive, and you shudder, your back arching off the table, your body aching for more.
But then his fingers shift, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and reality hits like a bucket of ice water.
You shove him away.
It’s not hard but Mingyu stumbles back, his chest rising and falling like he’s just run across campus. His lips are swollen from your kiss, hair a mess from your fingers, and his eyes are opened wide – raw like you’ve torn away something delicate from his insides.
What the hell are you thinking?
“Ohmygod,” you gasp, voice cracking. You press your palms to your cheeks as if you can erase the heat lingering there and the feel of his lips on your jaw. “What am I– what the hell–”
Mingyu doesn’t move. His hands hover in the air between you like he’s not sure if he’s afraid to touch you or afraid to not touch you. His usual light-hearted grin is gone, replaced by a wide-eyed look of shock, mouth parted slightly. Words start tumbling out.
“Shit. Shit. Shit, Y/n– Y/n I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“-You did mean to!” Your voice is too loud and too sharp but you can’t stop it. “You always do this! Push and push and push until everything I’ve–”
You only half-register how unfair this is to him.
“--No.” He cuts you off, dragging a hand through his hair. His glasses still lay abandoned behind you. “I mean– No, I mean, I wanted to. But not like– like this. Not if you–” he swallows hard, his throat working. “Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have–”
You can only stare at him, catching your breath.
You’re being unfair, really, you know. You kissed him back as hard, if not harder, than he kissed you. And he sounds genuine and he looks so wrecked, fingers pulling at his hair, and he looks so sorry. He’s just standing there like you’ve gutted him or something. But your brain is fuzzy and you can’t focus on more than one thing and you can’t bring yourself to care about what’s fair and what’s not.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin as you pull your bra back into place and your sweater back down. You can still taste him on your lips when your tongue darts out. It makes your stomach twist.
Mingyu looks down at his feet, almost shamefully.
Some part of you twinges with guilt.
It’s not really his fault (even though he did kiss you first and he didn’t even get consent like you learned during your freshmen year sex-ed orientation). Although, you guess moaning his fucking name like some prostitute was consent enough.
“I’m leaving,” you mutter out, words leaving your lips strangled. You slide off the table, legs feeling unsteady. You shove your laptop and folders into your bag before sliding it over your shoulder.
Mingyu doesn’t stop you. He kind of just moves to the side.
He just stands there as you brush out your hair with shaking hands. “Y/n…”
“Don’t,” you snap, not looking at him. “Just, don’t.”
You storm to the door, shaking still as you reach for the knob. You can’t believe you let him kiss you. You’re halfway out the door when he speaks again, so softly that you almost miss it:
“Fucking idiot, Mingyu.”
You freeze.
Just for a second.
His back it to you.
And his words are directed at himself.
And the way he says it, like he’s disgusted with himself, like he’s kicking himself for ruining whatever that was, makes something in your chest ache.
But you yank the door open completely and slip out into the quiet hallway, your mind racing. The walk back down to the front door of the frat house feels like the walk of shame. Or well, what could have been an actual walk of shame, had you not come to your senses. Seriously, something was genuinely wrong with you.
When the front door closes behind you, your heated face meeting the cool night air, your phone clock reads 12:34 AM.
Clearly way past your bedtime.
---
mingyu; 8:49 PM
The frat house kitchen is a disaster: half-unpacked cases of beer, a countertop littered with red Solo cups, and the faint but unmistakable scent of spilled vodka mixing with the lemon cleaner someone sprayed earlier in a futile attempt to disguise the stench of last weekend’s debauchery. Mingyu leans against the chipped laminate counter, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the edge. His mind is still stuck on you. Even after spending three hours in the gym and running the circumference of campus at least twice.
“Yo, earth to Mingyu.” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through his thoughts, accompanied by the thud of another case of beer hitting the counter. “You’ve been staring at the wall for like ten minutes. What’s up?”
Mingyu blinks, forcing himself back to the present. “Nothing.”
Wonwoo snorts, appearing from down the hall. He reaches for a beer can, popping the tab off and sliding it towards Mingyu. “I call bullshit,” he hums, pushing his glasses up. “You’ve been like this since Friday, man. Did Y/n Hong finally like snap and break up your weird ass enemies to lovers shit? Is that why you’re all mopey?”
Mingyu snatches the can, his fingers tightening around it. “We’re not a fucking K-Drama. And no,” he says pointedly, “she didn’t ‘break up.’”
“But I bet she wanted to,” Seungcheol says, grinning as he leans against the counter beside Mingyu. “What’d you do? Tell her you think her folders are stupid or something?”
“Yeah, right,” Mingyu huffs, taking a long sip. The beer does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.
Wonwoo’s brows raise. “So?”
“Worse,” Mingyu groans.
“Oh. So that’s why she stormed out of here like you set her hair on fire. You–”
Seungcheol interrupts with wide eyes. “-You finally made a move?”
Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the can in his hands, the condensation running down his palm. “Yeah, I guess.”
Seungcheol whistles, low and impressed. “Damn. And? How was it? What’d she say?”
Mingyu’s throat tightens. “Uh, there wasn’t that much talking involved.”
Wonwoo blinks. “Huh? Whaddaya mean? Thought you confessed.”
Mingyu exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It means I fucked up. I kissed her. She was drunk. I should’ve stopped. I didn’t.”
Seungcheol waves a hand. “Come on, man. It’s not like you forced yourself on her. Y/n’s not exactly the type to let someone push her into something she doesn’t really want.”
“That’s not the point,” Mingyu snaps, voice sharper than he intends. He takes another swig. “She trusted me. I was finally getting her to open up to me as a friend. And I–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I fucking ruined it.”
Wonwoo studies him for a long moment, then sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. Y/n’s tough. She can handle herself.”
“That’s not the issue,” Mingyu groans, frustration bubbling up. “The issue is I know her. She’s been avoiding any personal interaction with me since sophomore year because she probably thinks I’m some frat boy who doesn’t take anything seriously and fucks around. And then I have to go and prove her right by basically assaulting her in the office like some horny freshman.”
Seungcheol barks out a laugh. “Dude, you’re way too hard on yourself. Y/n’s hot. Any guy would’ve lost his mind a little.”
Mingyu glares at him. “Not the point.”
“I know, I know,” Seungcheol says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But come on. You’ve been pining after her for like three years now. You finally get a shot and you’re beating yourself up ‘cause it didn’t go perfectly? Life’s not a rom-com, man.”
Mingyu rubs the back of his neck, the weight of his own stupidity pressing down on him. “I just… I like her, okay? Like, really like her. And I know she thinks I’m some joke–”
“-She doesn’t think that,” Wonwoo interrupts, voice surprisingly confident. “She knows you, Mingyu, unfortunately. That’s why she lets you get under her skin.”
Mingyu stares at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Wonwoo shrugs. “That she cares. Even if she won’t admit it.”
Mingyu exhales, his friends’ words settling over him. He wants to believe them. I mean, you kissed him back, for fuck’s sake. But the memory of your face, horrified as you pushed him away, still stings.
Seungcheol nudges him with his elbow. “Look, man, just talk to her. Apologize. Just fess up. Tell her you like her. Girls love that shit.”
“Or,” Mingyu mutters, “she’ll punch me.”
Seungcheol shrugs, grinning. “Eh. Sounds worth it to me.”
Mingyu shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “You’re useless.”
“But right,” Seungcheol counters, clinking his beer can against Mingyu’s. “Now drink and stop moping before the party starts. You’re really killing the vibe.”
Mingyu just laughs, letting Wonwoo and Seungcheol walk him out of the kitchen.
Yeah, maybe it wasn’t so bad.
The beer pong table is sticky under Mingyu’s palms, the music too loud, and the air thick with the scent of beer and sweat. He’s pretty sure his team is up by four points. Maybe six? He stopped paying attention five minutes ago.
“Mingyu!” Seungcheol barks, beer in hand. “It’s your turn, man.” His voice cuts through the haze and Mingyu blinks, realizing that he’d been staring at the same damn cup for who knows how long.
He grabs the ball, the plastic slick against his fingers, and misses the shot. Again. The Sigma Chi guys across the table whoop in triumph (apparently that was the winning stroke) and Wonwoo groans, shoving Mingyu’s shoulder.
“Dude, you’re trash tonight. Thought we fixed your girl problems.”
Mingyu doesn’t answer. His chest is tight and his skin is itchy. To be honest, ever since Wonwoo and Seungcheol told him to confront you, he’s been jittery like he’s been wired all wrong. Nerves, maybe? But you’re not even here. You never come to his frat parties, especially during the spring term.
“Holy fuck.” Seungcheol’s voice is suddenly different, sharper, his eyes locked on the swinging door. “Isn’t that KAT?”
“Huh?”
“Bro, that’s the Kappa Alpha Theta girls.”
Mingyu’s head snaps up.
And there you are.
Walking through the door of his house, laughing at someone one of your friends said, your hair loose down your shoulders, lips curved in a grin that he’s spent years trying to coax out of you. You’re wearing a dress – dark red, tight. The fabric clings like second skin and he can see how the fabric of the neckline flounces with every step you take. The hem ride high on your thighs. His throat goes dry as he watches you move, the way the dress hugs your hips, the way he can see the sweel of your tits bounce slightly with every step. Fuck, he’s downed too many beers for this.
He forces himself to look away and take a deep breath, but its useless. It’s like his body remembers you – the way you’d felt under his hands, the way, for a second, you arched into him, melting under his palms. The way you had also wanted him, even if just for a passing minute.
“Mingyu!” Wonwoo’s voice is impatient, but he doesn’t really care. He throws the ball, doesn’t even watch where it lands. The floor, probably.
And then Mingyu sees him.
Some guy. Tall, smug, swearing Sigma Chi’s letters proudly across his chest, stepping into your space. He’s leaning in. Talking. Talking to you. To you. His hand brushes your arm. Who the fuck does he think he is?
Mingyu’s fingers clench around the edge of the table.
The guy laughs at something you say, his hand lingering on your arms. And in that moment, something primitive and ugly rears up in Mingyu’s chest. His stomach twists, his jaw locking, the aluminum of the beer can denting under his fingers.
Some weird, possessive part of him wants to rip the loser’s hands off.
The guy steps closer, his fingers trailing down your arm, and Mingyu’s vision goes red.
He drops the ball.
“I’m out,” he mutters, already pushing away from the table, his pulse roaring in his ears.
“Yo, where the hell are you going?” Seungcheol calls after him, but Mingyu doesn’t stop.
Because you’re laughing again, tilting your head back, and the guy steps even closer, as if your laughter is an invitation for his tongue down your throat. He’s smirking too, like he’s won something, like he has any fucking idea of what you’re really like.
And Mingyu can’t take it.
He can’t.
So when the Sigma Chi guy’s hand slides lower, his fingers lingering on the small of your back, something inside Mingyu snaps. He’s across the room in seconds, hand slamming onto your waist before the guy can even react.
“She’s with me,” Mingyu says, a thin smile stretching on his lips. His smile contradicts his low voice.
The guy blinks.
What was his name again? Jason? Joshua?
His smirk falters as he takes in Mingyu’s expression. “Didn’t know she was taken,” he mutters, backing off with his hands up.
Mingyu really doesn’t care. He’s distracted because of you – because you tense under his hand, breath hitches when he pulls you closer. Weirdly, you don’t really protest or push him away.
He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You came here to piss me off?” he murmurs, grip on your waist tightening.
You swallow, your pulse fluttering under his fingers. “I came here to drink,” you say, but he knows it's a half-lie. He can hear how unsteady your voice is, your eyes dark when you finally look at him.
Mingyu’s hand tightens around your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your dress, the heat of your skin burning through the material. He should let go. He really should let go and step back, give you space, ask what the hell you’re doing here. But fuck, the way you melt into him, the way your breath hitches when he pulls you closer, it shatters whatever self-control he had left.
“Liar,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice rough with need. You shiver under his touch, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his fingers, and something primitive uncoils in his chest. Something raw and possessive in his chest tightens.
You swallow as you lie again. “I came here to drink.”
Mingyu smirks against your skin, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers clench around your cup, your knuckles white, dark eyes flashing with something he recognizes. For the first time, he sees something other than annoyance in your eyes: need. It drives him crazy. It’s everything he’s been craving since the last time he touched you, since the last time he tasted you.
He can’t resist.
His mouth crashes onto yours, hard and demanding, and the second your lips part under his, he’s lost. You taste like beer and something sweet, something uniquely you, and it drowns him. He can smell the faint scent of peaches in your perfume and he can taste beer and something else – strawberries? Did he set out strawberries for this party? His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, the other gripping your hip, pulling you flush against him. The way you whimper into the kiss, the way your fingers fist in his shirt – fuck, it’s everything.
“Mingyu–” His name on your lips. Like a plea, a warning.
“Tell me to stop,” he gasps against your mouth, his body pressing you against the wall, his thigh sliding between your legs. He presses a little–
You moan, your body arching into his, and Mingyu needs to stifle his groan, his control snapping. His hands roam over your waist, up your ribs, his thumbs brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs parting just enough to let him press closer, harder. The friction is maddening, his cock throbbing painfully in his jeans, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is you—the way you respond to him, the way your body moves against his, chasing the same release he’s aching for.
"Your room," you gasp, your voice breathless, desperate.
Fuck yes.
Mingyu doesn’t waste a second. He grabs your hand, pulling her through the crowd, his grip tight, possessive. Bodies are all around you as he pulls the two of you through the throng of people. The stairs blur beneath his feet, the music fading into the background as he kicks his door shut behind them, the lock clicking into place with a finality that sends a jolt through him.
The second the door closes, you’re suddenly on him, your lips crashing onto his, your hands fumbling with his waistband, your body pressing against his like you’re trying to crawl inside of him. Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk. His brain is on overdrive. Bad choice, bad choice, bad idea, what the hell. His brain is overheated. It’s hot. What room is this? Mingyu groans, his hands tangling in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours.
His mind is a whirlwind – drunk on you, on the taste of you, on the way your body molds against his. The scent of peaches and vanilla wraps around him, intoxicating, maddening. His hands grip your waist, lifting effortlessly, voice rough against your lips: “Jump.”
You jump without hesitation, your legs wrapping around his waist, your dress riding up as you lock your ankles behind his back. Mingyu groans, the heat of you pressing against him, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. Fuck. He stumbles backward, his knees hitting the edge of his – or wait no, someone else’s maybe – bed. He can’t stop kissing you, touching you, breathing you in.
“You’re such a tease,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. You shiver under his touch, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping against his skin as you pull his shirt up, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head.
He watches as you grin, hair mussed, lipstick smeared.
“You love it,” you breathe, hands roaming over his chest, palms flat against his skin, fingers tracing every ridge of muscle, every inch of him. Mingyu groans, his head falling back as your hands go down his abs.
“Y/n–” His voice is tight with warning.
Your hands slide up, over his shoulders, like you’re somehow mapping and calming him, before dragging down his back, and he just knows he’ll wake up to those faint red marks from your nails. Mingyu shudders, his control fraying as you arch into him, your lips find his again, kiss hot and messy.
“Touch me,” you whisper, arms winding around his neck. Your voice is low, body rolling against his.
And really, he doesn’t need to be told twice.
His hands physically shake as they slide under your dress, his fingers digging into the bare skin of your thighs, firm and possessive. You gasp into his mouth, your legs tightening around him.
“Mingyu, please–”
“-I’ve got you,” he mumbles against your lips. And suddenly, he takes one more step back to– nothing. He’s falling, gravity forcing him away from you, your wide eyes above his as he lands backwards on the bed, the blanket puffing up around him. You follow quickly, hands on either side of his head, legs straddling his waist. Both of you are panting, chests heaving, especially as you loom over him, hair spilling around your shoulder, breasts threatening to spill out of the lace dress, lips swollen from his kisses.
You’re grinning.
And he’s never seen something prettier.
“You talk too much,” you say, fingers trailing down his chest, hovering over the waist band of his sweatpants.
Mingyu grins, cheeks hot, one hand gripping your waist, the other your thigh, up so high that his thumb brushes the delicate lace of your panties. He could die.
“Thought you liked that about me,” he counters, voice rough, and he reaches up to pull you down again, lips crashing together.
Mingyu’s fingers find the zipper of your dress, his touch shaky with need as he slowly drags it down. The fabric parts, you gasp, breaking away from the kiss. He pulls the dress ove ryour head in one fluid motion, and fuck – your tits bounce free, full and god your nipples are alreay hard from the cool air, from his touch (at least he hopes). His breath catches and his cock throbs painfully against the fabric of his sweatpants.
“Fuck, Y/n–” his voice is rouh as you rub the corner of your lips, one of your hands reaching for his. Your hand leads his to your tits, forcing him to cup them, his thumb brushing over your nipples. You arch into his touch, whimpering, hips rolling against his like you’re chasing the friction.
And then it’s a blur.
You’re kissing again, hips grinding together, desperate, needy, and Mingyu feels like a teenager from how close he is just from dry humping you. He swears he almost bust when he glanced down for a split second, only to see the darker wet patch you left on his sweatpants, arousal leaking through your panties.
The bed creaks beneath you, the sheets tangling around your legs, but neither of you can slow down.
“Mingyu, please,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. Your chest heaves in front of his face, thighs trembling, face red with exertion. “My fucking thighs…” you mutter.
Mingyu doesn’t hesitate. Whatever you need, really.
Mingyu’s hands tighten on your waist, his thumbs brushing over your nipples again, teasing them into harder peaks. The way you whimper, the way your body rolls against his – fuck, he’s done for. His cock aches, throbbing against the wet spot on his sweatpants, proof of how badly you want him driving him wild.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters, his voice rough as he flips you onto your back, his body covering yours. His lips crash onto yours, hot and messy, his tongue sweeping against yours as his hands slide down, hooking his fingers into the lace of your panties. Your skin is so soft.
“Mingyu–” Your voice is desperate, pleading, your hips lifting off the bed as he drags the fabric down your legs, tossing it somewhere in the room.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers trailing up your inner thighs, teasing, taunting. You shudder, your legs falling open for him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. It’s music to his ears, thundering in his brain.
His mouth trails down your body, slow and deliberate: over your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. He kisses the dip of your hipbone, his tongue tracing the line of your pelvis, his breath hot against your skin.
“Mingyu, please–” You whine, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer
New discovery: he hates making you wait.
His lips press against your thigh, his teeth grazing the soft skin, his fingers spreading you open. “Fuck,” he groans, his breath ghosting over you, “you’re so wet for me, baby.”
And then his mouth is on you.
His tongue flattens against your clit, long and slow, and you jolt, a broken cry spilling from your lips. Mingyu groans against you, the taste of you sweet and intoxicating, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still as he devours you.
“Oh my god–” Your back arches, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth. Mingyu doesn’t let up, his tongue flicking over your clit, circling, teasing, before sucking it between his lips. Your moans fill the room, desperate and uncontrolled, your fingers clawing at the sheets.
Like some pervert, he wants more. More, more, more, more, more, more.
“That’s it,” Mingyu murmurs, his voice muffled against you, “let me hear you.”
Your breath hitches as his fingers slide inside you, quite easily, actually, curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “Min– fuck– Mingyu!"
“Come for me,” he orders, his tongue moving faster, harder, his fingers working you in perfect rhythm. “C’mon, baby, come for me.”
He can pinpoint the exact moment you shatter, your body tensing, your orgasm crashing over you, wave after wave of pleasure wracking your body. Mingyu doesn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing out every last shudder, every last whimper.
When you finally collapse back onto the bed, boneless and breathless, Mingyu crawls up your body, his lips finding yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Fuck,” you gasp, your body trembling beneath him, your chest heaving.
Mingyu hovers over you, his body humming with need, his cock so painfully hard, tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants. The sight of you, flushed, trembling, your pupils blown and dark, your lips parted and swollen from his kisses, drowns him. Your chest heaves, the rise and fall of your breasts hypnotic, the sheen of sweat on your skin glowing in the dim light of his room.
Fuck, you’re perfect.
You’re everything he’s dreamed you to be. And more. So, so, so much more.
“Fuck,” you gasp, your body still trembling beneath him, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.
He dips down, capturing your mouth in another kiss, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours. You moan into it, your body arching up to meet his, your nails digging into his skin. Mingyu groans, his hips rolling against yours, the friction maddening.
“This wasn’t the plan,” you breathe against his lips, your voice shaky, unsteady as you ramble on your excuse. “I should leave–”
“-No,” Mingyu huffs, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. He sucks, hard, marking you, claiming you. “Don’t fucking care if this wasn’t your plan,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “You want this as much as I do.”
You whimper, your head falling back as he kisses down your throat, his hands gripping your waist, holding you tight. Your hands roam the crevices of his deltoids and he deludes himself to think that the way you bite your bottom lip is because of him. Him, him, him, him.
“Mingyu—” Your voice is weak, breathy, your body betraying you as you roll your hips against his.
“Stay,” he pleads, his voice rough, desperate, thumb pulling your lip free from the bite of your teeth. He runs the pad of his thumb over the plump skin, kissing the corner of it. “I’ll do whatever you want, y/n. Anything.” His lips find yours again, his kiss hot and messy, his control snapping as you whimper into his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, your cheeks flushed, your lips parted, your eyes dark with lust, blinking up at him. This is dangerous. You are dangerous. You’re some type of poison to him. He can’t control the words that flow out of his mouth. Not with you so close to him. No space for him to breathe, think, speak properly. “But don’t tell me you don’t want this,” he breathes, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Not when you look at me like that.”
