TROPES/WARNINGS -> biker!jungkook, blue collar!jungkook, ex criminal!jungkook, shy reader, age gap, unprotected sex, oral (male recieving), implied abusive relationship, reader is smol, street crime, implied violence, praise kink, size kink, nicknames (angel, doll, sweetheart)
WORDS -> 10.2k (so fcking long, i took a long time on this)
now playing: touchin' me - chandler leighton ⋆｡𖦹°‧
The voice came from somewhere behind the cigarette haze and neon glare—rough around the edges like gravel under boots, but with a warmth that didn't match the leather-and-knuckles crowd packed into the bar. You turned, slow, half-expecting some grizzled biker with a beer gut and bad intentions. Instead, you found yourself looking up—way up—into the sharpest brown eyes you’d ever seen.
He wasn’t smiling, but his posture was relaxed, one elbow propped on the sticky countertop like he owned the place. Which, judging by the way the other patrons gave him a wide berth, he might as well have. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing ink that coiled around his forearms like a warning in a language you didn’t know how to read.
"You don’t look like you belong here," he said, tipping his chin toward the door. "Place like this eats angels for breakfast."
Your fingers curled tighter around your drink—some watered-down whiskey you’d ordered just to look less out of place—but the condensation on the glass betrayed your nerves. "I'm fine," you lied, voice smaller than you’d intended. His eyebrow arched, and you swore his mouth twitched, like he’d caught you in something far more interesting than a bad poker face.
"Uh-huh." He leaned in just enough that the scent of motor oil and something faintly sweet—vanilla?—drifted over. Close enough that you could see the way his tattoo disappeared under the rolled cuff of his sleeve, the tail end of a snake or maybe a dragon. "Tell you what," he said, thumb brushing the rim of your glass, "you finish that, and I’ll walk you out. Sun’s been down an hour. Streets ain’t kind after dark."
You opened your mouth to argue, but the bartender—a gnarled man with a scar through his eyebrow—snorted and slid a fresh beer toward the stranger without being asked. "Listen to Jungkook, kid. Only idiot out here’s the one who don’t know when to fold."
Jungkook. The name suited him, all hard consonants and edges. You watched him take a slow drag from the bottle, the line of his throat working, and suddenly the room felt ten degrees hotter.
Your fingers twitched against the glass, the ice inside clinking like a nervous heartbeat. Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver, steady as a sniper’s, and you realized with a jolt that he wasn’t just offering—he was waiting. Like he’d already decided how this would go, and the only variable left was how long you’d pretend otherwise. The bartender wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better decades, his one good eye flicking between you two like this was the most entertainment he’d had all week.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” you muttered, but the words lacked bite, dissolving into the thrum of bass from the jukebox. Jungkook’s chuckle was low, a rumble you felt more than heard, and he set his beer down with a decisive clink.
“Didn’t offer to babysit.” His thumb tapped the glass near yours, a silent countdown. “Offered to walk. Big difference.” The dragon on his forearm flexed as he shifted, ink rippling under the bar’s sickly yellow light. You wondered absently if it hurt when he got them—if he’d bitten his lip like you did during flu shots, or if he’d laughed in the needle’s face.
The whiskey was terrible, but you downed the last of it anyway, if only to give your hands something to do. Jungkook’s mouth curled at the corner, approving, and he nodded toward the door. “C’mon, angel. Let’s get some air.” The nickname shouldn’t have sent a shiver down your spine. It definitely shouldn’t have made your stomach flip.
The night air hit you like a slap—cold and sharp, chasing away the bar’s stale heat. Jungkook stepped out behind you, his presence at your back both unsettling and inexplicably reassuring. The door swung shut with a thud, muffling the bar’s raucous noise into a distant hum. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting uneven pools of yellow onto the cracked pavement. Somewhere down the block, a motorcycle engine growled to life, then faded into the darkness.
“Where’s your ride?” Jungkook asked, nodding toward the mostly empty parking lot. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to block the wind. You hesitated, suddenly aware of how exposed you were out here—no car, no plan, just the lingering burn of cheap whiskey in your throat and a stranger who smelled like trouble and vanilla.
“Didn’t drive,” you admitted. “Walked.”
Jungkook’s expression darkened, just for a second. “From where?”
"Couple blocks over," you said, jerking your chin toward the dimly lit street beyond the parking lot. "Cheap motel with a flickering sign." The admission tasted like defeat, and you hated how small your voice sounded—like some lost kid instead of the grown woman who’d sworn she could handle herself.
Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "That shithole by the old laundromat?" He shook his head, leather creaking as he shifted his weight. "Christ, angel. Place’s got more roaches than the city dump." The way he said it—like he knew exactly which peeling wallpaper you’d been staring at for the past three nights—made your cheeks burn.
You crossed your arms, suddenly defensive. "It’s temporary."
"Yeah? How temporary?" His gaze dropped to your shoes—scuffed sneakers that had seen better days—then back up to your face, slow, deliberate. Like he was adding up numbers in his head and didn’t like the sum. "You got someone waiting for you there?"
The question hung between you like a dare, and for a second, you considered lying. But Jungkook’s eyes—sharp as broken glass—seemed to see right through you. "No," you admitted, the word barely louder than the distant hum of traffic. "Just me."
Something flickered in his expression—too fast to name—before he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The stubble there made a rough sound against his palm. "Motel’s a bad idea," he said, like it was a fact, not an opinion. "Landlord’s got a habit of ‘forgetting’ to lock doors. Especially for pretty girls traveling light."
Your stomach lurched. You’d known that. Had shoved a chair under the doorknob every night and slept with your keys between your knuckles like some DIY weapon. But hearing it out loud, in that gravel-cut voice, made it real in a way you hadn’t let it be before. "I can handle myself," you muttered, but the protest sounded hollow even to you.
Jungkook’s mouth twitched. "Yeah? That why you’re shaking?" You hadn’t even noticed, but your hands were trembling—slightly, just at the fingertips—and the realization burned like shame. Before you could snap back, he reached out, slow, giving you every chance to duck away. His thumb brushed the back of your hand, just once, warm and calloused. "Cold," he said, like he was offering you an out. "Let’s get you somewhere that ain’t got bedbugs."
His fingers closed around yours, not tight enough to trap, but firm enough that you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t felt it. The callouses on his palm rasped against your skin—rough in a way that sent an unexpected spark up your wrist. "You're not taking me home," you said, more to remind yourself than him. The words came out breathier than you’d intended, like your lungs had forgotten how air worked.
Jungkook snorted, steering you toward a parked motorcycle at the edge of the lot. "Didn’t offer that either, doll." The bike was all matte black and chrome, gleaming under the flickering streetlight like something half-tamed. He grabbed a spare helmet off the back—scuffed red, with a peeling sticker you couldn’t read—and held it out. "Got a couch at the shop. Springs’ll fuck your back worse than that motel mattress, but at least the locks work."
You hesitated, fingers hovering over the helmet. Common sense screamed that this was how people ended up in ditches, but the way Jungkook watched you—patient, like he had all night—made it hard to believe he’d bother luring you somewhere just to hurt you. Hurt took effort, and this man moved like every action was calculated to waste as little energy as possible. "What shop?" you asked, stalling.
"Auto repair. Two blocks north." He tilted his head, studying you. "You can call someone if you want. Or I can drop you at a bus stop." The offer was casual, but his fingers tapped once against the helmet—impatient, maybe, or just restless.
The helmet felt heavier than it should have, the weight of the decision settling into your palms. Jungkook didn’t rush you, just leaned against the bike, one boot propped on the kickstand like he had all the time in the world. His patience was almost worse than pressure—it made you feel like you were the one holding things up, like the night was waiting on you to stop being stupid.
"Bus stop’s fine," you said finally, because it was the sensible thing, the thing you’d tell a friend to do. But the words tasted like ash, and Jungkook’s smirk said he knew it.
"Uh-huh." He pushed off the bike, plucking the helmet from your grip before you could change your mind. "Bus left twenty minutes ago, angel. Next one’s at dawn." His fingers brushed yours as he strapped the helmet onto your head, adjusting the fit with a precision that suggested he’d done this before. The padding smelled like leather and something faintly citrus—clean, unlike the bar’s sticky air. "You wanna stand out here all night pretending you got options, be my guest. But that motel’s gonna smell worse the longer you wait."
The buckle clicked under your chin, snug enough to pinch. You opened your mouth to argue, but Jungkook was already swinging a leg over the bike, the engine growling to life beneath him like a living thing. He jerked his head toward the space behind him. "Up, doll. Unless you’re scared."
The helmet muffled your scoff, but Jungkook’s smirk widened like he’d heard it anyway. Scared. The word prickled under your skin—too close to the truth, too easy a taunt. You hesitated a second longer, just to prove you could, then swung your leg over the bike with more bravado than grace. The seat was warm where his body had been, the leather creaking under your weight. Jungkook glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Hold on tight, angel. I don’t do slow.”
You barely had time to grip his waist before the bike lurched forward, the sudden acceleration pressing you flush against his back. The heat of him seeped through his jacket, solid and unyielding, and you caught another whiff of that vanilla-and-motor-oil scent as the wind whipped past your ears. The streets blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, the bike weaving through traffic with a recklessness that should’ve terrified you—but Jungkook’s hands were steady on the handlebars, his movements precise, like every turn was mapped behind his eyelids.
The shop appeared sooner than expected, a squat brick building wedged between a pawnshop and a boarded-up diner. A flickering sign above the roll-up door read Golden Hands Auto in peeling gold letters. Jungkook killed the engine with a twist of his wrist, and the sudden silence rang in your ears. You peeled yourself off his back, your thighs trembling—whether from adrenaline or the vibration of the bike, you couldn’t tell.
Jungkook dismounted in one smooth motion, plucking the helmet off your head before you could fumble with the strap. “C’mon,” he said, jerking his chin toward a side door. The key scraped in the lock, loud in the quiet street. Inside, the shop smelled like grease and old coffee, the air thick with the kind of warmth that clung to places where engines ran for hours. A workbench littered with tools ran along one wall, a sagging couch shoved against the other.
The couch groaned when you sat down, springs digging into your thighs through the thin upholstery. Jungkook flicked on a desk lamp—its orange glow cutting through the dimness—and tossed a folded blanket at you without looking. It smelled faintly of detergent and something earthy, like the forest after rain. “Make yourself at home,” he said, already shrugging out of his jacket. The motion pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining over muscles that hadn’t come from gym reps.
You watched him move—efficient, unhurried—as he filled a dented kettle at a sink in the corner. The water sputtered from the faucet, loud in the quiet. “You live here?” you asked, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. The question sounded absurd the moment it left your mouth. Of course he didn’t. The place was half workshop, half storage closet.