Your breath hitches, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “I hate you,” you whisper, but your body arches into his, your legs wrapping around his waist.
Mingyu grins, feral, triumphant. “Liar,” he murmurs, before his mouth crashes onto yours again.
His cock throbs and the pressure from his waistband isn’t quite enough. He aches for release, but he ignores it. Right now, this (you) is everything. The way you respond to him, the way your body moves against his, the way you whimper his name like a prayer. It’s intoxicating. Like some kind of drug induced halo effect. He could drown in you. You’re burning him up like some flimsy little incense stick. He’s burning for you. So, so happily.
Lips moving in tandem, your hands roam across the expanse of his rippling shoulders, back, and he shudders when your nails rake through his hair.
“Mingyu,” you whisper, breaking away for a second.
He hums in response, kissing down your neck, one arm above your head, supporting his weight, as the other hand massages your boob. His mouth goes lower.
“Mingyu,” you say, more incessant now, pulling him up to your face.
“Yeah?” he breathes, panting, hair falling in front of his eyes, arm shaking. He doesn’t know where to look – your eyes? Lips? Boobs? No, not boobs, you’ll have his head. He barely registers that you’re saying something until you stare up at him expectantly. Fuck, what did you say?
“Huh?” he says, stupid from the way your nails were scratching the nape of his neck. “Wha’cha say?”
He ignores the way you roll your eyes at him, licking the shell of your ear, biting the skin.
“I said, take your shirt off,” you repeat. Your fingers suddenly tighten around the back of his neck and you force him to look up at you.
Fuck, you’re so hot.
Mingyu swallows, trying to blink away the haze in his brain.
“Mingyu, did you hear me?” You ask, brows raised.
He licks his lips, nodding furiosly. “Uh huh, uh huh,” he responds.
“So? Take it off.”
He nods, sitting back on his heels, reaching for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. The cool air hits his skin, but all he feels is the heat of your gaze raking over him. Over his shoulders, his pecs, the ridges of his abs, the dips of his hips. He preens under your attention, his chest puffing just a little as your breath catches, your lips parting further, your eyes darkening with hunger.
"Like what you see?" he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing, as your hands reach for him.
“Should’ve taken this shit off sooner,” you mumble, and he blushes at your words.
Your fingers trace the curves of his muscles, light at first, then firm, exploring every inch of him. Mingyu shudders, his abs clenching under your touch, his skin burning where you trail your palms. “Fuck, y/n.” His voice is a groan, his control fraying as your nails scrape down his chest, over his hips, hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“You’re so fucking hot,” you breathe, your voice husky, your thumbs brushing the dips of his hip bones.
Mingyu grins, feral, triumphant, like he won the lottery, as he leans down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of your bare skin against his almost unbearable. “You drive me crazy,” he hums, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone.
Your fingers tighten on his waistband, tugging him closer, and Mingyu groans, his hips rolling against yours, the friction maddening. “You want this,” he murmurs, his voice rough against your skin. “Say it.”
He can physically see the way your brain tries to come up with something to say to him. And then how it gives up.
“C’mon,” he whispers into your ear, kissing your cheek, “say it, baby.”
You whimper, your nails digging into his hips, your body arching into his, and he knows he’s won. “I want you,” you gasp, your voice broken, desperate. You arch into him. “Mingyu, god, please.”
Mingyu doesn’t need to hear it twice.
His mouth crashes onto yours again, hot and demanding, as his hands slide under your ass, lifting you, grinding you against him. The moan that spills from your lips vibrates through him, sending a jolt straight to his cock. "You’re mine," he growls, his voice raw, possessive, and fuck, the way you whimper in response, the way your body moves against his, chasing more, chasing him, it’s everything. Forget the fact that he doesn’t know where those almost territorial words popped out of. Forget the fact that he’s so hard that he’s almost 99% sure he’s gonna burst a load the moment your bare pussy even grazes his dick. Forget the fact that he wants to kiss you again and again and again.
The air between you is electric, charged with need and want. Mingyu’s hands tangle in your hair as he kisses you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate. Your fingers explore the hard planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, the heat of his skin burning beneath your touch. He whimpers into your mouth, his body arching into yours, and he’d be embarassed if his cock didn’t fuckin’ hurt.
“Mingyu–” you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe, your chest heaving. You press your palms against his shoulders, pushing him away lightly, just enough to put some space between you.
And it’s like he’s been snapped out of whatever was controlling him. Mingyu freezes, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with concern. “W-wh- Are you okay?” His voice is rough, husky, his hands still hovering over your waist, ready to pull you back if you want him to. His eyes roam your face, trying to discern what’s wrong.
You swallow, your fingers brushing over his bottom lip, swollen from your kisses. You have the same look in your eyes like from when he said something really productive in class. “Lie down,” you murmur, your voice low, commanding.
“Huh?” Mingyu raises an eyebrow but obeys, shifting back until he’s lying on the bed, his body spread out before you. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, his abs clenching as he watches you. “What’re you—?”
You don’t answer. Instead, you slide your heels off, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. Mingyu’s gaze tracks every movement, his cock twitching as he takes you in: your lipstick smudged, the purple blooming at your neck from his hickies, the way your hair spills over your shoulders, messy and wild.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice thick with lust. “You should see yourself. You look so hot like this.”
You crawl up the bed, settling between his spread legs, your fingers trailing down his chest, over his pecs, his stomach, following the dips and curves of his body. “You promise?” you tease, your palm pressing against the bulge in his sweatpants.
“Fuck, yeah, I promi–” Mingyu hisses, his hips jerking up into your touch, head falling back. “Y/n–” His voice is a warning, a plea, his hands fisting in the sheets.
You lean down, pressing a kiss to his pecs, then lower, over his abs, your lips trailing down the V-line that disappears beneath his waistband. “You talk too much,” you murmur, your breath hot against his skin.
“Y-you’ve said,” he retorts, but his voice is strained, his body tensing beneath you as your fingers trace the waistband of his sweatpants, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock through the fabric.
Fuck, you know what you’re doing.
“Because you do,” you respond, slowly rubbing up and down through the fabric. You press a kiss at his pulse point on his neck.
“I th-thought you said, fuck, you l-liked it,” his words end as a moan, hips jerking up into your touch when you bite down lightly. He can feel your lips stretch into a grin against his skin.
“Maybe I do,” you whisper, your lips pressing against the skin just above his waistband. “But right now…” You glance up at him, your eyes dark with promise, “I want you to shut up.”
Mingyu groans, his head falling back against the pillow, his chest heaving. “Fuck, Y/n–” His voice is broken, desperate, as your hand slides beneath the fabric, nails scratching his happy trail, fingers delicately wrapping around his cock. Did your fingers even wrap around the entire thing? Fuck, this is like the peak of all of his wet dreams. His Adams apple bobs.
“Good boy,” you mumble, your lips curving into a dangerous grin when you see his eyes roll back at your words. He wills himself to not cum as you begin to stroke him, slow and torturous. His body shudders, his hips lifting off the bed, chasing your touch.
Another discovery: he likes when you praise him.
He should’ve figured.
You press another kiss to his stomach, then lower, your tongue darting out to trace the line of his hip bone. Mingyu’s fingers tangle in your hair, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “Y-you’re gonna kill me," he groans, but he doesn’t stop you.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, slowly dragging them down his hips. Mingyu lifts his ass off the bed just enough to let you pull them free, his cock springing up, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with pre as it hits his stomach. He swallows hard, his hands hovering in the air, unsure—should he touch you? Should he grip the sheets? Hold the headboard? What was the right thing to do when someone was going to suck him off? Fuck, should he—?
You glance up at him, your lips curved in a sweet smile, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. He twitches.
“Here,” you murmur, grabbing his hand and guiding it down until his fingers tangle in your hair. “You can touch.”
Mingyu exhales shakily, his blush deepening as his fingers curl into your soft strands, his grip tightening just enough to feel you. “Y/n–” His voice is rough, thick with need. He wants to say you don’t need to. That you can stop, that you shouldn’t feel obligated to suck him off just because he fingered you, that you don’t need to reciprocate. But then you squeeze and then jerk him off twice, breath fanning over his tip, and then everything he should say leaves his stupid, stupid brain.
You lick your lips, your eyes dark as you take him in. “Fuck, Gyu,” you breathe, your thumb brushing over the head of his cock, spreading the pre that beads there. He tries his best not to cum from the nickname alone. “You’re so big.”
Mingyu’s cock twitches at your words, his blush rising higher on his cheeks, his chest tight. “Y/n, don’t–” He groans, his hips jerking as you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly.
“Don’t what?” you tease, your tongue darting out to kitten-lick the head, tasting the salt of his pearly precum.
Mingyu’s breath hitches, his fingers tightening in your hair.
You grin wickedly, lips puckering to kiss his tip, moaning at the taste of him. Mingyu’s eyes roll back at the sensation, whimpering.
“Don’t tell you how hot you are? What you taste like?” you whisper, hands magical on his throbbing cock. “Because you’re so hot, Mingyu. You look so hot with your muscles,” you run a fingers down the middle of his abs, “and your cute little blush,” your thumb brushes his cheekbone, “and you taste,” you look down at his length that you’ve been stroking, and Mingyu almost chokes on his own spit at the way your tongue dart out to lick at his slit. You finish off your sentence with a small giggle, looking up at Mingyu. He swears to God, he’s gonna lose his mind.
He whimpers, his cock throbbing in your hand. “Y’ gonna kill me.”
You giggle, the sound muffled as you press a kiss to the side of his shaft, then another to the underside, your lips trailing up and down his length, messy with spit. “You like it,” you murmur, your breath hot against his skin.
“Fuck– yeah–” Mingyu gasps, his hips lifting off the bed, chasing your mouth, fingers gripping your hair.
You grin, looking up at him through your lashes. “Can I suck you off?” Your voice is soft, sweet, but your eyes are dark with promise. “Pretty please?”
Mingyu nods frantically, his chest heaving. “Please–”
Thank god that’s all the permission you need.
Your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock, licking from base to tip before you take him into your mouth, slow and deep. You make a cute little sound when he hits the back of your throat and there’s still more of him left. Mingyu groans, his fingers tangling in your hair, his hips rolling up to meet you unconsciously. “Oh fuck–” His voice is broken, desperate, as you hollow your cheeks, sucking, taking him deeper, your hand stroking the base of his cock in time with your mouth. You pull back, taking a big breath in, before you go back down, and Mingyu has to fist the sheet with one hand because you don’t stop at where you were. Instead, your head goes down and down, until your nose meets the tuft of neatly trimmed hair at his base, spit foaming at your stretched lips, your throat constricting as you gag on him. He lets out a sound in between a moan and a sob, begging his hips to stay in place. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he pants, the hand in your hair so, so, so tight. “God– shit–!” His other hand comes crashing down above his head against the wooden headboard as you swallow and swallow around him. “Fuck!” he groans, and his hips buck up and he barely registers how you choke and his hand pulls you back.
You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, teasing the slit, before taking him back in, your lips sealing around him.
“Y/n– fuck – y’ gonna–” he moans when you suck on his tip like he’s some oversized lollipop, “Fuck! Y’ gonna m-make me c-cu– oh shit – cum!”
You pull off, giggling, wiping off your spit from your chin like some cock-drunk bimbo. “Cum, then. ‘M not stoppin’ you.”
Mingyu’s body tenses, his cock throbbing, pre dripping onto your tongue.
“You feel so good,” he pants, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hair just right.
You moan around him, the vibration sending a jolt through his body. His hips buck, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, your eyes watering just a little.
Mingyu’s fingers tighten in your hair, his hips rolling up as he pushes you down just a little further, his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck– just like that, baby,” he groans, his voice rough and desperate. You whimper, your nose pressed against his lower abs, your breath coming in short through your nose as you try to relax your throat around him. The sound you make – need and want and just a hint of struggle – sends a jolt straight to his spine.
“Y’ take me s-so well, yeah?” he pants, his hips stuttering up, holding you there for a beat before letting you pull back, gasping for air. “Fuck, l-look at you–” His voice cracks as his gaze drops to where your free hand is gone between your thighs, your hips rolling subtly against the bed, chasing friction. “You l-like this, d-don’t you? Like being su-ugh-such a good – nngh – girl for me?"
You moan around his cock, your thumb circling the slit, spreading the pre that beads there before licking it off, your tongue swirling over the head. Mingyu hisses, his body tensing, his cock throbbing in your mouth. “Ugh—fuck—nnghh–”
Your fingers trail lower, massaging his balls, rolling them gently in your palm.
“Mmm,” you hum, the vibration making his hips jerk. “Taste sshooo good,” you murmur, your voice muffled as you take him back in, hollowing your cheeks.
“I can’t—” Mingyu gasps, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you slow and deep. “I can’t last—” His words jumble together, his mind short-circuiting as he watches you: lipstick smudged, eyes watering, still grinding against your fingers like you’re desperate for more. “You’re so fuh-fuckin’ perfect.”
You pull back just enough to lick a strip up the underside of his cock, your hand pumping the base slowly. “Y’ wanna come in my mouth?” you whisper, your breath hot against his skin. “Or d’ya wanna fuck me first?"
Mingyu groans, his cock twitching. “I want—fuck—” His eyes roll back as you take him deep again, your tongue flat against the underside. “Wanna– nngh–” Mingyu moans so loud he’s pretty sure people could hear him over the party noise. “Wan’ both!"
You giggle, the sound vibrating around him, and Mingyu whimpers, his hips lifting off the bed. “Please,” he begs, his voice broken. “Y/n, please—”
Your thumb presses against his slit, teasing, and Mingyu’s body locks up, a broken moan spilling from his lips. “You little—fuck—!” His gaze snaps down to where your hips are rolling against the bed, the wet sound of you rubbing your pussy against the sheets filling the room. “So wet f’ me, right?" He says it like his well-being depends on you being turned on by this. So turned on by this that you’re dripping onto his sheets.
You nod, your cheeks hollowed around his cock, sucking and sucking, tongue dipping into his slit, your fingers picking up speed on his balls. Mingyu’s breath hitches, his cock pulsing. “Fuh-uck, baby, stop—I’m gonna—!” he squirms, trying to get you to stop, but it only makes his cock hit the back of your throat over and over again, until your throat constrict around the head.
Mingyu’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his fingers clawing at the sheets as you work him over, your lips wrapped tight around the head of his cock, sucking, your tongue swirling over the sensitive spot just beneath the ridge.
“Fuck, Y/n, I needa fuck you,” he rambles, his voice raw and desperate, on the verge of sobs. “Please, baby, let me—I-I’ll show you how m-much I wan’ you—fuck, I can’t— can’t c-cum yet—"
You pull off for a split second, your hand pumping him slow and deliberate, your thumb pressing against the slit, teasing. “No,” you murmur, your voice low and firm. Your words have a twinge of annoyance, like when he forgot to submit an event form and you had to do it yourself. “If you don’t cum in my mouth,” you say, stroking him faster, “you’re not fucking me.” Your eyes lock onto his, dark and commanding. “So,” you breathe, all doe-eyed and sweet smiles again, “Gyu, won’t you be a good boy and come for me?”
Mingyu whines, his hips jerking up into your hand, his cock throbbing. He lets out a low moan, thighs shaking, abs clenching. His gaze drops to where your other hand is sliding between your legs, your fingers circling your clit, glistening with how wet you are. “You’re so wet—I know you want me to—”
“I do,” you breathe, leaning down to lick a strip up the underside of his cock, your lips brushing the head. “But,” you tighten your grip, your tongue flicking over the tip, “you’re gonna cum right here.” You take him back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, your hand pumping the base in time with your mouth.
“Oh my god,” Mingyu’s voice breaks, his body tensing as you focus on the head, your tongue swirling, your lips sealed tight. “I can’t—I need to fuck you—please—”
You pull back just enough to speak, your breath hot against his skin. “Cum in my mouth,” you order, your voice husky. “And then you can fuck me however you want.” You kiss his tip. “I know you’re close.”
Mingyu groans, his cock pulsing in your hand, pre dripping onto your tongue. "You’re killing me—"
“Good,” you murmur, taking him deep again, your fingers picking up speed on his balls. “Cum for me, Mingyu.” Your free hand slides back between your legs, your fingers rolling over your clit as you moan around his cock, the vibration sending him over the edge.
“Ugh! Fuck—Y/n—!" His orgasm hits him hard, his cock pulsing as he spills into your mouth, his moans loud and broken. He shudders as wave after wave crashes down on him, cock straining against the tight suction of your mouth, weeping thick ropes of hot, white cum that paints the back of your throat with a milky gloss. You swallow around him, moving so that you’re sucking his tip, licking him clean before pulling back with a soft pop, your lips glossy, your eyes dark with satisfaction. You stick your tongue out at him, and he could die right there. Not a single drop of cum left on your tongue.
Mingyu collapses back onto the bed, his chest heaving, his body trembling. "Fuck," he pants, reaching for you, pulling you up to crash his lips onto yours. He can taste his salty cum on your tongue. “You’re fucking made for me,” Mingyu growls against your lips, his hands gripping your waist before he flips you onto your back in one swift motion. His body covers yours, his knees spreading your thighs wide as he settles between them. “Fucking hell, Y/n,” he mumbles, his voice rough and breathless, his lips crashing onto yours again. His kisses are messy, desperate—teeth clashing, tongues twisting—as he mutters nonsense between them. His fingers trail down until they meet a slick wetness. His eyes almost bulge out. "You’re impossible—fuck—how are you this wet—?"
You giggle against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Don’t forget your forms are due tomorrow night," you tease, your hips arching up to grind against him.
Mingyu pulls back just enough to glare at you, but his eyes are dark with lust, his chest heaving. "Shut up," he groans, kicking his sweats and boxers the rest of the way off before his fingers trail down your stomach, slow and deliberate. "You drive me crazy."
His touch is light at first, teasing the top of your thighs, the dip of your hip bones, before finally—finally—brushing against your cunt, fluttering, missing his mouth, his fingers. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice rough with awed disbelief. "You’re soaked."
You shudder, your back arching off the bed as his fingers glide through your wetness, circling your clit just once before dipping lower. “Mingyu—” Your voice is broken, needy, as he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right. You let out a moan right by his ear.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against your collarbones, your breasts, everywhere he can reach. His fingers work you open, slow and deep, his thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles. “Look at you—all wet f’me.”
You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body trembling beneath him. “More—” you gasp, your hips rolling to meet his hand.
Mingyu chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your skin. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding in and out of you, stretching you, preparing you. “Want t’feel you come on my fingers first.” His voice is low, husky, his eyes locked on yours as he watches you fall apart. “You can do that f’me, right? Jus’ f’me?”
Your breath hitches as he adds a third finger, his thumb pressing firm against your clit. “Fuck—nnghhh!—” Your body tenses, your orgasm building fast, uncontrollable.
“That’s it,” he growls, his lips capturing yours again. "Let me hear you." His fingers pick up speed, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, his thumb rubbing your clit in perfect rhythm.
You whimper, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coils tight in your stomach. “Mingyu—” His name is a plea, a warning, your body trembling on the edge.
“Shhh," he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and rough. “Not yet.”
You whine, your hips rolling against his hand, chasing the release that’s just out of reach. One hand digs into his shoulder, the other gripping his wrist, unsure whether to push him away or press him down harder. “Please—” Your voice is broken, desperate, but Mingyu doesn’t give in.
Instead, he slows his fingers, teasing you—just enough pressure to keep you there, right on the brink, but never enough to push you over. “You feel so good,” he praises, his lips trailing down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "But I want you begging for my cock."
You moan, your body aching, needing. “B-b-but! M-mingyu, mmnghh! Y-you s-s-said!”
“I know, I know, baby. Almost,” he promises, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl, his thumb pressing just hard enough to make you whimper. And then—fuck—he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching.
"No—!" You gasp, your body trembling, your orgasm hanging just out of reach.
Mingyu grins, feral, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. "So sweet," he murmurs, his eyes dark with lust.
Before you can protest, his lips are on yours, his kiss gentle—slow, deep, tasting of you. "M sorry,” he whispers against your mouth, his cock throbbing against your thigh.
You meet his lips, hands in his hair.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth, “Wanna fuck you properly. Can I, baby? Can I fuck you?” he mumbles.
You nod blearily. “Mhm, fuck me, please, fuck me,” you pant, hips canting up as you whine. “G-Gyu,” you whine, bare pussy rubbing on his thigh, “Wan’ it. W-wan’ it sshhooo bad.” Your hips cant up. “It hurts, Gyu, S’ hurts,” you whine, tears in your eyes. “You’re s’mean.”
“Fuck,” Mingyu gasps, eyes bulging at your words. “N-no, I gotchu, baby. M’ gon’ fuck you now, m’kay? Fuck you nice and good,” he murmurs, kissing you, hand wrapping around his cock, stroking himself slowly. He leans over to the nightstand, fumbling around in the drawer for a condom. When he fishes it out though, you’re faster. Your fingers snatch it from his grip, tearing the wrapper open with shaky hands. His breath hitches as you roll it down his length, your touch light but electric, your eyes locked on his.