Jungkook snorted, setting the kettle on a hotplate. “Nah. Got an apartment upstairs.” He nodded toward a door you hadn’t noticed, half-hidden behind a tool rack. “Shop’s mine, though.” The pride in his voice was subtle but unmistakable, like the gleam on the bike’s chrome.
The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden. Jungkook poured steaming water into two mugs—one chipped, the other with a faded superhero logo—and handed you the intact one. The tea inside was dark, bitter when you sipped, but warmth spread through your chest anyway. “So,” he said, leaning against the workbench with his own mug, “you gonna tell me why you were drinking alone in a biker bar, or am I supposed to guess?”
The mug burned your fingertips, but you clung to it anyway—something solid to ground you while Jungkook’s question hung in the air like a dare. You could lie. Invent some rebellious phase, a bad breakup, a dare from a friend. But his gaze was steady, patient in a way that made fabrications wither before they reached your tongue. "Needed to be somewhere loud," you admitted, tracing the rim of the mug with your thumb. "Somewhere that didn’t feel like four peeling walls and a broken AC unit."
Jungkook hummed, sipping his tea like he’d expected that answer. The steam curled around his lips before he spoke again. "And the whiskey?"
"Liquid courage," you muttered, the words bitter as the tea. "Thought if I looked like I belonged, I wouldn’t feel so…" You trailed off, suddenly aware of how pathetic it sounded—playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Jungkook’s chuckle was low, more vibration than sound. "Sweetheart, you could’ve worn head-to-toe leather and still stuck out like a virgin at a gangbang." The crudeness should’ve made you bristle, but the way he said it—fond, almost teasing—took the sting out. He set his mug down with a clink, elbows propped on the workbench behind him. The pose stretched his shirt across his chest, the fabric pulling taut over the swell of his pecs. "So who’s got you running to motels and biker bars?"
The question landed like a punch to the solar plexus—direct, unexpected, forcing air from your lungs in a rush. Your fingers tightened around the mug, the ceramic almost too hot now, but the pain grounded you. Jungkook waited, his gaze unwavering, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to see if you’d lie.
"Ex," you said finally, the word sharp and small. "Not—not recent." A half-truth. The breakup was months ago, but the bruises—the ones that didn’t fade—still ached under your skin. You glanced at Jungkook’s hands, the knuckles scarred and calloused, and wondered if he’d ever hit someone who didn’t hit back first.
Jungkook’s expression darkened, a storm passing behind his eyes. He pushed off the workbench, the movement deliberate, and crouched in front of you, close enough that his knees brushed yours. The proximity should’ve set off alarm bells, but his hands—resting loosely on his thighs—were palms-up, open. "He know you’re here?"
The question was soft, but the implication wasn’t. Your throat tightened. "No. Left town." Another lie. You’d taken the first bus out with nothing but a duffel bag and the cash you’d scraped together, but you’d checked over your shoulder every block.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened, the muscle flexing under the scruff of his stubble. He didn’t call you out on the lie, just nodded once, slow, like he was filing the information away somewhere dark and dangerous. “Good,” he said, voice rough. His thumb brushed the edge of your knee—just a graze, but the contact sent a jolt up your thigh. “Means he’s smart.”
The couch creaked as you shifted, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was—close enough that you could count the faint scars along his collarbone where his shirt gaped open. The shop’s dim lighting painted shadows under his eyes, sharpening the angles of his face until he looked more like a warning than a man.
“You hungry?” he asked abruptly, pushing to his feet before you could answer. The sudden distance left you oddly unmoored, like you’d been leaning into a wind that vanished. Jungkook rummaged in a mini-fridge by the workbench, the hum of it drowning out the silence. “Got leftovers,” he said, tossing a plastic-wrapped container onto the counter. “Diner down the street makes decent pancakes.”
The mention of food twisted your stomach—you hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s gas station sandwich—but you hesitated. “You don’t have to—”
“—feed me,” you finished lamely, watching as Jungkook pried the lid off the container with a practiced flick of his wrist. The pancakes inside were slightly congealed, the syrup crystallized at the edges, but your stomach growled treacherously.
Jungkook shot you a look that said he’d heard it. “Yeah, well,” he said, shoving the container into a microwave that looked like it had survived a war. “You’re skin and bones, doll. Can’t have you passing out on my couch.” The microwave whirred to life, its dim light casting his profile in a sickly yellow glow. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and you caught the way his gaze flicked to your wrists—too thin, the veins too prominent—before darting away.
The microwave beeped, startlingly loud in the quiet shop. Jungkook tossed a fork at you without warning; you caught it by sheer reflex, the metal cold against your palm. “Eat,” he ordered, nudging the reheated pancakes toward you. They smelled like butter and cheap maple syrup, and suddenly you were ravenous.
You took a bite, the sweetness overwhelming after days of gas station pretzels and vending machine crackers. Jungkook watched, silent, as you devoured half the stack before coming up for air. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between amused and pissed off—but his voice was softer than you expected when he spoke. “How long since you ate a real meal?”
The fork scraped against the plastic container louder than you meant it to. You stalled, chewing slowly just to avoid answering. Jungkook didn’t rush you, just watched with that unnerving patience, like he’d wait all night if he had to.
"Couple days," you muttered finally, syrup sticking to your lips. The admission tasted worse than the lie.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He pushed off the counter abruptly, snagging a rag from the workbench to wipe grease off his hands—though they looked clean enough. The motion was too sharp, like he needed to do something with the tension coiling in his shoulders. "Motel have a fridge?"
You shook your head, staring at the half-eaten pancakes suddenly gone leaden in your stomach. The silence stretched, thick with everything you weren’t saying—the dwindling cash, the way you’d started skipping meals to stretch it further.
The rag hit the workbench with a dull thwack. Jungkook exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—like he was counting backward from ten. “Right,” he said, and that single word carried more exhaustion than anger. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping against his palm. “Finish eating.”
The command brooked no argument, but his tone lacked its usual edge. You picked at the remaining pancakes, syrup congealing at the edges of the container. Jungkook moved to a cluttered desk in the corner, yanking open a drawer with more force than necessary. The sound of rummaging—metal clinking, papers rustling—filled the shop’s heavy silence. When he straightened, he held a key pinched between his fingers, its teeth glinting under the lamplight.
“Upstairs,” he said, tossing it toward you. You fumbled the catch; the key landed in your lap with a cold weight. “Door’s second on the left. Shower works. Towels in the closet.” He paused, jaw working like he was chewing over his next words. “Fridge is stocked.”
You stared at the key, its grooves biting into your palm. The offer hovered between you, unspoken but unmistakable: Stay. Your throat tightened. “I can’t—”
"—afford rent," you finished, the words scraping your throat raw. The key burned in your palm like a guilty secret. Jungkook snorted, kicking the drawer shut with his boot.
"Didn't ask for rent, angel." He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his biceps, the fabric straining at the seams. "Place is paid for. You'd be doing me a favor—keeps the squatters out."
The lie was so transparent it almost hurt. You turned the key over in your fingers, the metal warmed by your grip. "Why?"
Jungkook stilled. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hum of the fridge and the distant groan of pipes overhead. Then he pushed off the desk, crossing the space between you in three strides. His hand closed over yours, callouses catching on your knuckles as he folded your fingers around the key.
The warmth of his hand lingered even after he let go, the metal key pressed between your fingers like a promise you weren't sure you deserved. Jungkook didn’t step back, his boots planted wide enough that his knees bracketed yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
"Because I don’t like the way you flinch," he said finally, voice low, like the words were dragged out of him. His thumb brushed your wrist—just above the bruise you’d tried to hide under your sleeve—and the touch burned hotter than shame. "And because I’ve slept on that couch. Springs’ll fuck you up worse than whatever you’re running from."
You swallowed hard, the key’s teeth digging into your palm. The honesty in his voice hurt more than pity ever could. "I don’t—" Your voice cracked. You tried again. "I don’t know how to pay you back."
Jungkook’s mouth curled, something dark and amused flashing in his eyes. "Who said anything about paying?" He reached past you, snagging the half-empty mug of tea off the couch arm. His forearm brushed your shoulder, the contact fleeting but electric. "Consider it a favor between strays."
The key felt heavier in your palm than it should have. Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver, steady as the hum of the fridge in the corner. You opened your mouth—to protest, to thank him, to ask what the hell he meant by strays—but he was already turning away, tossing the empty mug into the sink with a clatter.
“Shop opens at seven,” he said, shrugging his jacket back on with a single practiced motion. The leather creaked as he adjusted the collar, the sound oddly intimate in the quiet. “Don’t sleep through the noise.” He nodded toward the side door, the one he’d unlocked minutes ago. “Upstairs’s through there. Lock’s stiff—jiggle the handle.”
You stared at the key, then at his back as he moved toward the roll-up door. “Wait—you’re leaving?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, too raw at the edges.
Jungkook paused, half-turned, his profile sharp under the flickering shop light. “Got a bike to rebuild,” he said, like that explained everything. His boot scuffed the concrete as he shifted his weight. “You want a bedtime story too, angel?”
The helmet hit the couch with a dull thud when you chucked it at him. Jungkook caught it one-handed without looking, his smirk widening as the foam padding bounced against his palm. "Cute," he drawled, tossing it onto the workbench. The metal clattered against wrenches, the sound echoing in the shop's cavernous silence.
You stood too fast—the couch springs protesting—and instantly regretted it when the room tilted. Jungkook's hand shot out, steadying you by the elbow before you could faceplant into the tool rack. His grip was firm, calloused fingers pressing just above the bruise your ex had left three weeks ago. You froze.
Jungkook didn't. He let go like you'd burned him, stepping back with a roughness that didn't match the careful way he'd touched you. "Watch your step, doll." His voice was gruff, but his gaze dropped to your wrist—to the yellowing fingerprint-sized marks peeking from under your sleeve—before flicking away.
The side door groaned when you shoved it open, the rusted hinges screaming like a dying animal. The stairwell beyond was narrow, the steps uneven underfoot, the air thick with the scent of motor oil and something faintly herbal—like the tea he'd made you. Jungkook's shadow stretched long behind you, his presence at your back both unsettling and inexplicably steadying.
The key turned with a stubborn grind, the lock protesting until you jiggled the handle exactly as Jungkook had instructed. The apartment smelled like cedar and engine grease—lived-in, masculine. A single lamp cast amber light over a threadbare couch and a coffee table littered with motorcycle magazines. The fridge hummed in the corner, its door plastered with takeout menus and a yellowed photo of a younger Jungkook standing beside an older man, both grinning in front of a car with its hood propped open.