"Y/n—" His voice is rough, thick with restraint, as he catches your wrists, bringing your hands to his mouth. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, then another to your palm, his lips lingering against your skin. "We don’t have to do this," he murmurs, his forehead pressing against yours. "If you don’t want to—"
You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I want to," you whisper, your voice raw.
Mingyu exhales shakily, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to ground you. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he admits, his voice cracking. His lips find yours, his kiss slow and deep, pouring every ounce of need into it. "Fuck, Y/n—"
He shifts, his body hovering over yours, one arm bracing his weight as the other slides down to guide himself to your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you, hot and heavy, and you whimper, your hips lifting to meet him.
"Wait—" Mingyu breathes, his forehead resting against yours. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."
You nod, your chest heaving, your nails digging into his biceps as he pushes in—slow, inch by inch, letting you adjust to the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him. "Fuck—" The word spills from your lips as a moan, your back arching off the bed, your body trembling beneath him.
"You feel—" Mingyu groans, his voice cracking as he pushes in, his hips stuttering to a halt as your body clenches around him, unyielding. "Fuck—Y/n, relax," he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and ragged. His fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand bracing against the bed beside your head. "You’re so fucking tight—I can’t even—"
A whimper escapes you, your nails digging crescents into his arms, your face burying into the crook of his elbow. The stretch is intense, the pressure almost too much. "It’s too big—" Your voice shakes, breathy and raw, your body trembling beneath him. You can feel him—thick, hard, unrelenting—and for a second, panic flares in your chest.
Mingyu lets out a weak, nervous chuckle, his fingers brushing your cheek in an attempt to soothe you. "Three inches of my dick and you’re already complaining?" he teases, his voice light but strained. "At this rate, you’re gonna think I’m hung like a horse." His thumb traces your bottom lip, trying to coax a smile from you. "Maybe you need better taste in men, baby."
Your hand snaps out before you can think, slapping his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him hiss in surprise. "’s not funny!" Your voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and the second he sees them, his smirk vanishes.
"Shit—baby—" His thumb gently wipes away the first tear that spills over, his expression softening into something tender, worried. "Hey, hey—" He cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "We can stop. Right now." He starts to pull back, his cock sliding out just enough to ease the pressure, but your legs lock around his waist, holding him in place.
"No," you whisper, shaking your head frantically. Your fingers clutch at his biceps, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps. "I can do it. Just—go slow."
Mingyu exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours again. His eyes search yours—dark, intense, filled with something that makes your stomach flip. "You sure?" His voice is gentle, laced with concern, his hands cradling your face like you’re something precious. "Because I don’t want to hurt you."
You swallow hard, nodding again. "I want to," you breathe. "I’ve wanted this. Please."
He studies you for a long moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for any hesitation. And when he finds none, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss—soft, slow, reassuring. His lips are warm, patient, coaxing you to relax beneath him. "Okay," he murmurs against your mouth. "Okay, baby. Breathe." His hand slides down, wrapping around his cock, guiding himself back in with painstaking slowness.
You whimper as he pushes in another inch, your body stretching around him, the burn easing into a deep, aching heat. "Mingyu—" His name spills from your lips like a plea, a prayer, your fingers clawing at his skin.
"I’ve got you," he promises, his voice rough with restraint. "Just like this, okay?" He pulls back just a little, then pushes in again—slow, steady, letting you adjust to every inch. His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
Your nails dig into his skin as he bottoms out finally, his cock seated fully inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure and pressure and something so intimate it makes your heart pound against your ribs. "Fuck—" The word tumbles out of you, broken and breathless, your body trembling around him.
"You feel so good," Mingyu groans, his voice thick with need. "Fuck, Y/n—" His lips press against your neck, your jaw, anywhere he can reach, his hips rolling slowly, giving you time to adjust. "You’re doing so good."
You can feel the way your body slowly opens for him, the way the discomfort melts into something deeper, hotter. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and Mingyu groans, his control fraying.
"More—" you gasping, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him down into another kiss. "Please."
Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice.
His hips begin to move—slow at first, shallow thrusts that let you feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse. "Like this?" His voice is husky, his breath hot against your ear.
"Yes—" You moan, your body arching up to meet his, the pleasure building deeper, hotter, more intense with every movement. "Don’t stop."
His lips crash onto yours, his kiss desperate, hungry, as his hips pick up speed. Still slow, but deeper, faster, each thrust dragging a moan from your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is raw, broken, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. "You feel so perfect."
And god, you do. You feel full, stretched, owned in a way you’ve never been before. Your moans spill into the air between you, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, harder, until neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.
Mingyu’s hips roll into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you inch by inch as he buries himself deep. The burn has eased into a throbbing heat, and every time he pulls back, only to push in again, you whimper, your fingers clutching at his biceps. His skin is slick with sweat, his muscles tensing beneath your touch as he moves inside you—deep, steady, like he’s savoring every second.
"You feel," his voice is rough, broken, as he leans down to press his forehead against yours, "so fucking good." His lips brush yours, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes dark with lust.
You moan into his mouth, your body arching up to meet his thrusts, your nails digging into his skin. "Mingyu," his name is a plea, a prayer, as he hits that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "Don’t stop."
He doesn’t.
Instead, he speeds up, his hips snapping faster, his cock sliding in and out of you with wet, obscene sounds. The bed creaks beneath you, the sheets tangling around your legs as he fucks you deeper, harder. His hands grip your hips, holding you still as he pounds into you, his thighs pressing your legs wide open.
"Fuck—" he groans, his voice thick with need. "You take me so well, baby." His lips trail down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a mark into your skin.
Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as pleasure builds inside you, coiling tight and hot. "Harder—" you gasp, your body clenching around him. "Please—"
Mingyu obliges, his thrusts becoming sharper, more insistent. His cock drags against your walls, hitting that same spot over and over until you’re seeing stars. "You like that?" he pants, his voice husky against your ear. "You like when I fuck you like this?"
"Yes—" You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down into a messy kiss. "God, yes—"
His lips crash onto yours, his tongue sweeping against yours as his hips piston into you, fast and hard. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixed with your whimpers and his groans. "You’re so fucking perfect," he growls, his voice rough with lust.
You can feel him losing control, his movements becoming less measured, more desperate. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he shifts your legs to wrap around his waist. The change in angle hits you deep, and you gasp, your nails raking down his back.
"Fuck, right there—" The words spill out of you, broken and honest, your body arching into his. "Don’t stop, please."
Mingyu groans, his cock throbbing inside you. "I won’t," he promises, his voice rough. His lips find yours again, his kiss hot and messy. "Y/n—fuck—" Mingyu groans, his voice rough and unsteady, his hips snapping harder, faster. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. His forehead is damp with sweat, his chest heaving, his blush darkening as he loses himself in you. "You feel so good, fuck, I can’t—"
You moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down into a messy kiss. "I love it," you gasp against his lips, your confession spilling out unfiltered. "I love how you fuck me. How you make me feel."
Mingyu groans, his cock throbbing inside you, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Oh shit," his words tumble out in a jumbled rush, nonsense and need and something raw. "You’re so,” a kiss on your cheek, “fucking,” a nibble of your earlobe, “perfect." A hard thrust against your hips.
Your legs tighten around him, your heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Harder," you beg, your voice desperate, your body clenching around him. "Please, Mingyu, don’t stop."
He obliges, his hips pounding into you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I can’t—I can’t last." His lips crash onto yours, his kiss sloppy, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours.
Mingyu’s hips roll into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you deep, dragging against that spot that makes your vision blur. Your arms are wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. His head is tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his moans spilling out in broken, need whimpers.
"Mingyu, fuck," You whine, your voice high and desperate, your body trembling beneath him. "I’m so close, please." You’re not sure what you’re begging for now as your fingers claw at his back, legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Y/n–" His voice is a whimper, slutty and broken, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach. His breath shudders against you with every desperate exhale. "You feel so fucking good." His hips stutter, thrusts losing their rhythm as he loses himself in the heat of you, the way your body clenches around him. "Fuck—no one else feels like this—" His voice cracks, raw and honest, like he’s confessing something he’s never said before. "It’s only you. Always you. Dreamed of this, fuck you’re so tight still, dreamed of fucking you."
His fingers dig into your hips, holding you tight as he grinds into you, deep and slow, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. "I’m gonna cum so hard for you, baby. ‘M gonna cum so hard—" His words spill out in a jumbled, messy rush, unfiltered and wild. "I can’t— I can’t—" His cock throbs inside you, swollen and aching, his thrusts becoming short, shallow, desperate.
"Are you feeling good, baby?" His lips brush your ear, his voice thick with need, pleading. "Does it feel good for you too?" His tongue flicks over your pulse point, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweat beading there. "Tell me—please—" His hips roll again, hitting that same spot, and you whimper, your body trembling beneath him.
"Yes," You gasp, your voice high and breathy, your body clenching tight around him. You’re so close to the edge you can taste it—electric, intense, just out of reach. "Mingyu—fuck—please. I need—I need more—"
"I know," he moans, his voice breaking. "I know, baby." His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with just the right pressure. "I’ve got you." His lips crash onto yours, his kiss messy and desperate, swallowing your moans. "I want you to come for me." His thumb presses firm, unrelenting, drawing circles that make your hips jerk up to meet his. "Please, Y/n," his voice is a plea, raw and needy, "can you come for me? Please?" His cock pulses inside you, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
You whimper, your body coiling tighter, pleasure building hot and unbearable inside you. "I can’t—" Your voice cracks, frustrated, desperate. "I need—" You don’t even know what you need—just him, more of him, everything he can give you.
"You can," Mingyu growls against your lips, his breath ragged. "Let go, baby—" His thumb moves faster, harder, pushing you right to the brink. "Come for me. Need t’feel you come around my cock." His hips snap once, twice, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. "Please—fuck—please, Y/n—" His voice is broken, begging, his body tensing above you as he chases his own release.
"I—I—" Your words cut off in a broken moan, your back arching off the bed as pleasure teeters. "Mingyu—!" His name spills from your lips like a prayer, a plea, as your orgasm builds, coiling tight and uncontrollable. "Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop." Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you together.
"Never," he promises, his voice rough. His lips find your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his thumb keeps working you, his cock filling you over and over. "Come on, baby," His voice is a whisper, a command, filled with so much need it sends a shudder through your body. "Fuck—Y/n—I—"
And then it tumbles out of him before he can shut his stupid fucking pussy-drunken mouth.
"Fuck, I love you."
Your eyes widen, your body freezing beneath him. But before you can process it, Mingyu’s lips are on yours again, his kiss swallowing your shock. He pulls back just enough to see your expression, wide-eyed, stunned, and panics.
"Shit—" he breathes, his face flushing deeper, but you don’t let him take it back.
"Shut the fuck up," you gasp, “You don’t mean that,” you mutter, yanking him down by his hair, crashing your lips onto his. He wants to tell you that he does. He does mean it, but your kiss is hard, possessive, and swallows whatever else he was going to say.
Mingyu groans into your mouth, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. "Y/n—" His voice is broken, vulnerable, but you don’t let him think. You don’t let him apologize.
“M’ gonna cum,” you sob, hiccuping, nails scratching his back raw. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum– don’t stop,” you pant, “don’t you dare fucking stop,” you cry, clinging onto his shoulders.
Mingyu’s brain is mush. He’s dizzy, lightheaded, dry-mouthed, hips canting into yours faster and faster and faster, your moans spilling into his mouth. His fingers work quicker, tighter, pinching, slapping, rubbing, hands lifting your hips up and up, your ankles locking high around his waist.
“F-fuh-fuck!” you squeal, tears brimming your eyes, “G-gyu! C-c-cumming–!”
"Come for me," he orders, his voice raw. "I gotchu, baby," His thumb presses against your clit, circling it firmly.
You sob out a broken moan of his name, back arching off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure wracks your body. Your orgasm hits you hard, wave after wave of intense, shuddering ecstasy crashing over you. Mingyu doesn’t stop—his thumb keeps circling, his cock twitching inside you, drawing out every last shudder until you’re boneless beneath him.
“Nnghh!” You throw your head back, body shuddering with overstimulation. “M-Min–! Umph! P-puh-lease c-cum!” You cry into the crook of his neck. “Ohmygod, feels s’good– y’ feel ssshhoo good— sshhoo deep–!”
Mingyu shatters—his body tensing, his cock pulsing as he spills inside the condom, his moans muffled against your lips. "Fuck—Y/n—" His voice is broken, desperate, as his hips jerk uncontrollably, dragging out every last wave of his release. His balls tighten almost painfully as you squeeze around him as his spent cock pulses and throbs inside of you, spurting out aftershock bursts of pearly cum into the rubber.
The air between you is thick with the heat of your bodies, the scent of sex and sweat lingering in the room. Mingyu collapses onto you, his chest heaving against yours, his skin damp and sticky with sweat. His weight is heavy, comforting, but the intensity of the moment fades into something quieter, more vulnerable. The only sound is your ragged breaths, slowly steadying, the thud of his heartbeat against your chest.
"Fuck," he pants, his voice rough. "What I said, I didn’t—"
You cut him off with another kiss, slow and deep, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I told you to shut up," you murmur against his lips, your heart pounding wildly.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s soft, intimate, the kind that settles in the aftermath of something raw and real.
Mingyu shifts just enough to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin. "A-are you okay?" His voice is muffled, rough from exertion, but tender.
You swallow, your fingers lightly tracing the dips of his spine. "Yeah," you whisper, your voice quiet, almost fragile. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving you aware of every inch of skin, every place his hands had touched you. You suddenly feel exposed—not just physically, but emotionally, like the barriers you’d kept up have crumbled with the rest of your control.
Mingyu must sense it. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. Without a word, he reaches for the rumpled sheets, pulling them up to cover you, tucking them around your shoulders like a shield. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that makes your chest ache.
"Here," he murmurs, rolling onto his side without pulling out and pulling you with him, tugging you against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you close, his breath warm against the top of your head. "You good?"
You nod, burrowing into the heat of him, letting his body chase away the sudden chill. "Yeah," you repeat, softer this time. His other hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing just enough to ground you.
For a while, you just lie there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his heart slowly calms beneath your palm. His lips press against your temple, then your cheek, slow and unhurried, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. "I’ve got you," he murmurs, his voice low and sure.
You bury into his chest, cunt pulsing around his softening cock. You swallow.
Mingyu’s chin rests on top of your head. “I can almost hear you overthinking,” he jokes, fingers combing through your hair.
“-Y/n, I’m sorry, but you saying the same thing three different ways does not make it any less true,” Mingyu sighs, fingers drumming on your bare waist.
“...sorry,” you mumble.
“...No, don’t be.” Mingyu strokes your hair. “Don’t be sorry. I know I’m not.”
The two of you fall into a silence again.
Mingyu stirs after a few minutes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before slowly pulling away. You hiss as he eases out of you, the sensitivity making you flinch.
"Fuck, you’re huge," you mutter, half joking, half exhausted. Your poor attempt at lightening the mood.
Mingyu laughs quietly, the sound rumbling against your back as he disposes of the condom and grabs a few tissues from the nightstand. "Yeah, yeah," he teases. With gentle hands, he slowly cleans you up. You finch. "You complaining?"
You swat at him weakly, but there’s no heat in it. "Shut up," you mumble, already half-asleep as he tosses the tissues aside and pulls you back into his arms.
“Hey,” he mumbles into your hair.
“Hm?”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” He asks, voice quiet. His heart thuds against his ribs, scared of your answer.
You turn to look up at him, brows knitting. “For what?”
“No, like I mean, when I wake up,” Mingyu coughs, clearing his throat as a blush rises on his cheeks. “You know, like, will you be here? Next to me, I mean. In the morning.”
You stare at him and you don’t say anything. For a good five seconds, he stares back at you until the silence gets tense and he laughs shakily. “I mean, you don’t–”
“-Yeah,” you murmur, lips pursing.
Mingyu immediately shuts up, eyes widening. “Like–” he swallows, hands tightening on your body, “like ‘yeah’ you’ll be here?”
You laugh. “Yes. Like ‘yeah’ I’ll be here.”
He giggles like a stupid schoolboy, kissing your forehead before reaching for the blanket and drawing it over both of you. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
The sheets are cool against your skin, but his body is warm, solid, a perfect contrast. You melt into him, your eyes drifting shut as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm.
"Sleep," he murmurs, his voice soft and rough with fatigue.
You don’t argue. You also don’t think about how domestic this feels.
The last thing you register is the way his breath evens out, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the way his arm tightens just enough to keep you close. The room is dim, the only light filtering in from the hallway, casting long shadows across the bed. It feels domestic—quiet and safe and something you don’t dare name—but you don’t say it out loud. You just let yourself sink into it, into him, as sleep pulls you under.
Mingyu’s lips brush your hair one last time, his voice a bare whisper. "Goodnight, Y/n."
And for once, you don’t overthink it. You just close your eyes to the sound of Mingyu’s heartbeat and his fingers threading through your hair.
Mingyu lies awake, listening to you fall asleep, repeating the cursed fucking thing he said in the heat of the moment. Well, technically, he guesses, not in the heat of the moment because it’s true.
When your breathing evens out and he’s sure that you’re asleep, Mingyu carefully extricates himself from your limp grip, pressing one last kiss to your temple before sliding out of bed. He pulls on his sweatpants, wincing as the fabric brushes against his over-sensitive skin, and tiptoes toward the door. The floorboards creak slightly under his weight, but you don’t stir—out cold, breathing slow and even.
He eases the door shut behind him, exhaling sharply as he turns—only to come face-to-face with Wonwoo, leaning against the hallway wall with a rag in one hand and a smirk on his face.
"Took you long enough," Wonwoo drawls, raising an eyebrow. "Cleaning up already? Or just sneaking out?"
Mingyu flips him off, but there’s no heat in it. "Shut up," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
Seungcheol chooses that moment to round the corner, a trash bag slung over his shoulder. He takes one look at Mingyu—disheveled, flushed, still catching his breath—and laughs. "Finally. Took you fuckers long enough." He drops the bag by the door and crosses his arms. "So. How was it?"
Mingyu groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Dude—"
"Oh, come on," Wonwoo scoffs, tossing the rag into a nearby bucket. "We’ve been waiting for this shit for months. Details."
Mingyu glances back at the door, as if worried you’ll hear, before lowering his voice. "It was—fuck, I don’t know. Good. Really good." He exhales, running a hand through his messy hair. "Really, really good."
Seungcheol grins. "That’s my boy." He claps Mingyu on the shoulder, shaking him lightly. "About damn time you stopped moping and did something about it."
Wonwoo snorts. "Yeah, moping. That’s what we’re calling it." He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "So. She finally admit she’s into you, or are you still pretending this is just casual?"
Mingyu opens his mouth, then shuts it, because what the hell is he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t just tell them that he sort-of-kind-of-maybe-most-definitely confessed his love to you mid-fuck, could he? "I—she—fuck off."
Seungcheol laughs, full and loud, earning a glare from Mingyu. "Oh, man. You’ve got it bad."
"I don’t—" Mingyu starts, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.
Wonwoo rolls his eyes. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that." He picks up the bucket and heads toward the stairs. "Just don’t fuck it up again, yeah? Or I swear to god, I’ll personally make your life a living hell."
Mingyu flips him off again, but Seungcheol just laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Relax, Gyu. We’re happy for you." He grins. "Now go hydrate. You look like shit."
Mingyu shoves him off, but he’s smirking now, the weight in his chest lighter than it’s been in weeks. "Yeah, yeah." He glances back at the door one last time, then follows them downstairs, shaking his head, muttering under his breath as he heads toward the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool tile. He pulls open the fridge, the light spilling out into the dim room as he grabs a bottle of water. "You two are insufferable,"* he grumbles, twisting off the cap of a bottle of water and taking a long swig before pouring a glass for you.
Wonwoo leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with amusement. "We’re realists," he corrects, smirking. "And realistically, you’ve been pining after her for how long now? Years?"
Seungcheol snorts, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge and tossing one to Wonwoo. "More like forever," he says, popping the cap off his own with a flick of his thumb. "Remember last year, when you got all moody because she dated that one guy for, like, two months?"
Mingyu glares at him, filling the glass with more force than necessary. "That guy was an asshole."
"Uh-huh," Wonwoo drawls, taking a sip of his beer. "And you were jealous."
"I was not—" Mingyu starts, but Seungcheol cuts him off with a laugh.
"Oh, please. You sulked for days." He grins. "We all saw it."
Mingyu exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. "Can we not do this right now?" He grabs the glass and turns to leave, but Wonwoo blocks his path, raising an eyebrow.
"Fine, fine," Wonwoo says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But seriously—what happens now? You finally hook up, and then what? You just pretend it didn’t happen?"
Mingyu hesitates, gripping the glass tighter. "I don’t know, okay?" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice. "It’s complicated."
Seungcheol leans against the counter beside Wonwoo, studying him. "Only as complicated as you make it," he points out. "You like her. She clearly likes you. Or maybe just your dick, but same difference. What’s the problem?"
Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the water swirling in the glass, thinking about the way you looked at him earlier—flush and breathless, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. "She didn’t say it was anything more than," He waves a hand vaguely. "This."
Wonwoo rolls his eyes. "Because you didn’t ask before you stuck it in her."
Mingyu frowns, opening his mouth to retort, but Seungcheol cuts him off.
"Or maybe she expects something out of it," Seungcheol adds, shrugging. "Sometimes actions speak louder, Gyu."
Mingyu glances at them, then sighs, defeated. "I don’t know what to do," he admits quietly.
Seungcheol claps him on the back, grinning. "Then don’t overthink it. Just, keep doing whatever this is. It’s clearly working… somehow. And maybe," he stresses, "actually talk to her about it instead of brooding in the corner like a tragic hero."
Mingyu flips them both off, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, yeah." He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself. "I’ll … figure it out."
"Good," Wonwoo says, pushing off the counter. "Now go bring her that water before she wakes up and thinks you ditched her."
Mingyu shakes his head, but he’s already turning to leave, the glass clutched in his hand. "You two are the worst."
Seungcheol laughs, raising his beer in a mock toast. "But we’re right."
Mingyu doesn’t bother arguing. He just heads back upstairs, mind racing with possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, hope feels like something tangible. Something waiting for him on the horizon.
Mingyu eases the door open, slipping back into the room with the quiet stealth of someone who’s practiced sneaking around too many times. The glass of water clinks softly as he sets it down on the nightstand, the sound lost in the steady rhythm of your breathing. He hesitates for a second, just watching you—your hair spread across the pillow (his pillow !?!), your lips parted slightly, your chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Gorgeous. Fuck. He could stare at you forever if you let him.
He carefully lifts the blanket, sliding in beside you, his body molding to the curve of yours. The second his skin touches the sheets, you stir, mumbling something incoherent before rolling over—right into his chest. His breath hitches as your bare skin presses against his, warm and soft, and fuck, he wants to scream.
"Mingyu…" You murmur his name sleepily, nuzzling closer, your arm draping over his waist like it belongs there. Your cheek presses up against his bare chest and your hair tickles his chin and your legs weave in between his and you let out a cute little sigh.
His arms wrap around you instinctively, pulling you tight against him, his chin resting on the top of your head. His chest aches—not from exertion, but from something deeper, something that feels like it could spill out of his mouth again if he isn’t careful. God, he wants to tell you. He wants to whisper “I love you” into your hair, wants to press his lips to your forehead and promise you everything.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he swallows the words down, letting them settle in his chest like a secret. His fingers tighten just enough to feel the steady beat of your heart against his ribs, and he exhales shakily, pressing his lips to your hair.
"Not fair," he whispers, so quiet you won’t hear it. It’s not fair that you do this to him. Make him feel so much with just a look, a touch, the sound of his name on your lips. It’s not fair that other guys – assholes and fuckboys and undeserving maggots – latch onto your precious arm and leech through empty words that he would say to you with such vigor. It’s not fair that he can only be your secret, that he’ll probably wake up tomorrow morning to an empty side where you had slept. Still warm, if he wakes up early enough.
He should move. He should put space between you before he does something stupid, like confess everything in the dark. But he can’t. Not when you fit against him like this, not when your breath fans warm against his skin, not when every part of him screams to hold you closer.
So he doesn’t move.
He just breathes you in, lets the weight of you against him anchor him to the moment. His eyes drift shut, his mind quieting for the first time in hours. The last thing he thinks, as sleep pulls him under, is that he’ll find a way to tell you. Soon. Before he loses his mind.
hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.
⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader.
⚽ word count: 20.4k
⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse.
⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo.
⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3
🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.
▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH.
The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.
You love the Kims. Really, you do.
His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?
Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.
And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.
You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.
“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”
You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”
He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”
You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”
The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents.
Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.
“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”
Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”
His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”
“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”
It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”
His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”
“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.”
You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.
Nose scrunch. Head shake.
Not in this lifetime.
There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.
You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.
Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.
And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.
He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall.
Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.
You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.
Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.
You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.
“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.
He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”
You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.
The camera clicks.
This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.
“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”
“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”
“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.
Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”
You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother.
There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.
And you’re perfectly fine with that.
▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE.
Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.
“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”
Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”
Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.
And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.
You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.
The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.
Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”
“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life.
Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”
Vernon blinks. “Oh.”
Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs.
Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”
Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.
“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort.
You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech.
For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles.
Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”
“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”
Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?”
“So, what?”
The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”
Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”
Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”
It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on.
“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”
Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.
“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”
Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.”
“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats.
“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”
He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”
Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”
Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”
“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu.
His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.
When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was.
When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’
And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.
Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.
“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.
Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”
That one’s easy.
“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu.
Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”
Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off.
The feeling was most definitely mutual.
The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.
Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”
Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”
Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.
The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.
Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”
Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”
Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”
“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply.
Vernon blinks. “What bet?”
“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol.
Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.
How long it’ll take the two of you to get together?
“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.
Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”
Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding.
“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does.
He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.
There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.
Huh.
A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills.
“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle.
▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR.
You don’t know why you always end up here.
Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators.
Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”
You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”
“You say that every time.”
You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.
The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.
“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”
“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”
He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”
“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”
“Okay, but—”
Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.
And then everything goes black.
For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.
Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.
“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”
You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”
“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.
You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”
But then you actually look at him.
The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s genuinely scared.
A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”
“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”
And then it clicks.
You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.
He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.
But you knew.
Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.
Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”
Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”
“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.
You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”
He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax.
“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”
“I will murder you.”
An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”
“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face.
“You are kind of pathetic.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.
With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.
Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”
He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff.
It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him.
Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.
He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though.
“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again.
“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”
“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.
As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine.
“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.
Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”
“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.
You make a face. “Be serious.”
He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”
“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic.
You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”
Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back.
“You don’t have taste.”
“Excuse you—”
“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”
Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.
You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude.
“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way.
You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation.
What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.
Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.
Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.
▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT.
Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you.
He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it.
He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.
Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight.
If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself.
But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him.
Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights.
“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt.
The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.
He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend.
It takes him all of three minutes to find you.
Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried.
It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick.
He hates it. He hates you.
He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too.
Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump.
Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling.
Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.
It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most.
He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news.
And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you.
“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”
Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone.
“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—”
“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”
Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow.
“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?”
He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple.
Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you.
You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu.
He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.
“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?”
Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same.
“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.”
The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.
“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this.
Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself.
That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth.
“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”
In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true.
In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’.
The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other.
“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement.
Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you—
You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger.
The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.
Mingyu, still paces away.
By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.
“We’re going,” he announces.
The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss.
“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves.
“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”
Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car.
You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further.
“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.”
“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”
“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it.
That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle.
“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“Your mother asked me to—”
“Well, she can go and—”
“Please!”
Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together.
“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.”
You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up.
“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night.
“You are,” he responds exasperatedly.
“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.
You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—”
“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat.
You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”
If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago.
A beat. And then—
“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips.
To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground.
You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car.
▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER.
You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber.
Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.
Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.
The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.
Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab.
And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.
You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.
Stop drinking. -KMG
You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.
There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.
Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is.
You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.
Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.
With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”
“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”
There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later.
Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.”
The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.
“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”
You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.
As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.
And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?
You shove it deep down where it belongs.
Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.
His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.
Today, Mingyu is untouchable.
The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”
Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”
Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”
It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.
But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.
Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.
And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.
Mingyu’s jaw tightens.
When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.
Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”
Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.
You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.
And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.
That’s just the cherry on top.
He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible.
Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing.
▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME.
Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section.
The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time.
Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.
“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.”
Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.”
The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”
As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.
He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job.
Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.
The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen.
But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.
His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.
It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.
Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory.
Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes?
He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.
And then— what the hell is he doing?
Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s.
That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo.
“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires.
“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell.
He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you.
(In the other side of the mall—)
▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP.
You love shopping.
Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.
Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.
It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.
You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.
“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.
You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.
Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”
The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.
“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”
A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.
The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.
You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.
The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.
A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders.
Mingyu’s shoulders.
You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.
You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.
Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.
Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it.
You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.
But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.
It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.
What the hell are you doing?
Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.
You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.
No. Absolutely not.
You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.
Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.
▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.
It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.
And yet, here you are.
Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.
He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.
The worst part? It works.
Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.
He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.
Instead, he heads straight for you.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.
You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”
Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”
You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.
Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.
But he does.
It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.
Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.
A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.
Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.
The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.
A one-point lead. Game over.
He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in.
Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.
He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching.
Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.
There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today.
Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.
He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage.
“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”
“Excuse me?”
He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”
You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”
That sets him off.
“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”
You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”
Your jaw clenches.
“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”
The words hit harder than they should.
The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.
He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”
You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it.
But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”
Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”
“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”
He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”
You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.
Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.
For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.
This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.
Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.
Just… because.
It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night.
He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”
Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.
Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.
The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.
His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?
Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.
“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”
Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”
He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”
To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.
The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.
Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.
Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.
And, maybe, so is he.
It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.
He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—
But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.
Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.
By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.
▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.
The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive.
It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.
You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.
Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered.
That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.
You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.
“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.
Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.
He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.
You blink. Then blink again.
The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—
Oh, God.
With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.
You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.
You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.
You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.
“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.
“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”
Your stomach does a weird little flip.
Well, then.
If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.
You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.
A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.
The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor.
You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.
You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”
You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.
It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it.
You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer.
You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.
“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.
Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”
You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”
“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks.
You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”
A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in.
The moment is bizarre.
His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours.
It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.
It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.
The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.
You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.
“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.
“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.
You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.
It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.
The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...
The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”
Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.
Shit.
You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”
But the thing is— you can’t ignore it.
Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.
A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.
Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.
“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor.
“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”
You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”
“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.
You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.
You are warming up to Mingyu.
It hits you like a truck.
Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.
Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.
By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.
You need to stop being too nice to him.
▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH.
Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching.
He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.
And then, as expected—
“Kim.”
Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.
He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.
He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.
“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.
You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”
“No.”
Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.
“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”
“I need a favor.”
Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet!”
“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”
Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”
Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”
You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”
He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”
“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”
Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.
And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.
“I need help moving some furniture.”
Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”
He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.
“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges.
“Because you owe me?”
He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”
“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”
Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team.
“Not my problem,” he settles on saying.
“You’re the fucking worst.”
“And yet, here you are.”
The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.
Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough.
“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”
To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed.
Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”
Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”
“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”
“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”
The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.”
You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”
You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.
Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.
“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic.
Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.
He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.
But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.
You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon.
▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON.
The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.
“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”
Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”
You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.
Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”
Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”
The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.
Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately.
So you double down.
You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”
Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.
There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head.
Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you?
The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.
As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”
You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.
But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air.
The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.
Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you.
“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly.
He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs.
“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”
Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”
You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”
“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”
You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.
Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead—
“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful.
You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”
“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful.
You hate it.
You hate him.
Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.
You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players.
One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too.
In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option.
It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that.
If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse.
He had pretended not to.
You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.”
Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut.
The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?
But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to.
Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.
Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant.
You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit.
Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away.
You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word.
His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause.
Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.
“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”
You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant.
Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called.
▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE.
Mingyu doesn’t get it.
He’s been off his game for days.
It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.
It pisses him off.
The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.
Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority.
Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest. “One more round.”
“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”
Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.
As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump.
Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.
You?
You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing.
It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.
Instead, he’s a goddamn mess.
Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.
It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate.
He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.
You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.
But then—
You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told.
You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.
Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.
And what’s worse—
Why does he want it?
He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.
He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.
Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.
The realization slams into him all at once.
His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.
Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel.
Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.
He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have.
“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
He’s fucked.
▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING.
You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.
It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes.
Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.
It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it.
Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return.
“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”
Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”
He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”
“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”
Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.
Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole.
“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."
“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”
“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”
“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”
Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”
“... Lighting?”
He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”
Something twists in your stomach.
The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating?
You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”
“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”
“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”
There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.
It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition.
The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.
“Table for two?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu says.
She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”
For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted.
He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”
The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.
“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.
As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”
“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”
He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You knew that when you got in the car.”
The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again.
“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”
His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."
Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead.
“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song.
“Absolutely not.”
You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?”
“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.”
Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas.
The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces.
And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.
You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.
But maybe that’s not the whole truth.
The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered.
Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage.
Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.
“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”
Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”
“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”
It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women.
Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?
Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”
“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”
You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”
“Yeah? What does that even mean?”
It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.
“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”
The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.
You know someone like that.
Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.
You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged.
Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”
You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”
From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.
You don’t dare look at him.
You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like—
▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE.
Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is.
He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.
The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.
Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.
He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.
Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?
He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.
It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.
And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him.
Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.
You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom.
Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now.
Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—
You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.
The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter.
It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.
His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.
The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off.
Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.
Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?
Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?
Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.
Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—
What would you sound like?
In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—
“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself.
He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—
“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”
Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.
Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.
You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.
A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it.
You pucker your lips.
A flying kiss.
Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.
▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE.
Seven minutes.
You could do anything in seven minutes.
Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.
You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.
The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.
“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty.
This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.
Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated.
The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people—
“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.
Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim.
To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.
You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.
You don’t.
It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.
You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him—
“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”
Fuck.
You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter.
He opens one eye. “You totally did.”
You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.
But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging
The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.
Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back.
No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”
You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”
“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”
You don’t answer right away.
Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?
“It’s complicated,” you gripe.
Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”
That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound.
It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.”
You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.
“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.
You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid.
The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.
Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.
And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.
After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.
“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.”
You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you.
Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”
“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.”
“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything.
“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—”
“Let’s not go there.”
He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips.
You take a deep breath, and then you follow.
It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes.
You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly?
That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red.
You have never wanted Mingyu so badly.
▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’.
He doesn't want to be mad.
Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it.
He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.
You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant.
Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.
You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.
He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.
But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”
“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet.
He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.
“Can you not?”
“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”
Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.
He does.
“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”
You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended?
“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—
“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”
There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung.
It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest.
He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—”
“Why didn’t you kiss me?”
And there it is.
The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.
Mingyu’s head spins.
You wanted him to kiss you.
You wanted him to kiss you.
His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.
Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen.
Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.
When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you.
You look as crazy as Mingyu feels.
“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”
“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”
His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.
Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe.
You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night.
His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.
“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”
Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer.
He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.
He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years.
And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.
Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.
It might be a mistake. He knows that.
He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.
But then you kiss him back.
You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there.
Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.
His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life.
“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.
And for once, you don’t fight him.
▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE.
The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.
You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering.
If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask.
Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.
“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.
“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”
He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved.
Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it.
Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection.
It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.
Almost.
Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking.
At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.
It’s all suspicious.
Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out.
Under the table, something changes.
You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.
You don’t.
It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
His expression is half-agony, half-hope.
And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now.
You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win.
No. This is a game you no longer have to play.
You lace your fingers through his.
Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.
You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.
pairing. jeon jungkook / fem!reader / kim mingyu genre. tennis au. university au. smut. love triangle.
while tennis was your priority, the two boys who couldn't stop competing both on and off the court somehow were too.
word count. 8k words warnings for this chapter. threesomes and tennis LMFAO. they are SIMPS. a bit of crack, i love writing funny moments. my attempt at describing a tennis match even though i know jackshit. SO MUCH FLIRTING. smut. three way makeout sesh yummy. fingering. male masturbation. BIG DICK KOOGYU. oc got that wap.
✶ heavily inspired by the film — CHALLENGERS (2024).
ana's notes. publishing this an entire day early bc i am impatient :p anyways, i know the smut wasnt much in this chapter but it gets more and more explicit within each part hehe. let me know what you think so far, your feedback is very important and keep your comments positive or say nothing at all xx
⌗ MATCHPOINT MASTERPOST !
Mingyu and Jungkook shared everything.
They shared a childhood, swapping toys and creating endless adventures out of thin air. During sleepovers, they were mature enough to share a bed without fuss, laughing at the idea of one taking the floor. On school days when one left their lunch sitting on the kitchen counter, the other would split theirs without hesitation. They borrowed each other’s clothes so often that no one could remember whose was whose. When it came time for college, they applied to the same universities, and when both were accepted to the same one, they became roommates, sharing a dorm like they had shared everything else in life.
They were inseparable, always found together — so much so that when one was absent, people immediately asked, "Where’s the other?" They were two birds of a feather, yin and yang, brothers in every sense but blood.
One of the many things they shared was a deep love for tennis. It became their outlet, a way to escape the pressures of life and channel their competitive spirits. The rush of adrenaline they felt during a match was unmatched, and while they had fun playing, they took the game seriously, analyzing every serve, every backhand, every forehand with laser focus. They’d sit side by side, watching matches with an almost religious reverence, eyes glued to the ball as it zipped across the court, mouths slightly open, bodies leaning forward as if they could will the players to win.
If there was anything they loved more than each other (and their families, of course), it was tennis.
And that intense, unwavering focus they had when watching a tennis match? It was the exact way they were both watching you.
A scarlet dress clung to your body, black stilettos elevating your stature. But of course, they were red bottoms. And to top it all off, you weren’t complete without the striking shade of red on your lips.
Mingyu had found out about your upcoming tournament from fellow students at the college, along with word that there was going to be a little party on the tennis courts in honor of it. That’s how the two boys ended up there tonight. Mingyu had his eye on you ever since he caught you practicing on the courts one day. There was something about the way you moved in red, a fiery aura that stuck in his mind like a persistent dream. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.
The upbeat rhythm of a Nelly Furtado track thumped through the air — an early 2000s throwback that had everyone nodding along. Jungkook knew the song too, but if you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was. The music had faded into the background, drowned out by the sight of you. Everyone else was a blur, just shifting figures in his peripheral vision. His eyes, however, were locked on you, following your every movement like the moon that seems to chase you no matter how far you drive, or like the gaze of a painting that never lets go, no matter where you stand.
His focus was relentless. He just stood there, mesmerized, as if time had slowed just for him to take you in, every detail etched into his mind. He didn’t even blink — he wasn’t about to miss a second of you. His body was rooted to the spot, eyes tracing every flicker of movement you made. Even when Mingyu nudged him in the arm, he didn’t react, completely frozen in place. He’s got it bad.
“Dude!”
Jungkook blinked, snapping out of his trance. He looked at Mingyu beside him, startled, before immediately returning his gaze to you, as if afraid you’d disappear the moment he looked away.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, distracted. “You say something?”
Your hair bounces with every move, catching the low lights of the party as your hips sway in perfect rhythm with the beat. There are plenty of people dancing, but to Jungkook, you're the only one who matters. Every gesture you make, from running your fingers through your hair to the way your body moves effortlessly with the music, leaves him entranced. Your hair falls right back into place, teasing him with how flawless it looks despite your movements. He gulps hard, his throat dry even though his mouth waters at the sight of you.
“I was going to tell you she’s over there, but looks like you found her already,” Mingyu scoffs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Told you she was hot.”
Jungkook shakes his head in disbelief, “No kidding.”
Mingyu leans in, his lips hovering close to Jungkook’s ear. “I’d let her fuck me with a racket.”
Jungkook lets out a low snicker, rolling his eyes. Crude words like that were normal from Mingyu, but even so, it never failed to make him laugh. He’d heard worse over the years.
From across the court, you’re blissfully unaware of the way the two boys are watching you — like lost puppies, completely captivated. To anyone else, they probably look ridiculous, just standing there with wide eyes. In fact, a group of girls lounging on the cushion chairs by the side of the court had already noticed their ridiculous fixation, shooting you dirty looks, their jealousy plain as day. They’d been hoping to catch the boys’ attention, maybe even snag their numbers, but their plan had backfired since you already caught their eye.
The song fades, and you're left breathless, cheeks flushed as you tell your friends you’re going to grab a drink. They nod, barely hearing you over the music.
Jungkook watches you cross the court, eyes following your every step as you approach the drink table. He feels the weight of the moment — this is his chance. He nudges Mingyu, almost nervously.
“Should we go talk to her?” he asks, his voice low as you pick up your drink, unaware of their plotting.
Mingyu doesn’t even respond to Jungkook’s question — he just heads straight toward you. Without thinking, Jungkook follows, legs moving before he can process it. Approaching girls has never been his strong suit, and a jittery feeling builds in his stomach as nerves rise. But there’s no way he’s going to let Mingyu have you all to himself.
“Hey,” Mingyu says confidently, and your eyes flicker to him. Jungkook steps up beside him almost instantly.
“Hi,” he blurts out awkwardly.
You pull your lips off the straw, leaving a red lipstick stain behind, and Jungkook cringes internally. He feels like an idiot, convinced you must think he and Mingyu are embarrassing themselves.
“Hello,” you greet, your tone light as you swirl the straw around in your drink.
“I’m Mingyu, and this is Jungkook. We just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow,” Mingyu says smoothly.
“Thanks,” you giggle, clearly amused. “You two gonna be there?”
Mingyu’s eyes glint mischievously. “If I say no, will you invite us yourself?”
You raise a brow, a smirk playing on your lips. “Depends. Are you coming to watch tennis or just to watch me?”
Before Mingyu can come up with something overly flirty and blow their chance, Jungkook jumps in, his voice steady despite his nerves. “Mingyu and I have been playing since we were kids. And from what I’ve heard, you’re pretty good. We’re coming to watch some good tennis.”
Your gaze shifts to Jungkook, studying him for a moment. Mingyu, feeling the shift in attention, begins to grow envious, trying to think of a way to steer it back toward himself.
“You being pretty is just a bonus,” Mingyu adds quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation. “That’s twice the enjoyment.”