You toed off your shoes by the door, the floorboards creaking underfoot. The shower ran hot, thank god, and you stood under the spray until your skin pruned, washing away the bar’s sticky residue. His soap was unscented, utilitarian, but the towel you wrapped yourself in carried his faint vanilla-and-leather scent. It shouldn’t have made your stomach flutter.
The bedroom was sparse—just a dresser and a mattress without a frame, its sheets pulled tight as a drum. You hesitated before sliding under the covers, hyperaware of the way the fabric smelled like him. Sleep came in fitful bursts, punctuated by the distant rumble of engines and the occasional clang from the shop below.
At dawn, the roar of a hydraulic lift jerked you awake. Sunlight sliced through gaps in the blinds, painting stripes across the floor. You found a note taped to the fridge in messy block letters: EAT. DON’T TOUCH THE TOOLS. The fridge was indeed stocked—eggs, fruit, a six-pack of beer. You fried two eggs, the yolks bright as danger signs.
The eggs tasted like heaven and guilt in equal measure. You scraped the last of the yolk with your fork when the shop door buzzed open below—a deep mechanical groan followed by the familiar rumble of Jungkook’s voice, too muffled to make out words. The floor vibrated faintly under your bare feet, the rhythm of tools clinking and occasional laughter threading up through the boards. You washed your plate slowly, deliberately, listening to the cadence of his movements like it was a language you were trying to learn.
A sudden burst of laughter—deeper than Jungkook’s—made you jump. The sponge slipped from your fingers, hitting the sink with a wet slap. You hadn’t realized the shop had other employees. The thought of strangers down there, joking with Jungkook like this was any other Tuesday, made your skin prickle. You wiped your hands on the towel—his towel—and eyed the stairwell door. It stood slightly ajar, just as you’d left it.
The decision to go downstairs wasn’t a decision at all; your feet carried you before your brain could object. The steps creaked under your weight, each groan louder than the last, announcing your descent like a herald. The shop’s fluorescent lights glared brighter than you remembered, bleaching the concrete floor and the two figures bent over a motorcycle in the center bay.
Jungkook straightened first, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, tattoos flexing as he motioned to the older man beside him—gray at the temples, built like a retired boxer. “Jimin, this is—” He paused, just for a heartbeat, and you realized he didn’t know your name.
"Y/N," you supplied quickly, stepping off the last stair. The concrete was cold under your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to your toes, then flicked back up with an unreadable expression—somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
Jimin whistled low, wiping his hands on an already-grimy rag. "Didn’t know you were keeping strays upstairs, Kook." His grin was sharp, but his eyes were kind as they flicked between you and Jungkook. "Cute ones, at that."
Jungkook chucked a wrench at him without looking. Jimin caught it with a laugh, the metal clanging against his palm. "Don’t scare her off," Jungkook muttered, tossing the rag onto the workbench. "She’s skittish enough as it is."
You bristled, crossing your arms. "I’m not skittish."
Jimin grinned, tossing the wrench back to Jungkook with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Sure you're not, sweetheart." The nickname rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, but his gaze—sharp beneath the casual charm—lingered on your crossed arms, the way your fingers dug into your sleeves. Jungkook caught the wrench one-handed, his knuckles whitening around the handle for half a second before he set it down with deliberate calm.
The shop’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows under the bike’s raised chassis. Jungkook wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving dark streaks across the denim. "Jimin’s the reason the shop doesn’t burn down," he said, jerking his chin toward the older man. "Also why we’ve got a swear jar."
Jimin snorted, leaning against the workbench. "Like you’ve ever paid into it." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the lines there deeper than they should’ve been for a man his age. You caught the way his gaze flicked to Jungkook—brief, assessing—before settling back on you. "So, Y/N. You sticking around, or just passing through?"
The question hung in the air like exhaust fumes. You opened your mouth—to say what, you weren’t sure—but Jungkook cut in before you could answer. "She’s staying." The words were flat, final, leaving no room for argument. Jimin’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, but he didn’t comment, just nodded and reached for a coffee mug perched precariously on a stack of invoices.
The coffee mug hit the workbench with a sharp clack, breaking the silence that had settled between the three of you. Jimin’s smirk was knowing as he took a slow sip, his eyes flicking between you and Jungkook like he was watching a game of chess unfold. "Staying, huh?" he mused, setting the mug down with deliberate care. "That so, Y/N?"
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how thin your borrowed t-shirt felt against your skin—how Jungkook’s gaze lingered on the way the fabric dipped at your collarbone before he looked away, jaw tight. "Yeah," you said, quieter than you meant to. "If that’s okay."
Jimin chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, it’s more than okay, sweetheart." He nudged Jungkook’s shoulder with his own, grinning when Jungkook didn’t react beyond a faint twitch of his brow. "Our boy here doesn’t bring just anyone upstairs."
Jungkook’s knuckles went white around the wrench he’d picked up again. "Shut up, Jimin."
The wrench clattered onto the workbench with a sound like a gunshot. Jungkook’s shoulders were taut under his grease-streaked shirt, the fabric clinging to the sweat at the small of his back. Jimin’s grin widened—sharp as a blade—as he leaned in to whisper something that made Jungkook’s ears flush crimson. You pretended not to notice, focusing instead on the way your toes curled against the cold concrete.
"Need help with the Kawasaki," Jungkook muttered, jerking his chin toward a bike in the corner—its engine exposed like an open wound. Jimin saluted, winking at you over his coffee mug before sauntering off. The shop’s fluorescent lights buzzed louder in the sudden silence, casting Jungkook’s shadow long across the floor between you.
He didn’t look at you when he spoke. "You sleep okay?" The question was gruff, like he’d practiced it in his head too many times.
You nodded, suddenly hyperaware of his scent on the borrowed t-shirt—motor oil and something faintly sweet, like vanilla sunk deep into his skin. "Better than the motel."
The silence stretched between you—thick with unsaid things—until Jungkook cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the bike. "Hand me that torque wrench." His voice was rougher than usual, like he'd been chewing on gravel. You blinked, glancing at the tool rack behind you where a dozen identical-looking wrenches hung in neat rows.
Jungkook snorted when your fingers hovered uncertainly over the tools. "Silver one," he said, not looking up from the engine he was elbow-deep in. "Twelve millimeter." You grabbed it by the handle, the metal cool against your palm, and crossed the shop floor. The concrete was gritty under your bare feet, tiny shards of metal catching the light like discarded scales.
When you held the wrench out, Jungkook didn't take it. Instead, he straightened—slowly, deliberately—until you were close enough to see the sweat beading along his hairline, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Closer," he murmured, voice dropping to something low and rough that skated down your spine.
You took a half-step forward, the wrench between you like an offering. Jungkook's calloused fingers closed over yours—not taking the tool, just holding your hand there, his thumb brushing your knuckles in a way that felt anything but accidental. The shop's overhead lights buzzed like angry hornets, casting his face in sharp relief—the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he concentrated.
The wrench slipped from your fingers with a clatter, metal ringing against concrete as Jungkook’s grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your pulse stutter. His thumb traced the delicate bones of your wrist, rough skin catching on yours, and you realized he wasn’t looking at the tool at all. His gaze burned a path from your parted lips to the rapid flutter of your pulse, lingering where the borrowed t-shirt gaped at your collarbone.
“Jungkook—” His name came out breathless, barely audible over the hum of the shop’s fluorescent lights.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before releasing your hand. The sudden absence of his touch left you oddly unmoored. “You’re in my light, doll,” he said, voice rougher than the engine grease staining his knuckles.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air between you crackled with something unsaid, something taut as a wire about to snap. Jungkook’s jaw flexed, his nostrils flaring as he dragged his gaze back up to yours. The wrench lay forgotten at your feet.
The wrench lay forgotten at your feet, but neither of you moved to pick it up. Jungkook’s gaze was heavy, dark with something unreadable—something that made your breath hitch when he stepped closer, the toe of his boot nudging the tool aside with a careless scrape. The shop’s fluorescent lights buzzed louder overhead, or maybe that was just the blood rushing in your ears.
"You’re still in my light," he murmured, but his hands were already lifting, calloused fingers brushing your hips like he was testing the weight of you. His touch burned through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt, branding your skin even as you swayed into him.
Jimin’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Kawasaki’s leaking oil, boss."
Jungkook didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. His thumbs dug into the hollows of your hips, holding you steady as he glanced over his shoulder. "Fix it," he said, voice rough as gravel.
Jimin lingered by the Kawasaki, wiping his hands on a rag with exaggerated slowness, his smirk widening when Jungkook’s grip tightened on your hips. "Might need your expertise," he drawled, tossing the rag onto a workbench. The fluorescent lights caught the mischief in his eyes as he nodded toward the oil spill. "Unless you’re busy."
Jungkook’s exhale was sharp, his breath warm against your temple. For a heartbeat, his fingers flexed—like he was debating whether to let go or pull you closer—before he stepped back, the space between you suddenly cold. "Stay," he muttered, the word rough as his knuckles brushed your wrist. Then he was striding toward Jimin, his shoulders taut under his grease-streaked shirt.
You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush, your fingers trembling where they clutched the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. The shop smelled like motor oil and sweat, the scent clinging to the fabric as you inhaled shakily. Across the bay, Jungkook crouched beside the bike, his biceps straining as he tightened a bolt with quick, efficient twists. Jimin said something low and teasing—you caught the tail end of it, something about distractions—and Jungkook’s response was a grunt and a middle finger.
The wrench lay where it had fallen, glinting under the shop lights. You bent to pick it up, the metal cool against your palm, and hesitated. Jungkook’s gaze flicked to you—brief, searing—before returning to the bike. His jaw was set, the muscle there jumping as he worked. You traced the wrench’s grooves with your thumb, the ridges biting into your skin, and wondered how his callouses would feel dragging over your thighs.
The wrench clattered onto the workbench with a sharp metallic ring when Jungkook tossed it aside. His hands—grease-streaked and scarred—hovered over the bike’s engine like he was contemplating violence, but his gaze when it flicked to you was anything but angry. It was hungry. The kind of look that made your toes curl against the cold concrete, your borrowed shirt suddenly too thin against your skin.
Jimin whistled low from across the shop, tossing a rag at Jungkook’s head with practiced aim. “Quit eye-fucking the strays and help me with this gasket,” he drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans. The smirk he shot you was all teeth. “Unless you’re busy.”