You snicker, amused by the playful banter.
Before you can respond, a friend calls out your name from across the court. “Join us when you’re done. We’re going to take Polaroids!”
You give a quick nod. “Okay, I’ll be there in a second.”
As she walks off, you turn your attention back to the two boys. “Make sure you’re there before the game starts. I’ll see you both then.”
Mingyu’s lips curl into a grin. “You don’t wanna ditch your friends and have a drink with us by the beach instead?”
You let out a playful laugh, already walking away. “Come to my match first, then maybe ask me out on a date, Mingyu.” You glance over your shoulder, throwing a teasing wave. “Bye, Jungkook.” You punctuate it with a wink before turning away fully.
Jungkook raises his hand in a dazed wave, completely spellbound, still processing the fact that you winked at him. His eyes stay glued to you as you walk toward your friends, even when you’ve blended into the group, laughing and chatting.
“Fucking hell,” Mingyu mutters under his breath, still staring at you.
Jungkook finally snaps out of his trance and turns to Mingyu. “Let me have this one?”
Mingyu shoots him a look, his voice dripping with competitiveness. “In your fucking dreams.”
“If it isn’t Thing 1 and Thing 2,” you tease as you walk up to them, a playful smirk on your lips.
It was almost amusing how obedient they were, like two loyal dogs waiting eagerly for your next command. They’d arrived before your game, just as you’d requested — 15 minutes earlier than necessary, clearly hoping to steal some extra time with you before the match.
“Little red,” Mingyu greets with a playful smirk.
You smile, warmth flickering in your chest at the nickname. “Cute,” you respond, letting the moment settle in.
Before you can say more, Jungkook cuts in, his voice hurried and a little flustered. “Just came to wish you good luck before your game,” he says, his tone soft yet sincere, eyes full of warmth.
“No, no — he came to wish you good luck,” Mingyu teases, flashing you his trademark confident grin. “I came to see what you’re doing after this,” he adds, his words dripping with flirtation.
Turning to Jungkook, you raise a brow, amused. “Does he flirt with every girl like this?”
Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head. “Pretty much.”
Mingyu places a hand on his chest in mock offense, letting out an exaggerated scoff. “I’m offended.”
You laugh softly, eyes still sparkling with mischief. “I’m just messing with you. I wasn’t actually planning on doing anything after.”
Mingyu’s eyes light up, clapping his hands together. “Perfect! How about you come to our dorm later tonight? We’ve got beer.”
The offer still lingers as you mull it over, your expression thoughtful.
Jungkook glances at Mingyu, brows furrowed. It’s not that he didn’t want you there — he did, desperately — but he worried Mingyu might push too hard and ruin it for both of them.
“Hate to break it to you, Mingyu, but whether I come or not depends on my mood — and if I win or not.”
“Oh, so you’re coming tonight,” Mingyu grins.
“Confident in me, huh?” you ask, eyebrows raised.
“Been watching you play for a while now,” Mingyu replies smoothly. “Whoever you’re up against today is going home with tears and a broken racket.”
You smile, clearly flattered. “You sure you’re inviting me over just to drink beer, stalker?”
“Guess it’ll depend on your mood after the game,” Mingyu says, mirroring your playful tone.
You pause for a second, then ask, “What’s the room number?”
“97,” Mingyu says quickly, excitement flashing in his eyes. “Be there by 8?”
"I'll think about it," you reply with a smirk, locking eyes with Mingyu in a silent exchange of flirtation. The tension between you two is thick, like neither of you is holding back, completely ignoring the fact that Jungkook is still standing there, feeling more and more like a third wheel.
Jungkook shifts awkwardly, unsure what to say, as he watches you and Mingyu practically undress each other with your eyes.
Then, someone across the court calls your name, reminding you it’s time for warm-ups.
“Duty calls,” you say, giving them both a final look. “Lucky you two — front row seats. Be my little cheerleaders.”
As you walk off, Mingyu can't help but call after you, "Be there by 8!"
Jungkook, desperate to contribute something, shouts, "Break a leg!"
You blow a playful kiss toward Jungkook, and he swears his heart drops straight to his stomach, nearly falling out of his body altogether. Both boys watch as you walk away, eyes glued to your every step until you’re completely out of sight. Then, as if waking from a daze, Jungkook snaps out of it and smacks Mingyu on the arm.
“Ow!” Mingyu yelps, rubbing the spot where he was hit.
“Why would you do that?” Jungkook hisses, his face a mix of frustration and panic.
“Do what?” Mingyu asks, genuinely confused.
“You made it sound like we wanna fuck her in the dorm!” Jungkook blurts out, voice low but sharp.
Mingyu raises an eyebrow, his tone casual. “We do wanna fuck her in the dorm.”
Jungkook stammers, “Well yeah, but… I don’t want her to think we only want her for sex.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes, clearly unfazed by Jungkook's concern. “Dude, you’re overthinking. If she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t have entertained the idea.”
“She didn’t say yes,” Jungkook mutters, more to himself than to Mingyu.
“‘I’ll think about it’ is basically a yes,” Mingyu grins, clapping Jungkook on the back. “In my book, at least.”
Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek, unsure. Mingyu’s confidence might be contagious, but Jungkook wasn’t sure he liked the way things were being assumed. He wanted more with you — he just didn’t know if Mingyu understood that.
Just then, the bleachers start to fill, and the boys claim their front-row seats, buzzing with excitement. The crowd is a colorful mix — older spectators, middle-aged parents bringing along their younger children, and students around Mingyu and Jungkook’s age, all eager to catch the match.
Mingyu has watched you play many times, making frequent trips to the courts at the university ever since that first day he saw you. But for Jungkook, this is his first real glimpse of your talent.
“Is she actually good, or were you just saying that to get in her pants?” Jungkook asks, a teasing grin on his face.
Mingyu leans back, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “When I saw that backhand, I couldn’t leave the bleachers until my dick got soft again.”
Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. Just as he’s about to respond, the referee’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing you to the crowd.
That’s when you walk out onto the court.
Everyone erupts into a fit of cheers, but not all of them are supportive. A group of boys a few seats away is particularly aggravating, barking and whistling in a blatant display of disrespect. Mingyu feels the urge to tell them to shut the hell up — not just for your sake but for the rest of the crowd, too — but he holds back, wanting to keep the focus on you.
Red skirt, red shoes — your signature look. Just like Jungkook loves to wear everything black, you embody confidence in your vibrant red ensemble.
As you step onto the court, you give the crowd a wave, and your eyes meet Jungkook’s. You shoot him a sly wink, and his stomach flutters with that familiar tingle, the same one from last night. He straightens his back, suddenly aware that he’s sitting there with his mouth agape like a total idiot. He quickly clears his throat, trying to regain some composure.
You head toward the chairs to set your duffle bag down, the wind catching your skirt and making it flutter. The crowd cheers again, particularly loud from that group of boys. Mingyu shoots them a dirty glare, wishing they’d show some respect.
Once you and your opponent, Camila Cane, take your positions, the energy shifts. Everyone knows Camila — she’s notorious for her brash attitude and over the top confidence, thanks to her wealth. And then there’s her infamous botched lip filler, which has become a running joke among the students.
If Jungkook wasn’t excited before, he certainly is now. Not only does he want to see if you’re as good as Mingyu claimed, but he’s also eager to witness Camila get humbled. He remembers the time he accidentally bumped into her, politely apologizing, only to be met with her disdainful scoff. To which she just scoffed in disgust and told him, ‘Watch where the fuck you’re going.’
Mingyu sits beside Jungkook, his eyes glinting with mischief as he watches his best friend shift anxiously, perched at the edge of his seat. He can’t help but snicker quietly to himself, eagerly anticipating Jungkook’s reaction as the match unfolds.
“First set, Cane to serve. Ready? Play.”
The ball moves fluidly from one end of the court to the other, back and forth in an exhilarating dance. You swing your racket with precision and grace, darting around the court, keeping track of the ball’s every movement. The crowd’s heads pan side to side, captivated by the game, but Jungkook’s gaze remains fixed solely on you.
It’s as if time has frozen, echoing the enchanting moment from last night when you danced, effortlessly catching his attention. He can’t look away. In a sea of spectators, it feels like it’s just you and him, and he’s watching you in your element. It’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.
You play with everything — mind, body, soul. The intensity is palpable, almost intimate, and Jungkook can’t shake the feeling that he’s witnessing something deeply personal. It’s an erotic kind of magic that makes his heart race. He knows he should look away, that he shouldn’t be so mesmerized, but he’s too captivated by the way you move, the way you feel the game. There’s a strange pleasure in watching you find pleasure in your sport.
Just as Camila lunges to hit the ball, it bounces out of her reach and rolls lazily to the wall.
“Fifteen, love!” the referee calls out.
The crowd cheers.
As you quickly redeem yourself after losing the toss, Camila’s irritation grows palpable. Jungkook can’t stand sore losers; he appreciates a player who knows how to keep fighting instead of sulking about a loss. It adds to the thrill of the game, the excitement of watching someone pour their heart and soul into every point.
You’re fully concentrated now — eyebrows knitted in determination, your form impeccable as you prepare for the next serve. Jungkook can’t help but think how attractive you look at this moment. You’ve always been beautiful — your pretty face, that captivating smile, the way your laughter dances in the air. But watching you play tennis? That’s something else entirely.
The competitiveness radiates off you. It’s not just about the game; it’s about your fierce determination to win, that fiery desire to conquer whatever challenge lies ahead. The way you move, how you chase after each shot, it all sends his heart racing. There’s something undeniably magnetic about you in this element, a raw intensity that makes him feel alive.
As he watches you — focused, relentless, and unyielding — Jungkook realizes that he might just be falling in love.
You won.
Obviously.
Just as Mingyu predicted, Camila Cane left the court with a broken racket and a trail of code violations for her verbal tirades. The victory cheers echoed in your ears as you basked in the glow of your triumph, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.
After the tournament, you were swarmed with congratulations and eager fans, so you didn’t get a chance to seek out Mingyu or Jungkook immediately. But Mingyu had every intention of congratulating you later that night. Jungkook, however, was skeptical, his mind racing with doubt over whether you’d actually show up at their door.
“Dude, she’s not coming,” Jungkook said, rubbing in his facial oil. He had already changed into his comfortable white t-shirt and blue plaid pajama bottoms, his hair pushed back with a headband, ready to call it a night.
While Jungkook settled into the routine of getting ready for bed, Mingyu remained fixed in front of the door, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He was the picture of unwavering confidence, convinced you’d come to celebrate your victory with them.
“She won her fucking match,” Mingyu mumbled against the cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he stared at the door, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “What better way to celebrate that than getting laid later in the night? Times two!”
Jungkook rolled his eyes, glancing over at Mingyu. “You’re really set on this, huh?”
“Hell yeah, I am. You saw the way she looked at us earlier. She’s interested.” Mingyu’s voice was full of conviction. “And besides, who wouldn’t want to celebrate with two guys like us?”
“And if she’s not that type of girl, what do you think is gonna happen if she chooses one?” Jungkook asked, leaning against the bathroom door frame, arms crossed. “She’s in here getting piped by one of us while the other sits on the other side of the door listening and waiting?”
“If it came down to that, then yeah,” Mingyu replied, his confidence unshaken. He took another drag from his cigarette, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Jungkook threw his head back, shutting his eyes in frustration. “She’s not fucking coming, Mingyu!”
Just then, a sound echoed through the apartment — knock, knock, knock.
The two boys exchanged wide-eyed glances, their earlier banter abruptly silenced.
A few seconds passed, the tension hanging thick in the air.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Shit!”
“Fuck!”
Mingyu scrambled to extinguish his cigarette, the last puff of smoke escaping his lips as he hurriedly tossed it into the nearby trash can. His eyes darted around the room, landing on the clothes he had carelessly thrown on the floor. In a flurry, he began scooping them up, trying to make the place look somewhat presentable.
Meanwhile, Jungkook ripped the headband from his hair, running his fingers through the mess to tame it. He hastily tidies up the bathroom counter, determined to avoid looking like a slob. Out of the two, Jungkook is the cleaner one; that’s why his side of the dorm is in decent shape.
On the other side of the door, you pressed your ear against the wood, curious about why they were taking so long. You could hear muffled voices and shuffling, the anticipation building within you.
Abruptly, the door swung open, and there you were, face to face with the two boys. They wore wide, welcoming smiles, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.
“You came!” Jungkook exclaims, surprised because he honestly didn’t think you would.
“I did,” you reply, crossing your arms playfully. “Are we gonna chat out here or are you gonna let me in?”
“Right, sorry.” Mingyu mutters, stepping aside to open the door wider.
As soon as you step inside, the lingering scent of Mingyu’s cigarette greets you. Surprisingly, it doesn’t smell as bad as many other male dorms you’ve visited; seriously, are most guys in their early twenties this messy?
You take a moment to observe the room. On the left, everything is neat and organized — posters hung up in an orderly fashion, a bed perfectly made, and even the floor is spotless. The right side, however, is a different story. The bedspread is a mess, half the blanket hanging off, with clothes and random items clearly shoved under the bed in a poor attempt to hide the clutter. The wall is barren, almost as if its occupant couldn’t be bothered to put in any effort.
Once you finish your silent judgment of the chaotic side of the room, you turn your attention to the boys. They stand there, watching you with expressions that blend hope and anticipation, like patient little puppies waiting for their owner to issue commands. Jungkook leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, though there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. Mingyu, on the other hand, bounces slightly on his heels, clearly eager for your approval — or maybe just hoping for a laugh at the mess he calls his side.
“Well,” you exhale, letting the tension dissipate with a playful grin, “this is definitely… a room.”
Jungkook snorts, while Mingyu lets out a relieved chuckle. “We honestly weren’t expecting you to show up,” Jungkook admits, his eyes scanning your face for a reaction.
You shrug nonchalantly, “I did say I’d come if I won. And I did whoop Camila Cane’s ass, didn’t I?”
They both chuckle, the tension breaking further as the playful banter kicks in.
“So…” you draw out, raising an eyebrow. “I was promised beer.”
After a brief back-and-forth over seating arrangements, you three finally settled on the floor. You’d quickly discovered that Mingyu’s bed was the one on the right side of the room — the less organized side, which explained the state of it. No way you were sitting there; you had no idea when those sheets had last seen a wash. Meanwhile, Jungkook’s bed on the left, neat and perfectly made, was off-limits because of his germaphobia to ‘outside clothes.’
To your mild surprise, the promise of beer wasn’t just an excuse. Mingyu reached into the mini-fridge and pulled out the last two bottles, cracking them open with ease.
Settling in with them was surprisingly easy. They couldn’t seem to stop talking — about everything and nothing at the same time — and for that, you were grateful. It was fascinating getting to know them better, simply by how they interacted.
“So,” you ask, accepting the cold bottle from Mingyu, “how did you guys meet?”
“Well, we were neighbors at first,” Mingyu replies, settling comfortably as he recalls their past. “We played outside almost every day, and we’ve been attached at the hip ever since.”
His casual tone holds a hint of nostalgia, but you're curious now, intrigued by their dynamic. “So, you two share everything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow and leaning in slightly. Your voice is teasing, but there's a playful challenge behind it.
Mingyu’s grin widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Basically, yeah,” he answers without missing a beat.
You pause, letting your gaze flick between the two of them before the next question leaves your lips, a bit more daring this time. “Even the same girls?”
The atmosphere shifts instantly. The room, once filled with light banter, falls into a brief silence. Both boys glance at each other, then down at the floor. You notice the slight twitch in Jungkook’s jaw, the way Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, as if buying time to formulate an answer.
Jungkook clears his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “It… it actually doesn’t happen as often as you think,” he stammers, his voice quieter, almost hesitant.
You smirk, sensing the awkward tension. “Really?” you press, wanting to know more.
Mingyu steps in, his voice confident as ever, trying to regain the playful mood. “Jungkook and I don’t usually have the same type,” he says, his tone light but firm.
You can’t resist pushing further, the teasing smile still playing on your lips. “And me?”
Mingyu falls silent, his confident demeanor faltering for a moment. He looks at Jungkook, almost like he's seeking backup, his uncertainty clear in the shift of his posture.
“Well… aren’t you everyone’s type?” Jungkook finally blurts out, his voice soft but laced with hesitation, clearly hoping to diffuse the moment.
Mingyu smirks, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. Jungkook, on the other hand, offers something entirely different — his sultry smile, the kind that’s both charming and unsettling in its intensity. His gaze lingers on you, the way his doe eyes shimmer under the dim light making the room feel suddenly smaller and charged with tension.
You feel your cheeks flush, a smile blooming on your lips as you return his gaze, caught up in the moment.
“So, I assume you guys have never had a threesome,” you say, shifting your longing gaze to Mingyu, relishing the way their expressions shift.
The sight in front of you is downright amusing. They both look like deers caught in headlights, eyes wide and mouths slightly agape. You tilt your head, savoring the anticipation as you wait for a response.
“I- uh-” Mingyu stammers, clearly flustered. “It- it was never really something we thought about…”
You let the silence hang in the air for a moment, then ask, “So should I just go then?” You can’t help but tease them, enjoying the power you have in this playful game.
“No!” they shout in unison, their voices rising in a mix of panic and urgency.
You giggle softly, thoroughly entertained by how flustered they seem. Their awkward chuckles only add to your amusement as the energy in the room shifts. The quietness that the room falls into isn’t just a pause — it’s a promise of something about to unfold, and you can feel their nervous energy as they settle into the moment.
Without breaking eye contact, you tap the two spots next to you, silently beckoning them. The gesture is casual, but the meaning behind it carries weight. Your voice softens, yet commands attention as you murmur,
“Come.”
They exchange a quick glance, a silent message passing between them. Then, almost in unison, they move quickly, Jungkook taking the spot on your right, and Mingyu settling on your left.
Though their movements were swift, the atmosphere between you all slows as soon as they sit. Jungkook's leg gently grazes yours, a subtle touch that sends a ripple of awareness through you. Mingyu shifts closer, his presence more assertive, his body angled toward you. The warmth from both of them is impossible to ignore, their proximity pressing in, heavy and undeniable.
There was no denying that the two of them were incredibly attractive — after all, you wouldn’t be here hinting at a potential threesome if they weren’t. Jungkook, with his quiet, almost bashful demeanor, had a certain charm that pulled you in. His shyness only added to his appeal, making you want to peel back his layers and see the side he rarely showed to others. And, of course, there was the added bonus of his tattooed arm, ink swirling across his skin in intricate designs, and the lip piercings that gave him an edgy twist (though he always took them out before tennis matches). That mix of boyish charm and rebellious edge was impossible to resist.
Then there was Mingyu — tall, confident, and utterly captivating. He had the kind of self-assured presence that drew your attention immediately. His confidence wasn’t just attractive — it was the kind that made every girl weak in the knees, leaving them hanging on his every word. While Jungkook’s quiet intensity worked its way under your skin slowly, Mingyu’s bold, magnetic charm hit you all at once.
You glance over at Jungkook, noticing how his eyes are fixed on his lap, his fingers nervously fidgeting in his hands. His uncertainty is almost endearing. Then you shift your attention to Mingyu, who is the complete opposite — bold and unapologetic, staring directly at you, his face just inches away, body almost pressed into yours. He’s clearly used to getting what he wants, but you’ve never been drawn to arrogance. Mingyu would have to wait his turn.
You turn your focus back to Jungkook, your hand moving slowly under his chin, gently lifting his face until his eyes meet yours. His surprise is obvious, but he doesn’t pull away. His gaze drops to your lips for a brief moment before flicking back to your eyes, and just as he’s about to react, his eyes close instinctively at the feel of your lips softly pressing against his.
As Jungkook leans into the kiss, you feel him slowly relax, his body softening against yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gentle but firm, deepening the connection between you. His hand hesitates for only a moment before settling on your waist, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine.
On your left, Mingyu remains silent, his usual bravado replaced with something quieter, though not passive. His eyes flicker with jealousy, but there’s admiration there too, a sort of begrudging respect for the moment unfolding in front of him. It’s strange seeing him so quiet, especially after all the confidence he’d shown.
As you pull away from Jungkook, a soft, almost disappointed sound escapes his lips, and his pout deepens, the swell of his pink lips and furrowed brows betraying his desire for more. You can’t help but smile at his expression, brushing your thumb tenderly across his bottom lip as if to comfort him. His hand slides reluctantly off your waist, making way for Mingyu, who wastes no time in taking over.
Mingyu’s large hand rests confidently on your thigh, his touch firm and sure, a stark contrast to Jungkook's more tentative approach. The difference between them is palpable — Jungkook’s gentle uncertainty versus Mingyu’s bold, unspoken demand. It was a clear reflection of their personalities. You feel the heat from Mingyu’s palm spread across your skin, his presence suddenly more imposing.
Mingyu’s lips crash against yours with a fierce urgency, leaving no room for hesitation. His grip on your neck is firm, pulling you into him as if he can’t get close enough. His kiss is demanding, rougher than Jungkook’s soft, tentative approach, and it has a wetness starting to pool in your panties. You feel the intensity of his desire in every movement — the way his lips devour yours, his hand clutching at your neck like he’s afraid to let go.