Jungkook caught the rag without looking, his fingers curling tight around the fabric before he chucked it back. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it—just a rough edge that sent a shiver down your spine. His boots scuffed against the concrete as he turned, his broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent lights overhead. “Go upstairs,” he said, voice dropping to something low and private. “I’ll be there when I’m done.”
It wasn’t a request. The command curled around you like smoke, thick and heady, and you found yourself nodding before your brain caught up. Jungkook’s mouth quirked at the corner—just a hint of a smile—before he turned back to the bike, his hands already busy with the engine. You hesitated, your fingers twitching at your sides, before Jimin’s chuckle snapped you out of it.
The stairs groaned under your feet, each creak louder than the last as you climbed back to Jungkook’s apartment. The air smelled like him—oil and something faintly sweet clinging to the wooden banister. You hesitated at the top step, your fingers brushing the doorframe where the paint had chipped away from years of careless shoulders bumping against it.
Inside, the apartment hummed with quiet. The fridge’s motor kicked on with a familiar rattle as you padded across the floorboards, still barefoot. Jungkook’s bedroom door stood ajar, the sheets rumpled from your restless sleep. You hesitated before stepping inside, your fingers trailing over the dresser where a spare set of keys and a half-empty bottle of cologne sat. The scent of it—spice and leather—made your stomach twist.
Downstairs, the shop’s hydraulic lift whined, followed by the distant thud of a toolbox hitting concrete. You could picture Jungkook’s hands—grease-streaked and sure—twisting a wrench with that same focused intensity he’d turned on you. The memory of his thumbs pressing into your hips sent a shiver down your spine.
You turned toward the shower instead, twisting the faucet until the water ran scalding. Steam fogged the mirror within seconds, obscuring your reflection as you peeled off Jungkook’s borrowed shirt. The fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat and something else—something that smelled unmistakably like him. You pressed it to your face, inhaling deeply before letting it fall to the tile with a wet slap.
The water was still running when the bathroom door creaked open. Steam billowed out in thick curls, obscuring everything except the silhouette of Jungkook's broad shoulders filling the doorway. His boots were off—bare feet silent on the tile—but his shirt was still streaked with grease, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows like he'd come straight from the shop floor.
You didn't turn around. Couldn't. His reflection in the fogged-up mirror was hazy, distorted by condensation, but you felt his gaze like a physical touch trailing down the curve of your spine. The shower's spray drowned out everything except the hammering of your pulse.
"You left the door unlocked," Jungkook said, voice rough as gravel. He didn't move closer, but his fingers flexed at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach out. The damp air clung to his forearms, highlighting every vein and scar.
You swallowed, watching his reflection blur further as more steam rose between you. "Didn't think you'd be up so soon."
The steam curled between you in slow, heavy tendrils, thickening the air until Jungkook’s reflection dissolved into nothing but a dark silhouette against the bathroom door. His voice, when it came again, was closer—low and rough, barely audible over the shower’s spray. "Told you I’d be here when I was done."
You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The heat of the water pricked your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips. The mirror wept condensation, erasing you both in slow, wet streaks.
A calloused hand touched the small of your back—just the barest brush of fingertips—and you jerked like you’d been shocked. Jungkook didn’t pull away. His palm settled fully against your spine, the roughness of his skin a stark contrast to the slick heat of the shower. "Still skittish," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His thumb swept a slow arc over the knobs of your vertebrae, pressing just hard enough to make your breath hitch.
The shower curtain rasped aside, the rings screeching against the rod. Jungkook stepped into the tub behind you, his boots—no, bare feet, you realized—planted on either side of yours. The water hit his chest with a dull slap, soaking through his shirt in seconds. The fabric went translucent, clinging to the hard planes of his stomach, the flex of his pecs as he reached past you to adjust the faucet.
The water scalded your shoulders when Jungkook nudged the faucet hotter—deliberate, testing—his knuckles brushing your hip as he adjusted the spray. Steam curled between your bodies like smoke, thick enough to choke on. His shirt clung transparent to his chest, the fabric straining over his pecs as he reached past you to brace a palm against the tile. Water sluiced down his arms, carrying streaks of grease from the shop into the drain between your feet.
"You're still dirty," you murmured, watching the oil swirl in the water. His laugh was a rough exhale against the nape of your neck, the sound vibrating through your damp skin.
"Not for long." His fingers hooked in the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants—his sweatpants—the elastic snapping against your hips before he peeled them down with a single tug. The fabric hit the tub with a wet slap, forgotten as his palm slid up your thigh. Callouses caught on sensitive skin, his grip firm enough to leave marks. "Turn around."
The command sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t move—just tipped your head back against his shoulder, your hair sticking to his wet shirt. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his free hand splaying across your stomach to pull you flush against him. The hard line of his cock pressed against the small of your back, separated only by soaked denim.
The water hit your skin like a brand—too hot, almost scalding—but Jungkook didn’t ease the faucet back. His fingers flexed against your stomach, pressing you harder into the heat of his body as his other hand slid higher up your thigh. "I said," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "turn around."
You shivered despite the steam, your pulse thrumming where his thumb pressed into the soft flesh below your navel. The command curled around you, thick as the humidity clinging to your skin. When you didn’t move fast enough, Jungkook’s grip tightened—not painful, just insistent—and he spun you himself, your back hitting the tile with a damp thud.