There’s a stark difference in how Mingyu claims you, his kiss full of hunger, no patience, no softness. It’s intoxicating, a whirlwind compared to the gentle warmth of Jungkook's touch. Mingyu's presence dominates the space around you, making everything else fade as he pulls you deeper into his embrace.
You press your hand firmly against Mingyu's chest, pushing him back with just enough force to break the kiss. His grip loosens reluctantly, and though his dark eyes are still heavy with want, he lets go. You sit back, catching your breath, the room now filled with nothing but the sound of you and Mingyu trying to steady yourselves.
Jungkook shifts across from you, and you don’t miss the way his breath has quickened, his pants tightening as he grows more eager for another chance. His eyes flick between you and Mingyu, a mix of anticipation and impatience building up inside him.
“Take your pants off,” you command, unzipping your sweater. “Both of you.”
Mingyu falters, his usual confidence wavering as uncertainty crosses his face. For the first time, he's hesitant, not wanting to cross any lines with Jungkook, who’s been like a brother to him. But the moment Jungkook starts sliding his pajama pants off without a second thought, letting out a soft moan of relief, Mingyu relaxes a little. He watches Jungkook, and with that unspoken permission, he begins to unbutton his own jeans.
Jungkook's chest rises and falls rapidly as he palms himself through his boxers, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out silent gasps. His brows furrow, and his parted lips move with barely audible moans. You notice, and with a playful smirk, you tilt your head toward him.
“Take those off, Koo,” you say, your voice teasing as you pull off your shorts. “Show me how you touch yourself.”
It’s surprising, especially from someone like Jungkook, but with little hesitation, he slips off his boxers and wraps his hand around himself, starting with slow, deliberate strokes. His tip, flushed a deep shade of pink, matches the color of his soft, pouty lips, and the sight of his length is impressive. There’s truth to the saying that the quiet ones pack the most. The way his hand moves, his chest rising and falling in sync, makes it impossible to look away.
Mingyu watches, a mix of shock and intrigue flickering across his face as Jungkook unfolds before him, completely at ease in this intimate moment. Sure, he’s seen Jungkook’s dick before — they’ve been best friends for years, comfortable enough to brush off the awkwardness of locker rooms or casual nudity. But this… this is different.
Mingyu has always been the one to take the lead in their more adventurous escapades, steering the dynamic with his bold confidence. But now, as he sees Jungkook so focused and vulnerable, he realizes… his best friend’s got it bad for you.
Feeling a surge of confidence, Mingyu follows suit, sliding his jeans and boxers off in one smooth motion. He mirrors Jungkook’s actions, his own hand wrapping around his length, joining in the intimate display.
While Jungkook's cock stood impressive in length, Mingyu's wasn’t too far off, though thicker, more girth to it. His cock was a deeper brownish-pink compared to Jungkook's softer, lighter shade. The contrast between them was striking, each appealing in their own way, both undeniably captivating. Their eyes flickered between each other and back to you, tension building as they stroked themselves, the sight enough to make your pulse quicken.
Clad in nothing but a matching white lacy set, your bottom lip gets caught between your teeth as you take in the sight before you. Jungkook and Mingyu, completely entranced, their hands stroking their lengths as their gazes hungrily trace every curve of your body. The heat in their eyes ignites a rush of confidence through you, sending a wave of satisfaction at the way they're both coming undone with just the sight of you. You relish in the power you hold over them, knowing that your mere presence is enough to leave them breathless and wanting.
Moving closer on your knees, you snake each arm around the back of their necks, pulling them in. Their hands continue stroking themselves, but their eyes flicker with confusion, unsure of your next move. Then, without warning, you lean in and pull them both toward you, initiating a heated three-way kiss. Their lips crash into yours and each other's, hesitant at first, but soon they melt into the moment, the taste of you and the shared heat between the three of you intensifying everything.
The intensity between you all builds, the space around you shrinking as things get more heated. Jungkook seizes your lips, deepening the kiss, your tongues moving together in a heated rhythm. Mingyu, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind. His focus shifts, and you feel his fingers fumbling with the latch of your bra, finally managing to unhook it. The fabric slides away, and in no time, his large hand cups your breast, squeezing the soft flesh as he picks up the pace, stroking himself faster, more eagerly now.
As your lips are locked in a heated kiss with Jungkook, you reach for Mingyu's hand on your chest, guiding him downward with a firm grip. He follows your lead, sliding his hand into your panties without hesitation. The moment his fingers brush against your sopping pussy, you can feel the shudder that runs through him. His breath hitches, and the words spill from him in a low, husky tone.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, the arousal thick in his voice. “Feel her, Kook.”
Jungkook, eager to take control, pulls his lips away from you, his breath ragged as he swiftly replaces Mingyu's hand with his own. The instant he makes contact, he lets out an audible moan, the sound vibrating between you. His middle finger moves up and down your slit, exploring you with slow, deliberate strokes, as if savoring every moment.
But the teasing touch drives you wild — their fingers are too light, too gentle. A whimper escapes your lips, your body trembling with need. You're much too sensitive for this kind of play, desperate to be touched properly. Every slow pass of Jungkook's finger sends ripples of frustration through you, heightening your arousal yet leaving you wanting more.
"Do you usually get this wet?" he asks, his finger lazily teasing your entrance, the pressure maddeningly light.
"J- just touch me more, please," you whine, your body arching toward his hand, desperate for more.
"Answer me first," he demands, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for negotiation.
Jungkook was much different in moments like these, a sharp contrast to his usual self. Outside the bedroom, he was shy, even gentle, but when it came to intimacy, he transformed — his assertiveness both thrilling and intimidating, making your pulse quicken under the weight of his dominance.
"Yes!" you exclaim, practically begging. "Yes, I do!"
Both guys chuckle at your outburst, their amusement adding a teasing edge to the already charged atmosphere. Jungkook finally relents, slipping two wet fingers inside your dripping pussy with a slow, deliberate thrust, making you gasp sharply. Your back arches, head thrown back in a mix of pleasure and relief, while your fist tightens around Mingyu's shirt — the one that frustratingly still clung to his body. Mingyu smirks as he pulls away the last barrier between you and them, tossing your soaked panties to the side, now completely ruined with your slick.
Wanting to give you just as much pleasure as Jungkook was, Mingyu’s hand finds its way to your clit, his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles that send sparks of heat through your core. The dual sensations make your body tremble, your mind barely able to keep up with the overwhelming pleasure as both men touch you, their combined attention making you feel utterly claimed.
In perfect sync, not even a millisecond behind or ahead, both of them reach for your neck, their lips pressing gentle kisses against your skin. Jungkook's kisses quickly turn into soft, teasing bites, his teeth grazing your sensitive flesh as he leaves a trail of red marks that bloom beneath his touch. The slight sting only adds to the heat swirling inside you, each bite more possessive than the last. Meanwhile, Mingyu's kisses travel upward, brushing against your jaw before he finds your cheek, his lips warm and soft. He bites down lightly on your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth with a playful edge, his breath mingling with yours as he watches your reaction, the two of them in perfect harmony, each claiming you in their own way.
You moan into Mingyu's mouth, your voice shaky as you whisper, "'M so close."
Mingyu only hums in response, his lips still pressed against yours, the vibration of his deep voice sending a shiver through you. His hand is busy, stroking his cock with a steady rhythm, each movement becoming more desperate as his own release builds. He's close too, his breath growing heavier, but his focus never strays from you. Jungkook, though just as turned on, remains focused on your pleasure. His fingers plunge in and out of you at a quicker pace now, curling inside you with precision, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. Your moans grow louder, the room thick with the sounds of pleasure as both men work in sync, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
A few more seconds, a few more kisses, and a few more strokes — then it happens. It’s like fireworks exploding all at once as the three of you reach your peaks in perfect unison. Your body seizes up, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your moans, raw and uninhibited, sound almost pornographic, echoing through the room as you ride the high of your orgasm. Jungkook groans deeply, his voice rough and strained, the sound of his release vibrating in the air as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. Mingyu, however, is quite literally growling as he cums, his body tensing beside you, chest heaving. The three of you, tangled together, create a symphony of raw pleasure, each sound feeding into the intensity of the moment as your bodies give in to the overwhelming ecstasy.
Completely spent, your body falls limp as you lean onto Mingyu, who instinctively wraps a strong arm around you, holding you close to his chest. The warmth of his skin against yours is comforting, grounding you in the aftermath of the intensity. Jungkook, equally exhausted, leans his head against your shoulder, his damp hair sticking slightly to your skin as beads of sweat drop from his brow. You don’t mind at all. Instead, you reach up and run your fingers through his raven hair, gently combing through the soft strands as the three of you bask in the quiet, intimate aftermath, your breathing slowly syncing as the room fades into a peaceful lull.
"Think you'll share the same girl again?" you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.
For a moment, there's silence before all three of you erupt into a fit of snickers and chuckles, the tension melting away. Mingyu shakes his head, still catching his breath, while Jungkook leans in closer, a lazy grin spreading across his face. The laughter fills the room, light and carefree, as the intensity from moments before dissolves into something more familiar, more comfortable. The air is filled with an easy camaraderie, the teasing making it clear that despite the heat, there's still room for laughter.
Suddenly feeling as if the room has grown too intimate, you gently push Jungkook off you and rise from Mingyu’s side, creating a little distance.
“Well, you two have a match tomorrow. Get some rest,” you say, glancing around until your eyes land on your soaked underwear. You pick them up and put them back on, the wet fabric uncomfortably clinging to your skin as you do.
“Where’re you going?” Mingyu asks, his eyes roaming your naked figure, a mix of admiration and longing on his face.
“To my dorm?” you laugh, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, trying to keep the mood light despite the heaviness of the moment.
“W- will we do this again?” Jungkook stutters, his voice a mix of hope and uncertainty.
You hook your bra behind your back, chuckling softly at his eagerness. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back here again.”
“Didn’t you have fun?” he asks again, his tone turning whiney, as if he’s desperately trying to hold onto the moment.
You exhale slowly, a hint of regret in your voice. “Yes, but I don’t do throuples.”
Jungkook sighs, his gaze dropping to the floor, disappointment washing over him. Meanwhile, Mingyu looks up at you with a spark of hope in his eyes, clearly not ready to give up just yet.
“Alright,” you finally concede, a playful grin creeping onto your face. “I will be watching your match tomorrow. Whoever wins… we can do it again. Alone.”
Mingyu’s face brightens instantly, a wide smile breaking through, but Jungkook just looks even more defeated, the weight of competition resting heavily on his shoulders.
“You can beat him, Jungkook. I know you’ve got it in you,” you encourage, trying to lift his spirits.
“Are you saying you want me to?” he asks, his voice laced with both challenge and eagerness.
“I’m saying you can beat him,” you reply, a teasing smile on your lips.
“But what do you want?” he presses, his gaze searching yours for the answer.
“I want to watch. Some good. Fucking. Tennis,” you say, emphasizing each word with a playful wink.
Gathering the last of your things, you leave the room with a smile, the laughter and teasing lingering in the air as you step back into the hallway, leaving behind a charged atmosphere filled with possibilities.
“Let me win?” Jungkook asks, turning to his friend with wide, pleading eyes that could melt anyone’s resolve.
“Don’t look at me like that when your dick is out, bro,” he replies, a look of disgust written all over his features, unable to suppress a smirk.
Jungkook rolls his eyes, kissing his teeth in annoyance. “Come on, you always win!”
Mingyu raises an eyebrow, considering it for a moment. “Fine, I’ll let you win if you let me shower first.”
“For real?” Jungkook’s face lights up, a grin stretching ear to ear as he processes Mingyu's words, excitement bubbling in his chest.
Mingyu nods, getting up and grabbing a towel, making his way toward the bathroom. Once the door is locked behind him, a playful grin spreads across his face as he calls out,
𐃯 Summary: After your fiancé cheated on you, you seek solace at the elite Inferno club in the heart of Gangnam. There you meet a mysterious guy with tattoos, piercings, and charisma that makes you forget your pain. One night of passion, but will it end there?
𐃯 Couple: Jeon Jungkook x The Reader, Jungkook x Y/N
𐃯 Age restrictions: 18+
𐃯 Size: one shot (10 650+ k words)
𐃯 Tags: from stranger to lover, angst, smut, one-night stand to more? nsfw, tattooed jungkook, elite club, cosmopolitan cocktails, alcohol, emotional healing, flirtatious banter, spicy tension, mature themes, eating pussy, sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex
𐃯 From author: Hiii 💜 I won't say much, but I will say that I am alive and still writing. I don't think this is my best work, but the idea for the fanfic came to me while I was writing something else, as usual. The plot came easily to me, so I wrote it, but it took me almost three weeks. I also have to mention that I'm working on sequels to the series and on a one-shot about Formula 1. I hope you're still waiting. (To briefly add about my condition — girls, it's horrible 😅, but let's not dwell on it because I'm tired of whining to you 🥲)! In any case, if you like it, I'll be happy!
𐃯 Dedication: to my precious @kelsyx33! It’s my modest-immodest gift for your birthday ❤️🔥 You know I love you 💜❤️🔥 I am infinitely grateful to you for your support and love 💜🙏🏻
𐃯 Warning: This fanfic contains explicit depictions of infidelity (fiancé cheating), heavy alcohol consumption to cope with heartbreak, intense flirtation leading to potential one-night stand, and mature sexual tension. Themes include trust issues, possessiveness, and rebound intimacy. 18+ only. English is not my native language, so some sentences might sound a little off or have grammar slips. I’m doing my best—hope you still vibe with the story! 🙏🏻
The Inferno nightclub was an elite venue in the heart of Gangnam. It was frequented by wealthy and influential people who wanted to end their day in a bright and carefree manner.
As the daughter of one of the richest men in Korea, you were, of course, well aware of this place — you had heard about it many times, but had never been there. You weren't the type to disappear into clubs at night, drink to excess, or have sex with strangers. You were a girl with a prestigious job, moderate, who only drank in the company of friends and was in a relationship that had lasted several years and was supposed to end in marriage.
But now, despite everything, you were sitting at the bar at Inferno, holding your fourth Cosmopolitan in your hand. The sweet and sour taste of cranberry and vodka burned your tongue, but it barely dulled the sharp pain.
A week ago, you found out that your fiancé, with whom you had been planning your wedding in six months, had cheated on you. You accidentally saw his correspondence with a colleague, Jivon, a lawyer with whom he was working on a joint case.
You tried to justify his delays at work and frequent business trips. He talked about an extremely important client connected to the government, who was part of the president's team. But your heart stubbornly felt that something was wrong.
When you saw his candid correspondence with Jivon, you almost fainted. They discussed the details of their sex life, planned what they would try next time; she sent him detailed nude photos of herself, and he responded in kind.
It was a heavy, devastating blow for you. Although you had noticed that your intimate relationship had lost some of its passion, and that over the years you had both grown accustomed to each other, what you saw shattered your world. A part of you died in that moment. Your love for Leejin, which you had thought was eternal, seemed to evaporate in an instant.
When he came and you showed him the phone and asked how long it had been going on, he began to make pathetic excuses. Standard phrases like "It's not what you think," "I'll explain everything," and "Honey, let's talk about this calmly" were absurdly ridiculous and meaningless. You hardly heard his words because you saw what you saw, and it couldn't be anything else. Your heart was broken into a thousand pieces, and you didn't know what to do.
Instead of the family you were supposed to have in six months, you got a heart torn to pieces and trust shattered to smithereens. All you could do was leave without saying another word. It was unbearably painful to realize that the person you considered your other half and the man of your life had rejected you.
Leejin tried to get you back. His calls were like a punch in the stomach, his visits to your apartment were unbearable, and you couldn't bring yourself to forgive him. You didn't know what to do with everything that had happened. If you told your parents, your father would destroy Leejin, but you couldn't keep quiet because you couldn't marry someone who had betrayed you for so long.
Your thoughts tormented you more than Leejin's behavior, so that evening, when your friends were discussing where to go for a walk in the chat room, you were the one who suggested going to a club. You needed chaos, loud music to drown out your thoughts, and a place that was radically different from your usual world. That's how you ended up at Inferno.
You drank cocktail after cocktail, letting the warmth of the vodka spread through your body. You didn't want to find a connection, you just wanted to forget. However, despite the alcohol, you couldn't relax.
Solha and Yuna went outside to smoke, and you stayed at the bar. Your eyes wandered around the room, and once again you caught the gaze of a stranger.
It was the same guy you bumped into in the crowd on your way to the bar. He appeared out of nowhere, and you accidentally bumped into him with your shoulder.
The guy was tall, with dark, neatly styled, slightly damp hair, dressed in a black unbuttoned leather shirt with rolled-up sleeves, under which you could see a black tank top and a tattoo that clearly adorned his muscular chest.
He wore a chain around his neck. On his right arm, you also noticed intricate tattoo designs stretching from his wrist upward. Even in the neon light of the club, you could see a snake and a lily painted on his arm. He also wore jeans that were a little too big for him and were held up only by his belt.
He had piercings on his face, and surprisingly, you liked how this guy looked, even though you always thought that such rebellious looks weren't for you. There was something about this man that made you focus your attention on him.
You apologized, but your words were drowned out by the music. He looked at you without looking away, as if trying to understand what you were saying. Then he took a step closer, leaning toward your ear:
"What are you saying?" you heard his low voice. You smelled his perfume, something woody and spicy, completely unlike ordinary men's fragrances.
"I'm sorry, I accidentally bumped into you," you shouted back, feeling his hot breath on your ear, which gave you goosebumps.
"You? It's my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going," he smiled, and despite the piercing on his lip, his smile was surprisingly sincere and charming. His eyes lingered on you a moment longer than politeness required. "There are probably too many people here to dance,"
"Yes," you nodded, trying not to lose your cool. "Excuse me, I have to go," you said, not holding his gaze, and walked away.
Since then, you constantly saw him among the crowd of people in the club. It wasn't that you were looking for him specifically, but the look you caught from him now told you that you were in his field of vision for a reason.
You knew that sooner or later he would approach you, and you didn't know what you wanted more: for him to do it sooner rather than later, or not at all.
Finally, you felt him stand behind you, and a moment later he sat down on the high stool next to you. He ordered a glass of whiskey. When he moved, you caught a whiff of his perfume, which you remembered and which stirred strange feelings in you. His gaze fell on you and was direct and indecently intense.
"You seem to have lost your company," he said. His voice was a pleasant baritone that carried even through the loud music.
"No, I’m not," you replied, feeling your pulse quicken. "They went for a smoke break."
"And you didn't go because you don't smoke?" He smiled slightly.
"I don't smoke," you replied, smiling back. There was a pause. His eyes were fixed on your face, and the attention was almost physical.
"Why are you sad?" he asked suddenly. You pressed your lips together slightly and raised your eyebrows, not expecting such a question.
"Do I look sad?" you asked.
"Yes. I've been watching you all evening, and it's very obvious," he replied. The bartender placed a glass of whiskey in front of him, and he looked away from you for just a moment to thank him with a nod.
"All evening?" you asked, as if you hadn't caught his gaze since you accidentally met. You tried to sound ironic. "Why have you been watching me all evening?"
"I liked you." He shrugged, speaking bluntly. You didn't rush to answer, struck by his directness. But he didn't let you dodge the question. "So why are you sad?" he asked again.
"Do you really want to know, or is this just a way to start a conversation?" you squinted. He smiled slightly, and a playful sparkle flashed in his eyes, as if he had just been caught in a cute trick.
"What if I say it's both?"
You smiled again, allowing yourself a small flash of admiration that this guy was being honest with you. You turned away to your cocktail, examining it.
"I don't think you're the type who wants to listen to 'girl talk,'" you assumed.
"Why do you think that?" he asked again with a smile on his lips. The tension between you began to grow, and you couldn't understand what was causing it.
"Because you look that way," you turned your face toward him, meeting his searching gaze.
"How do I look?" he arched an eyebrow.
"Like someone who doesn't waste time and knows what he wants," you replied. At first glance, he looked like a typical chebol. But not in the way of going to work at his father's office or holding a management position. He looked like someone who lived off his wealthy family and simply did whatever he wanted. His piercings and tattoos spoke of his rebellious nature. But you weren't stupid and understood why he was here. His gaze and behavior said that he had come to you for one thing only—sex.
"Are you so good at understanding people?"
"Oh no. I don't understand people at all," you smiled bitterly, thinking how you could not have seen how you were being betrayed. And it was so obvious.
"But you told the truth about me. I don't waste my time and usually wouldn't listen to 'girly stuff'. But for some reason, I want to know what's upsetting you," he said. For a moment, you thought he was being sincere, but your intuition told you not to trust him. He was here because he wanted you, not because he wanted to know why you were sad.
"Because you want me to let you get closer," you said bluntly, looking him in the eye.
"Maybe," he said seriously, without arguing.
"Do I look like someone who sleeps with strangers?" you asked, deciding not to hide the fact that you understood his intentions.
"No. You don't," he smiled, his voice calm and firm.
"Then why are you still here?" you became serious.
He didn't rush to answer. He just picked up his glass of whiskey and took a slow sip, as if savoring not the drink, but your question. Then he put the glass back down.
"Because you're not like the people who usually sit here," he said, without looking away. "You're not looking for attention. You don't smile at everyone who comes up to you. You sit here, drinking your fourth cocktail, looking like you want the whole club to burn to the ground. And at the same time, you look like you're afraid someone will notice."
You felt something tighten in your chest. He spoke, and every word hit the mark.
"You don't know me," you replied, but your voice wasn't as confident anymore.
"I know you weren't supposed to be here. And I know you don't drink to have fun. You drink to not think." He leaned a little closer, and you smelled that woodsy scent again. "And I know you don't sleep with strangers. But you let me sit down. And you haven't left yet."
You were silent. He was right. And it was annoying.
"Do you want me to leave?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," he replied immediately. "I want you to tell me what happened. Maybe it will make you feel better."
You turned away. You stirred your cocktail with a straw, hesitating to tell him what was still hurting you.
"Come on, you can tell a stranger in a nightclub anything. Your secret will die with me," he encouraged you.
"I've heard that it's bad to share your problems with strangers because then they somehowbeing involved in your life," you smiled, turning back and looking into his eyes, which already seemed to be undressing you.
"It's all up to you. You may never see me again after our conversation, or vice versa," he said, taking a sip of whiskey.
You glanced at him, then took a sip of your cocktail. You understood perfectly well that this man had not come to ask about your problems; he actually wanted to sleep with you, and this conversation was the beginning of foreplay.
"Have you ever lost everything you had in an instant?" you finally spoke.
He paused for a few seconds. You turned your head toward him and met his gaze, which surprisingly conveyed comfort and strength.
"Yes. It happened," he replied briefly.
Your eyes didn't leave each other for a second, but you swear it felt like an eternity to you.
"So you lost something?" he asked.
You nodded, feeling your throat tighten with emotions that were still fresh, like an open wound.
"Not 'something,' but 'someone,'" you said.
"A boyfriend?" he guessed.
"My fiancé," you said, and the word seemed to burn your tongue.
"Is he dead?" he asked. You snorted.
"I don't know what could be worse: if he were dead, or that fact he cheated on me."
"Could anyone betray a woman like you?" he asked, his voice full of genuine surprise. But you couldn't believe his sincerity. His reaction seemed fake.
"Oh, that sounds unconvincing," you said ironically, but he didn't even smile.
"I'm serious," he moved a few inches closer, and you noticed it. "You look like a woman who needs to be loved day and night. Who needs to be kept close 24/7, because someone will definitely take her away as soon as you take a step to the side. And some jerk cheated on you?"
You froze as he complimented you. It was said with such passion and confidence that your heart involuntarily began to beat faster. The thought flashed through your mind that if he wanted to seduce you, he was doing a very good job. But God, could you really sleep with a stranger?
"Yes. Can you imagine?" you ask, and for some reason your voice takes on a flirtatious tone rather than the pain you still felt. But why did you think he could drown it out better than vodka-based cocktails?
"I can't imagine what kind of scumbag he'd have to be," he says, his voice also taking on a flirtatious tone, dropping an octave.
You laugh again, unable to resist his tone and gaze. He's clearly a player and is now judging someone who cheated. It's funny.
"All men are scumbags," you say, unable to resist his remark.
"You judge everyone by your fiancé?" the man, whose name you still don't know, smiled defiantly.
"I judge all men. You all cheat. Even if you have a woman you should love day and night," you use his words against him. He laughs quietly and deeply again, and you can feel his laughter echoing in you with incomprehensible emotions.
"Then all women are stupid. Because they allow scumbags to do what they do," he leaned his elbow on the bar and took a sip of whiskey, looking at you from behind his glass. You couldn't help but notice the shadow of defiance in his eyes.
"Are you serious?" you exclaimed.
"Well, you're seriously saying that all men are scumbags," he replied matter-of-factly.
"Yes. Because even the most faithful will betray you someday. My fiancé acted caring, whispered how much he loved me. And the next day he was fucking his colleague in the office," you said sharply, unable to contain your emotions. The man with the piercing's expression changed slightly. But you couldn't tell what it meant: anger, irritation, or excitement from the discussion.
There was a short pause. He shrugged, twirling a glass of whiskey in his hands.
"Maybe you're right. But I can only speak for myself,"
"Well then, speak for yourself," you said, feeling irritated by him, "I'm sure you've cheated. But you're unlikely to admit it,"
"Never," you heard him reply. You froze, not expecting him to say it so quickly. You moved closer to him, turning your whole body toward him. And a fire was already burning inside you that you couldn't stop.
"Really?" you asked ironically.
"Yes," he replied, leaning toward you. "I've never cheated on a woman,"
"Because you didn't have one, right? Because you're a player who has a new woman every day, and that's why you don't cheated on," you said, analyzing him during the conversation.
"You've jumped to conclusions again, but based on what?" he smiled. He was clearly enjoying this conversation. But you didn't find it funny.
"Based on the fact that you've been watching me all evening and now you've come over to ask me for a one-night stand," you blurted out.
He laughed at you louder this time. And moved even closer. Your knees touched.
"I did want to offer you sex, but I'm not sure about one night anymore," he said, his eyes darting across your face.
"I don't have sex with people I don't know," you snapped and leaned back, trying to control how this man's closeness was suddenly affecting you.
"Then ask me anything you want to know," he persisted. You turned back to your cocktail.
"It doesn't work that way. I mean long-term communication," you said without looking at him. You felt him get up from his chair and come closer to you. He was close, and when his breath touched your ear for the second time that evening, you felt goosebumps run down your skin again.
"It can't be true. I can see that you're interested in me. And as you said, I've been looking at you all evening, but you've been looking at me too. I can see that you're responding, but for some reason you're hesitate."
You were struck by his directness and the fact that he noticed that you were looking at him too. And it’s not because he was looking at you, but because you liked him too.
"Come on, you're a grown woman. You can try sex with a stranger to numb the pain of betrayal. If you want, you can use me."
You slowly turned your head, and your faces were dangerously close. He glanced slowly at your lips, and you did the same. You felt like you wanted to taste them.
However, you didn't want to give in so quickly, even if it was to numb the pain.
"Oh, use you?" you asked quietly, almost surprised, trying to sound indifferent, but your breathing had already become uneven. "Do you really think I'm capable of that?"
"You're capable of anything to get rid of this pain," his gaze, black and deep, slid from your eyes to your lips. "And I can see it."
You were almost ready to respond with a sharp refusal, but his next move stopped you. He reached out his hand to you. You glanced at it briefly, then turned your eyes back to his.
"Let's go dance, and then you can give me your answer," he suggested.
You tilted your head, taken aback by this turn of events. It was unexpected and yet elegant. Instead of insisting, he was offering an innocent activity. You liked the way this man behaved. And the more time you spent with him, the longer you wanted to stay in his company.
You pushed your cocktail glass further along the bar table, feeling the bartender glance at you, and placed your hand in his.
His skin was warm, his palm firm, with a slight callus on his fingers, as if he did something with his hands. He squeezed your hand gently but confidently and pulled you out of your chair. You walked through the crowd—loud music pounded in your ears, neon lights flashed, bodies moved to the rhythm, sweaty and free. He led you to the dance floor, still holding your hand, and you felt his thumb slide across your palm—on purpose or not?
When you reached the center, he turned to face you, still holding your hand. The music slowed to something more sensual — a heavy beat with electronic notes that vibrated in your chest.
He pulled you closer, not too boldly, but enough for your chest to touch his torso. You started moving. The scent of his perfume enveloped you again — woody with something smoky that made your head spin more than vodka.
"Just relax," he whispered in your ear, his lips barely touching your earlobe. He leaned away for a moment, and then you leaned toward his ear:
"Using you?" you asked with a smile. He leaned back to see your eyes and that slightly sarcastic smile.
"Stop it," he said suddenly. You were embarrassed. What exactly had you done to make him react that way?
"What exactly?" you asked, moving with him. He leaned toward your ear again and said,
"Make me liking you more."
His words sent a strange sensation through your lower abdomen. After his words, you wanted to be liked by him even more. Your hands involuntarily squeezed his shoulders, which were as hard as steel. He kept his palms on your waist, his fingers sliding over the fabric of your dress, as if studying its contours.
You continued to move. Slowly at first, in rhythm, his hips touching yours, and you felt warmth spreading through your lower abdomen. The alcohol was doing its job — boundaries were blurring, the pain receding, replaced by something hot, primal. He leaned closer, his breath on your neck.
"If you want, you can use me any way you want," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the music.
You didn't answer with words — you just pressed closer, your hips synchronizing with his. His hands moved lower, to your thighs, squeezing gently, guiding you. You felt his hardness through his jeans—not intrusive, but obvious, and it sparked something in you that you hadn't expected. Your head fell back, your hair spilling down your back, and his lips barely touched your collarbone—not a kiss, but a hint.
The song picked up speed, and you moved faster. Bodies intertwined in the crowd, hearts beating in unison. You closed your eyes, letting the music drown out your thoughts. Leejin? Who is that? Pain? What pain? There was only this man — his hands, his scent, his gaze when you opened your eyes and met his — dark, hungry, and full of desire.
When the track ended, transitioning into something faster, he didn't let you go. He just stopped, holding your waist, and leaned toward your ear.
"So what's your answer?" he asked hoarsely, his lips barely touching your skin.
You looked at him, your breathing uneven, your lips parted. Your friends? They were somewhere out there, taking a break. The club? Chaos all around. And you... you wanted more. You wanted him to drown out that fire inside with another.
"Your name," you whispered, sliding your hand over his chest, feeling the tattoo under his shirt. "Tell me your name first."
He smiled—wide, defiantly—and leaned in so close that your lips almost touched.
"Jungkook, what about yours?"
You didn't answer him. Instead, you pulled him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him—sharply, hungrily, with a taste of cranberry and whiskey. His lips were soft, his piercing contrasting on your tongue, but the kiss was hot as hell. He responded instantly, pulling you closer, his tongue sliding into your mouth, exploring.
When you broke apart, breathless, he whispered,
"Does that mean ‘yes’?"
You nodded, feeling your heart pound. Jungkook took your hand and pulled you toward the exit—through the crowd, past the bar, onto the street, where the night air of Gangnam hit you with its coolness. Outside the club, he hailed a taxi. Jungkook opened the door for you, and you got in without thinking about the consequences.
The sexual tension that had been building in the club became almost unbearable in this confined space. You could feel his thigh against yours, but he remained surprisingly restrained: he didn't touch you, didn't speak, just looked at you. His gaze was heavy and impatient, and you knew that this restraint was just thin ice before an explosion.
When the taxi stopped at the luxurious ‘GOLDEN HOTEL’, you weren't even surprised. Of course, he had a room in a place like this. He paid the driver, and you followed him.
He didn't give his name at the front desk. The staff greeted him respectfully and simply handed him his key card. In a moment, he led you to the elevator.
You tried to breathe, but the air was electrified. You knew what you were doing. You were going into this consciously. It was your revenge, your escape, your desperate desire to forget that you had been hurt.
The elevator seemed endless. When the doors opened on his floor, he just took your hand, his fingers squeezing your palm, and led you to the end of the corridor. He opened the door, led you inside, and as soon as the lock clicked behind you...
He pressed you against the wall, devouring your lips with a deep, demanding kiss.
All the restraint you had maintained in the taxi exploded in that touch. It was not a gentle invitation, but a demand, and you met his desire with your own, accumulated over the evening.
He broke away from your lips to look into your eyes. His eyes burned with fire, and he exhaled:
"You won't regret your decision, beautiful."
His lips covered yours again, this time more slowly, with force that you felt your back press against the cold wall of the room. Jungkook's hands slid down your waist, clutching the fabric of your dress as if he wanted to tear it right there in the hallway. You responded with a kiss of equal passion—your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, feeling the dampness of his strands that still retained the warmth of the club air. The taste of whiskey on his tongue mingled with your cranberry cocktail, creating an intoxicating elixir that washed away the last traces of pain.
He stopped kissing your lips and moved down to your neck. His hot breath burned your skin.
"You're so hot," he whispered hoarsely, his lips touching the throbbing vein in your neck. You felt his teeth gently bite your skin — not painfully, but enough to send a wave of excitement through your body. Your head fell back against the wall, and your hands involuntarily reached for his shirt. You pulled it off in one motion, revealing a black tank top the outlines of tattoos visible underneath. Your palm slid under the fabric, feeling the warm, smooth skin of his chest — hard muscles tensing under your touch.
Jungkook moaned softly as your nails lightly scratched his skin. His hands moved lower, to your thighs, lifting the hem of your dress. His fingers slid over the bare skin of your legs, leaving traces of fire.
"I want you all night," he murmured, pressing his body against yours. You felt his hardness—firm, tense through his jeans, pressing against your stomach. It aroused a new wave of desire in you; you arched toward him, rubbing against him, feeling the wetness gathering between your legs.
He couldn't resist — with one hand he grabbed your hip, lifting your leg to press closer. His lips moved lower, to your collarbone, where he left a wet kiss, and then lower still, to the edge of your neckline. You felt his tongue slide across the skin above your breasts, and his free hand unzipped the back of your dress. The fabric slid off your shoulders, revealing your lace bra. Jungkook took a step back to look—his eyes darkened as they slid over your body, as if he was already imagining taking off the rest.
"I never doubted for a moment that you were perfect," he breathed, his voice low and full of desire. He leaned down, his lips touching your breasts through the lace, his teeth gently tugging at the edge of the cup. He helped himself with his hand, pulling one of your breasts out of your bra. You moaned as his tongue found your nipple—hard and sensitive with arousal. He sucked slowly, the circular movements of his tongue making your hips tremble. Your hand slid down to his waistband, unfastening the buckle. His jeans slid down, revealing boxers that showed his erection — large and ready to enter you right now.
Jungkook pulled away from your breasts to kiss you again, this time harder. His hand slipped between your legs, his fingers sliding over your panties, feeling the wetness.
"You're already so wet for me," he whispered into your lips, then one finger slid under the fabric, touching your clit. You shuddered, a moan escaping your throat as he teased you with gentle circular movements, not penetrating, only intensifying your desire. Your hand wrapped around him through his boxers, squeezing, feeling him throb in your palm.
He froze for a moment when you squeezed him. His finger stopped on your clitoris, and then he exhaled heavily a millimeter from your lips. His hand gently took yours, pressing it above your head.
"Don't stop me from enjoying you," he whispered into your lips and at that very moment slid his two finger into your passage. You closed your eyes, feeling his fingers stretch your walls, and moaned softly. He made a few movements inside. You felt yourself getting wetter and wetter as you thought about how wonderful it would be when he entered you with his cock.
"You let me to use you," you moaned, pretending to be upset that he wouldn't let you touch him. He kissed you without answering. His tongue invaded your mouth possessively and insistently, and you got high from the slightest movement of his lips and tongue.
Jungkook broke away from your lips only for a moment to look into your eyes — his pupils were dilated, black as an abyss, full of promise. His two fingers moved slowly and teasingly inside you, enjoying your moans and the trembling of the walls that squeezed around him. You felt a wave of pleasure full you, and it was so intense that you involuntarily arched your back, pressing your hips against his palm.
"Are you that greedy?" he whispered hoarsely. The stretching was a sweet pain that turned into pure bliss — he moved deeper, touching a spot that made stars flash before your eyes. Your free hand dug into his shoulder, your nails leaving marks on his skin. He just smiled, quickening his rhythm. "I really let you use me, beautiful. But first, let me show you how it's done right."
His lips descended to your neck again. His kisses brought him to your jaw, rose to your ear, and his teeth gently bit your earlobe. The pain mixed with pleasure, causing a storm of emotions to rage inside you.
His tongue traced a hot path down to your collarbone. You felt completely uninhibited — as if all the weight, all the pain from Leejin, all your restrained, perfect life had dissolved in that moment. With Jungkook, you were different: bold, greedy, alive. You forgot everything — the betrayal, the wedding plans, who you were. There was only this fire inside you, burning brighter with each of his touches, and you gave yourself completely to him, letting your body lead, not your mind.
You reached for his boxers, but he caught your hand again, pressing both of them above your head with one palm. His strength was playful, dominant, but not frightening — on the contrary, it made you melt, feel desired, protected in his power.
"Don't rush," he murmured, slowly removing his fingers from you, making you moan at the loss. He brought them to his lips, licked them, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. "You taste like sin. And I want more."
He let go of your hands only to lift you into his arms—lightly, as if you weighed nothing. Your dress slid even lower, exposing your thighs, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your whole body against him.
He carried you to the bed, across the huge room, kissing you. He walked so confidently, as if he knew the way by heart. The light in the room was dim, and because of his intense kisses, you couldn't see anything around you.
The luxurious room was a large. The big bed with dark sheets, panoramic windows overlooking Gangnam at night — but you barely noticed it. He threw you onto the mattress gently but confidently and stood over you, removing his tank top in one motion.
His body was a masterpiece — pumped-up chest with tattoos that writhed as if alive: chaotic lines covering his right chest and running to his shoulder, complex colorful drawings that you wanted to examine in detail. You reached out, running your fingers over the drawings, feeling the warmth of his skin, the relief of his muscles. He leaned down, removing your dress completely, then your bra — enjoying every inch of your bare skin. Your breasts were freed, your nipples still hardened from arousal and now from the cool air.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, and you obeyed, feeling completely free in this submission. He moved lower, his lips touching your stomach, your thighs, spreading your legs wider.
His breath burned the inside of your thighs, and then—oh God—his tongue slid over your wetness through your panties. You arched your back, moaning loudly, without shame. He pulled the fabric down, exposing you completely, and his mouth covered you — his tongue circled your clitoris, sucked, penetrated inside, imitating what you so desired to feel with his cock.
Pleasant sensations grew wave after wave — you forgot how to breathe evenly, forgot about the world outside the window. You were a different person: uninhibited, moaning incessantly, grabbing his hair and pulling him closer. Every cell in your body sang with pleasure, the pain of the past disappeared, replaced by pure, animalistic ecstasy. You gave yourself completely — your hips moving toward his tongue, your fingers scratching the sheets, your voice begging,
"More... Jungkook, please..."
And he listened. Your moans became more like cries as he began to lick your folds more actively, adding his fingers inside again. You felt the orgasm approaching. The pleasurable tingling sensation in your lower abdomen reached its peak and your fingers squeezed sheets tighter.
You opened your mouth to say that you were close, but one movement of his tongue and you came. The orgasm exploded brightly and blissfully. You squeezed his fingers inside you, your clitoris twitching on his tongue. Jungkook continued to move it, taking it all for himself.
Your thighs trembled and you tried to catch your breath, which had been knocked out by the orgasm. Finally, Jungkook pulled away from you and raised his head, looking at your face, which expressed absolute pleasure. You forced your eyes open and saw him smiling. You reflexively smiled back. He had done a really good job.
Jungkook got up, pulling down his boxers, and his cock sprang free — big, hard, with big veins. He settled between your legs. You watched as he took his cock in his hands and rolled it a few times. You saw pre-cum dripping from the tip. He moved closer, his eyes never leaving your wet, swollen pussy, and tapped your sensitive clit with the head.
Your breathing quickened. This was something new, something you had never felt before. Your hips twitched slightly, and he looked up at your face to gauge your reaction. His gaze was playful, with a spark that promised you unforgettable sensations.
He hit your clitoris with his cock again, this time a little harder, causing you to flinch and bite your lip. Immediately after the blow, he began to run the head of his cock over your folds, as if to soothe you. Jungkook leaned over, resting on one elbow, and kissed you.
"Don't you like it when I do that?" he asked, barely breaking away from your lips.
"I like it," you said, enjoying the way he caressed your clitoris with the head of his cock.
Jungkook purred softly, the sound low and vibrating, as if it passed through your skin straight into your bones. The head of his cock slid over your folds again, smearing wetness and precum, and you felt your body involuntarily reaching for him, as if drawn by a magnet.
"Do you want more?" he asked, but it was a rhetorical question. You were dying to feel him inside you.
"I want," you exhaled. You really couldn't wait for him to enter you. His eyes, black, burning, full of power, didn't let go of yours. He slowly, teasingly ran the head of his cock over your clit again, even harder, and you moaned, your hips jerking as if they wanted to rise up to meet him.
He was still close, his lips barely touching yours, but he didn't kiss you — he just breathed into your mouth, letting you feel his warmth.
"You're so sensitive. I'm not even inside you yet, and you're already trembling."
You moaned from the pleasant sensations he created with the movements of his cock on your pussy. You wanted more, but he seemed to be deliberately delaying. To encourage him to act, one of your hands squeezed his bicep, and the other dug into his shoulder, your nails deliberately scratching his skin a little harder. He didn't stop.
"You still haven't told me your name," he said suddenly. His words caught you off guard. You really hadn't told him your name. But for some reason, you didn't want to.
He pressed himself against your pussy and began to move, stimulating your clitoris with his cock. Your body responded to his movements — your hips involuntarily rose to meet him, seeking more friction, more pressure. The orgasm that had just receded was building again, slowly but inevitably, like a wave gathering strength before crashing onto the shore.
"Is that important right now?" you asked with a slight smile. There was something intriguing about the fact that you knew his name, but he didn't know yours.
"Don't want to tell me?" he chuckled, seemingly enjoying the game you had started. His free hand slid up your thigh, his fingers squeezing your skin as if marking his territory. "It turns me on even more. But I'm used to knowing the name of the girl I bring to an unforgettable orgasm."
His words hit you like an electric shock — right in the pit of your stomach, causing your walls to contract with anticipation. You bit your lip, trying not to moan loudly, but it didn't work: a quiet, hoarse sound escaped you. He smiled defiantly, knowing he had power over you.
"But if you don't want to... I can think of something myself," he continued, looking at your face. "How about a beauty... or better yet, a sinner... or a former bride..." Each word was accompanied by a new movement — his cock slid lower, to the entrance, barely touching, teasing, but not penetrating. You felt your wetness dripping onto the sheets, your body begging for more.
You didn't answer — you just deviated a little and next your hand slid down his abs to his cock — you wrapped your fingers around it, squeezed, moved up and down slowly, feeling it pulse in your palm, the veins tensing under your touch. He exhaled heavily, his eyes closed for a moment, but he didn't stop you this time.
"Fuck..." escaped his lips in a quiet whisper. You smiled — for the first time that evening, you felt that the power had shifted slightly to you. You quickened your movements, your thumb sliding over the head, smearing the precum, and he moaned softly, his hips thrusting forward involuntarily.
"Maybe I just don't want you to know," you finally replied, looking him in the eyes. Your voice was quiet, but with a hint of defiance. "It's better if, for you, I'm were just... a girl from the club. The one you picked up to numb her pain." You squeezed him tighter, and he exhaled through his teeth, leaning in so close that your foreheads touched.
"The girl from the the club..." he repeated, as if tasting the words. His hand rested on yours, stopping your movements—not abruptly, but firmly. "Then I must try to drown out your pain."
He let go of your hand only to lift your legs and throw them over his shoulders. You found yourself completely exposed to him — vulnerable, naked, but it didn't scare you; on the contrary, it aroused you even more. His cock touched your entrance, pressing lightly, stretching you slowly. You felt the head penetrate a centimeter inside, then retreat — again and again, imitating what was about to happen.
The pain from its size was there, but your desire to have it inside you was stronger.
"Please..." you blurted out involuntarily. You didn't recognize your voice — hoarse, pleading, full of despair.
"What is it, girl? What are you asking for?" he asked, smiling. But his eyes were burning with excitement. He leaned down, his lips touching yours, the kiss slow and deep, while his cock still teased you at the entrance.
"Come in..." you breathed into his lips, "just come in already..."
He didn't make you wait any longer. With one slow but confident movement, he entered you completely, stretching your walls, filling you as if you were made for him. You screamed, feeling both pain and pure bliss at the same time. Jungkook froze for a moment, allowing you to get used to it, his breath hot on your neck.
"That's it," he whispered, starting to move — slowly at first, deeply, each thrust drawing a moan from you. "Good girl... it’s so fucking good... You took me so well..."
Your legs were thrown over his shoulders, allowing him to go deeper, touching spots you didn't even know you had. Jungkook held your hips, his fingers digging into your soft skin, leaving light marks, and his gaze never left your face, hungry, as if he were drinking in your reactions.
His hips slammed into yours, the sound of skin on skin mixing with your moans. You arched your back toward him, your breasts bouncing with each thrust, and he leaned down, capturing one with his lips. His teeth bit gently, his tongue swirled, and you felt a new wave of wetness flood the place where you were joined.
You didn't stop moaning, and with each new movement, your moans grew louder. You felt something bordering on euphoria, and the feeling was so wonderful. Jungkook released your nipple with a wet smack and thrust deeper, making you cry out.
"What pleasant sounds..." he said barely audibly through his ragged breathing, "I want to hear more..." His movements became stronger, rhythmic — in, out, each time to the end, touching that sweet spot inside that made your eyes roll back. Your hands were on his hips, your fingers digging into his flesh, forcing him to press against you as tightly as possible. He fucked you lying down, his body on top of you, his muscles tense, sweat beginning to cover his forehead and his whole body with a thin layer. You were sweating too, but neither of you paid any attention to it.
You were close — the orgasm was building again, faster, more intense than the last one. Your body trembled, your walls tightened around him, and you felt him pulsing in response.
"Jungkook... I'm... close..." you exhaled, but he suddenly stopped, still deep inside you, and you moaned in frustration.
"Not so fast, girl from the club" he whispered, kissing your neck. He pulled out, leaving you empty and begging, and flipped you onto your stomach with one confident movement. You found yourself on your knees, face in the pillow, as he pressed himself against you from behind with his whole body—hot, heavy, and dominant. His chest was on your back, one hand slid down to your clit, starting to circle with his fingers, and the other found your hand, squeezing it.
He entered you again—from behind, deeper than before, and you moaned softly into the pillow, feeling him stretch you at a new angle. Jungkook exhaled heavily as he began to fuck you. His hips pushed you forward, the sound of your sex filling the room, his weight pressing you into the mattress, preventing you from escaping the pleasure. You felt his breath on the back of your neck, his lips biting your shoulder, his tongue licking your skin. His hand on your clitoris quickened, his fingers sliding through the wetness, and you trembled beneath him, completely subjugated.
The orgasm hit you suddenly—you screamed, squeezing him inside you, your body convulsing. He didn't stop, continuing to move through your contractions, prolonging the bliss until you relaxed, breathless.
Then he pulled out, turned you onto your back, and sat back against the headboard, leaning on the pillows. He still hadn't come. His cock stood hard, glistening with your wetness, and he beckoned you with his finger.
"Come here, beautiful. Sit on me. I want to see your face when you come again."
Still trembling, you crawled over, straddled him, your legs on either side of his hips. You took him in your hand, guided him to the entrance, and lowered yourself slowly—feeling him fill you again, hitting new spots at this angle. You moaned as you began to move — up and down, circling your hips. His hands on your waist guided you, his fingers digging in, his eyes looking into yours.
"So good," you exhaled, unable to contain the pleasure inside. Jungkook smiled. He began to move his hips toward you, pressing you down to be deep inside you, then sat up, wrapping his arms around your body.
You opened your eyes, lowering them slightly, and met his gaze. He looked at your half-open lips as you continued to move on top of him.
"Did I do my job?" he asked suddenly. You froze for a moment, remembering what his job was supposed to be. Jungkook pushed you hard, knocking the already heavy air out of you.
"What job?" you asked. Jungkook stopped you and you both breathed heavily. He looked at you for a few seconds and then smiled, playfully and, you would even say, triumphantly. His lips found yours. His tongue intertwined with yours, and the wet sounds of your kiss were so pleasant to your ears.
Jungkook released your lips and, an inch away from them, said,
"To drowned out your pain," and kissed you again, pushing his tongue into your mouth. But this kiss was so quick that you didn't even have time to respond properly. "You forgot why you're here, except for sex? Right?"
You froze, feeling his words hit the mark — sharper than any thrust of his hips. Yes, you forgot. You forgot about Leejin, about the betrayal, about the broken heart that burned inside you yesterday like red-hot iron. There was only him — Jungkook, his body beneath you, his cock deep inside you, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You forgot everything except this heat spreading through your veins, except the desire to move faster, harder, so that this fire would burn away the remnants of pain forever.
You didn't answer with words — you just pressed yourself closer to him, your hand tangled in his hair, pulling his face to yours, and you kissed him — greedily, demandingly, with a taste of salty sweat and whiskey. Your tongue invaded his mouth, exploring, fighting for dominance, but he responded with equal force, squeezing your waist with his fingers as if he wanted to press you into him forever.
"Yes," you finally breathed into his lips, pulling away for a moment to inhale. Your voice was hoarse, almost unfamiliar — full of satisfaction and recognition. "You drowned him. Completely." You pushed your hips down harder, feeling him go deeper, hitting that spot that made your eyes roll back. A moan escaped your throat—loud, unashamed, and you didn't try to hold it back.
Jungkook laughed low. His hands moved lower, to your buttocks, squeezing them, guiding your movements.
"Okay," he whispered, pushing his hips up to meet you, making you bounce. "Come on, use me, girl whatever you want. Show me what you can do when you're not thinking about him."
His words ignited something primal in you—you sped up, moving up and down faster, circling your hips, squeezing him inside you deliberately to hear him moan. His head fell back on the pillow, his eyes half-closed, his lips parted—he looked so sexy, so vulnerable in that moment that you felt a rush of power. Your hand slid over his chest, your nails scratching the tattoo on his skin, leaving red marks, and he hissed with pleasure, pushing you harder.
"Fuck, you're... perfect," he muttered, one hand rising to your breasts, squeezing one, his thumb circling your nipple. You arched your back, letting him play, but not stopping — your movements became chaotic, desperate, the orgasm building again. You felt wetness running down your thighs, down his, as the place where you joined became slippery, hot, perfect.
"Come for me," he commanded hoarsely, one hand sliding between your bodies, his fingers finding your clitoris, beginning to rub it quickly, mercilessly. "I want to feel you squeeze me. I want to hear you scream my name."
It was too much—his fingers, his cock, his voice. The orgasm hit you like a tsunami: you screamed, squeezing him inside you, your thighs trembling.
"Jungkook!" His name burst out loud, breaking into a moan. He didn't stop, continuing to move through your contractions, prolonging the wave, but you felt him harden inside you as much as possible.
With one quick movement, he pulled you off his cock and spilled between your bodies. You froze above him, feeling the hot drops of his cum spread across your skin — on your stomach, on your thighs, sticky and warm, like the final seal of this crazy evening.
Your body was still trembling from the afterglow of orgasm, your walls throbbing with emptiness, your breathing so heavy that your chest rose and fell in unison with his. Jungkook lay beneath you, his eyes half-closed, his lips parted in a satisfied smile — the piercing on his lower lip glinted in the dim light of the lamp. His hand slid lazily down your back, his fingers tracing an invisible pattern on your sweaty skin, as if he didn't want to let go of the moment.
"Fuck... that was incredible," he muttered hoarsely, his voice low and satisfied, with a hint of laughter. He lifted his head to look down at the mess between your bodies, at the glistening semen running down his abs.
You couldn't help but smile — a weak but sincere smile, the first in a long time without a hint of pain. You slid off him slowly, your legs still weak, and sat down next to him. Jungkook turned to you, pulled you closer with one hand around your waist, and your bodies touched again—sweaty, perfectly matched.
"Wanna help me clean up this mess, girl from the club?"
He nodded down at his stomach, and you smiled seductively, knowing what he was hinting at. Today, you felt more freedom in your actions than ever before. You leaned down, your lips touching his skin — first on his chest where there were small splashes, then lower, your tongue sliding over the salty semen, tasting the mixture of both of you.
Jungkook made a low guttural sound, his hand tangled in your hair, not pressing, just holding. You licked again, slowly, and felt his cock twitch nearby — still semi-hard, sensitive after everything.
"You... are dangerous," he exhaled, pulling you back up for a kiss — slow, lazy, unhurried. His tongue slid over your lips, testing you, and you responded, wrapping your arms around his neck. The world outside the window — nighttime Gangnam with its neon lights — seemed distant, unreal. There was only this room, this bed, this man who drowned your pain better than any alcohol or revenge.
You were the first to break the kiss, you looked at each other for a moment, and then you lay down flat. You stared at the dark ceiling, trying to steady your breathing and not think about the fact that you had just had sex with a stranger for the first time in your life. You had to admit that this stranger had given you some of the best orgasms of your life.
You felt Jungkook move closer, carefully covering you with a sheet to cover your naked body. But instead of just lying down next to you, he pressed himself against you, hugging you. His nose touched your jaw, tickling your skin with his breath. You felt pleasure from his unobtrusive embrace and the strength of his body. But was it normal? To lie in bed with a man you had known for a few hours, after crazy sex, and just cuddle?
What would be the right thing to do? Take a shower and leave? Or continue lying there with him until you fall asleep? Usually, after sex, you would take a shower, and then you and Leejin would fall asleep in each other's arms. Lately, after sex, he didn't fall asleep with you, but went to the kitchen or living room, pretending to work. Only now did you realize that he was probably going to talk to his colleague, with whom he was cheating on you.
You felt him put his hand on your thigh and begin to caress your skin with gentle, unhurried movements.
"Is this necessary?" your voice suddenly broke the silence. Jungkook's fingers stopped. He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you.
"What exactly are you asking, beautiful?" he asked, looking straight into your eyes, which reflected the lights of the night city.
"This embrace and tenderness," you replied.
He looked at you for a few seconds, as if pondering your question, and then smiled slightly — not defiantly, as before, but more softly, with a hint of warmth that contrasted with his rebellious appearance. His fingers continued to glide over your skin, lightly, like a feather, drawing invisible circles that sent pleasant sensations through you. He leaned closer, his nose touching your cheek, and you felt his hot breath.
"Necessary? No," Jungkook whispered low, his voice hoarse with exhaustion but still full of that confidence. "But you look like you need it. Besides you need some rest. I'm not done with you yet."
You were a little shocked; you had just experienced orgasms that tore you apart, and you thought it was over. You almost laughed, but all that came out was a quiet, surprised exhalation.
"More? Are you serious? We just finis..." you said, but he didn't let you finish. He simply turned you on your side and pressed himself against you from behind. His soft cock touched your buttocks. One arm wrapped around your waist, pressing your back against his chest, and the other slid down your stomach, caressing your skin gently, as if to soothe you.
You felt his lips touch the back of your neck — a light kiss, then another on your neck. He didn't rush, didn't insist, just held you, letting your heart rate slow down. Your body, still sensitive after everything, reacted to every touch: goosebumps ran across your skin, your nipples hardened from the coolness of the sheets and the warmth of his palm.
"Seriously," he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating against your skin. "You think once is enough? No, girl from the club. I told you I want you all night."
You don't know how much time passed while you were lying quietly in each other's arms. You were already starting to fall asleep when you felt it. His hand moved lower, his fingers sliding purposefully between your thighs, barely touching the swollen folds, still wet from before. You shuddered, a quiet breath escaping involuntarily as his finger found your clitoris, circling gently, as if checking how ready you were.
You were surprised at yourself, at how your body responded: moisture gathered instantly, your thighs involuntarily spread wider, inviting him in. He felt it — a quiet laugh sounded near your ear.
"See? You want it too." His erection, which was starting to harden again, began to press harder against your buttocks. He kissed your neck, his teeth gently biting your earlobe, and his hand between your legs quickened: two fingers slipped inside, stretching you, making you arch in his embrace.
You turned your head, searching for his lips, and he met you with a kiss — not greedy like before, but deep, with a growing thirst. Your tongue intertwined with his, you responded with equal force, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He rolled you onto your back in one motion, without removing his fingers — now you were lying beneath him, legs spread, his body above you. He positioned himself between your thighs, his cock touching your entrance, sliding along your wetness, but not entering.
"Jungkook..." you moaned, your hips rising to meet him. He smiled, his eyes flashing in the semi-darkness, and finally he entered, filling you completely. You moaned softly, feeling him stretch your walls, touching every sensitive spot. He moved slowly, each thrust deep and measured, as if enjoying every second. His lips were on your breasts, his tongue explored almost every inch of your body, his teeth bit gently, and you didn't know if you had ever felt so satisfied and desired in someone's arms.
You made love for hours — slowly, then faster, changing positions, as if you couldn't get enough. You didn't sleep until morning — just breathing heavily, laughing quietly between kisses, your bodies intertwining again and again. The light outside the window turned gray, Gangnam woke up, and you were still in each other's arms, his cock inside you for the last time, your movements lazy, as if saying goodbye.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, you were both exhausted. You fell asleep in each other's arms, and you were the first to wake up. Your body ached with pain and fatigue, but you had to go. You grabbed your phone and saw missed calls from your friends and text messages. You quickly wrote that you were fine and that you would tell them everything later.
Quietly, almost like a shadow, you slipped out of his warm and pleasant embrace, and your skin immediately broke out in goose bumps. You quickly got dressed, feeling the scent of his perfume on your skin and clothes, which you will never forget.
You felt that you couldn't leave without a trace. But you didn't want to wake him up. You carefully took 10,000 won out of your purse and put it on the table in the living room, finally noticing how large and luxurious the room was. You wrote him a short note. And you quietly left, letting him sleep.
Jungkook woke up feeling slightly tired. The sex with the girl from the club all night long was just incredible. He hadn't felt such pleasure in a long time; it seemed that the girl was just made for him.
His hand fell on the spot next to him and immediately felt the coolness. Jongkook turned around, opened one eye, and noticed that the girl was nowhere to be found. The thought immediately flashed through his mind that she had left, but he hoped that she was in the shower or somewhere in the room.
He got up, barely found his black Calvin Klein boxers that sat low on his hips, and rubbed his sleepy eyes to clear his vision a little. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and his lips were slightly swollen from sleep and the hundreds of kisses he had received that night.
Jungkook went into the bathroom, but everything was dry, with no signs that she had taken a shower. He went out to the living room, and everything was in its place there too. He touched his face with his palm, smiling.
His gaze swept over the perfectly tidy room, but there was no trace of her. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to collect his thoughts. The girl from the club. He didn't even find out her name or give her his phone number. She disappeared like a ghost, leaving behind only memories of her moans, her taste, her body that responded so perfectly to his every touch.
He returned to the bedroom, glancing at the bed where just yesterday they couldn't tear themselves away from each other. His lips involuntarily stretched into a smile — bold, but with a hint of irritation. She had run away. After a night like that. She had awakened an interest in him he couldn't explain, but she made his heart beat faster when he remembered her gaze — sad at first, then so wild, so free during their intimacy.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his neck, feeling a slight ache in his muscles — a pleasant reminder of how she had scratched his back, how she had gripped his hair, how she had screamed his name. Jungkook bent down to pick up his shirt from the floor, and his gaze caught on something on the bedside table. Something that hadn't been there yesterday.
A note. And a 10,000 won bill, neatly folded underneath it.
He frowned, feeling a tightness in his chest. Jungkook picked up the piece of paper, pinching it casually between two fingers. He read the lines written in neat but slightly chaotic handwriting:
"You're more intoxicating than any cocktail. Thank you for the night when I forgot about everything."
Jungkook laughed out loud. He reread it again. And again. He didn't expect that a trip to the bar would end with him picking up a girl. And what was even funnier in this situation was that she left him money after sex as if he were her one-time fling. It was funny, but she really used him.
He got up, threw the note into the pocket of his jeans lying on the floor, and went to take a shower. The cold water should have washed her out of his mind, but it couldn't. He stood under the jets, closed his eyes, and saw her — how she bit her lip when he teased her clit, how her thighs trembled when she came. His hand involuntarily clenched into a fist, hitting the tile. He wasn't used to this. He wasn't used to someone leaving him with a feeling of emptiness.
Jungkook turned off the water, dried himself with a towel, and returned to the bedroom. He put on the new clothes that had been delivered to the room.
Jungkook drove to the office, gripping the steering wheel tightly, but his thoughts kept returning to girl from the club. He needed to focus, but he couldn't.
His phone vibrated, and the name "Jimin-hyung" lit up on the dashboard.
"Hello," he answered, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Hey, buddy, where did you disappear to yesterday so suddenly that you didn't even answer your calls?" Jimin's voice was, as always, too cheerful for the morning.
Jungkook decided to lie, not saying what the real reason for his disappearance was.
"I got bored, so I decided to go home."
But Jungkook's lie didn't work.
"Come on, do you think I'm stupid? I saw you approach the girl sitting at the bar. Besides, you would never leave without saying goodbye! Admit it, you picked her up, didn't you?"
Jimin held his breath, hoping he was right, but Jungkook just smiled quietly and told the truth this time.
"Yes, Jimin-hyung, I hooked up with the girl!"
Jimin rejoiced for his friend too loudly, forcing Jungkook to turn down the volume.
"Finally... finally this guy had sex. So should I call Grandpa to congratulate him that he has a candidate for daughter-in-law for Jeon family?"
Jungkook rolled his eyes slightly at his friend's violent reaction and, stopping at a traffic light, finally glanced at the dashboard.
"Don't say anything to Grandpa. He doesn't need to know that I was with someone. Besides, nothing will happen with that girl," said Jungkook, his voice taking on a cold tone.
"Why?" Jimin asked briefly.
"Because it was just one night..." Jungkook replied. Jimin didn't answer, letting Jungkook continue talking. "She didn't tell me her name, but she left 10,000 won... can you imagine?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Jimin burst out laughing, which made Jungkook quietly chuckle too at the surrealism of the situation.
"Seriously? You fucked a girl without even knowing her name. Damn, were you so busy that it wasn't an urgent question?" Jimin continued to laugh into the phone.
"I was busy, but I asked her twice. She didn't say," Jungkook justified himself.
"Oh my..." Jimin was surprised, "that's interesting... but 10,000 won? Man, she valued you so highly, I have to congratulate you," he said ironically. Jungkook snorted.
"Thanks," he said and pressed the gas pedal, pulling away.
"Okay, I'll wait for you at the office. I need to hear the whole story with all the juicy details," said Jimin.
"I'll be there in 10 minutes," Jungkook said and hung up, but the smile didn't fade. He knew that Jimin would pester him with questions and he would have to tell him everything. But he didn't mind reliving the events of last night againn.
The song that inspired me to write ❤️🔥 is quite old, but I love it 💜
I’m Learning How To Love Myself @theblackestswan - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