The shower spray hit your collarbones now, water sluicing down your chest in rivulets. Jungkook crowded closer, one hand braced beside your head, the other still tracing possessive lines across your hip. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower—lingering where the water darkened the patch of hair between your thighs. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. His shirt clung transparent to his shoulders, the fabric stretched taut over his biceps.
You reached for the hem—hesitant—but Jungkook caught your wrist, pinning it to the tile beside your head. "Don’t," he said, voice rougher than the engine grease staining his knuckles. His hips canted forward, the denim of his jeans rasping against your bare thighs. "Not yet."
Jungkook's fingers tightened around your wrist, the rough pads of his callouses scraping against your pulse point. The shower's spray pounded against your shoulders, hot enough to redden your skin, but the heat radiating off his body was worse—thick and suffocating where he crowded you against the slick tile. His other hand slid down your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he ground his denim-clad erection against your thigh.
"You gonna be good for me?" His voice was a rough whisper against your temple, the words half-drowned by the water cascading around you. His breath smelled like mint and nicotine, sharp against the steam.
You nodded—too fast, too eager—and Jungkook's lips curled into a smirk. His grip on your hip shifted, fingers spreading you open with a single, firm stroke that made your knees buckle. "Words, doll."
"Yes." The admission came out breathless, barely audible over the shower's roar.
The shower's steam curled around Jungkook's shoulders like smoke as he pinned you against the tile, his breath hot against your temple. His fingers—rough from years of wrenching bolts and handling exhaust pipes—traced a slow, torturous path down your inner thigh, pausing just shy of where you needed him most. "Tell me what you want," he murmured, his voice rougher than the denim grinding against your hip.
You swallowed, your nails scraping against the slick tile as his thumb brushed your clit—once, twice, just enough to make your legs tremble. "You," you breathed, arching into his touch. "Just you."
Jungkook's smirk was dark as he hooked a finger under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. "That all?" His free hand slid higher, callouses catching on sensitive skin as he teased your entrance. "You can do better than that, angel."
The pet name sent a shiver down your spine, your hips bucking against his hand. "Fuck me," you gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Please—"
Jungkook’s breath stuttered against your temple—hot and uneven—before he crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was rough, all teeth and desperation, his fingers tightening around your wrist as he pinned you harder against the tile. The shower spray hit your shoulders in scalding waves, but you barely felt it, not when his tongue was dragging against yours like he was trying to taste every inch of you.
"Say it again," he growled against your lips, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hiking it up over his hip. Denim rasped against your skin, the damp fabric clinging to his legs as he ground against you. "Say it like you mean it."
"Fuck me," you gasped, arching into him, your nails digging into his shoulders through the soaked fabric of his shirt. "Please, Jungkook—"
The sound of his name punched out of him in a rough groan, his hips jerking forward like he couldn’t help it. His fingers flexed around your thigh, the blunt tips digging into your flesh as he dragged you closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. Steam curled around your bodies, thick enough to choke on, but you could still see the way his pupils blew wide—black swallowing brown—as his gaze dropped to your mouth.
The shower spray hit Jungkook’s shoulders in scalding sheets as he crowded you against the tile, his fingers tightening around your thigh hard enough to leave bruises. Steam fogged the glass until his reflection blurred into nothing but heat and muscle, his breath ragged against your lips. "Say it again," he demanded, voice rough as the denim rasping against your hips.
You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit—rough and fleeting—your back arching off the slick tile. "Fuck me," you begged, the words dripping like the water sluicing down his chest. "Right here—"
Jungkook’s growl vibrated through your sternum as he hooked his fingers in his waistband, shoving the soaked jeans down just enough to free his cock. The head brushed your inner thigh, hot as a brand even through the steam. "Look at you," he muttered, dragging his palm up your stomach to squeeze your breast through the drenched fabric of his shirt. "So fucking pretty when you beg."
The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. Jungkook didn’t ease in—just buried himself to the hilt with a single snap of his hips, his groan lost in the shower’s roar. Your nails scraped down his back, catching on the wet cotton clinging to his shoulders. He didn’t seem to notice, too busy mouthing at your pulse point as he set a punishing pace, the tile biting into your spine with every snap of his hips.
The water sluiced down Jungkook’s back in rivulets, tracing the ridges of his spine as he pinned you harder against the tile. His thrusts were relentless—deep enough to steal your breath, rough enough to make your toes curl against the porcelain. Steam fogged the shower walls until all you could see was the flex of his shoulders, the way his biceps strained with every snap of his hips.
"You take me so good," he rasped against your throat, his teeth scraping your pulse point. His hands slid down to grip your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist. The new angle dragged a broken noise from your lips, your nails biting into his shoulders through the soaked fabric of his shirt. Jungkook growled—low and approving—as he felt you clench around him. "Fuck, just like that. Squeeze me tighter, angel."
The pet name unraveled something in your chest, your hips canting up to meet his thrusts with a desperation that made him chuckle darkly. His fingers dug into your flesh, blunt and possessive, as he fucked into you with a rhythm that sent water sloshing over the tub’s edge. The shower spray hit your collarbones like a brand, but you barely felt it—not when Jungkook’s mouth was on your neck, sucking bruises into your skin like he was marking his territory.
One of his hands slid between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your clit with unerring precision. The rough pad of his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, his strokes deliberate and firm, perfectly synced with the roll of his hips. Your back arched off the tile, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure coiled tight in your gut. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his thrusts turning uneven as he felt you flutter around him.
The water turned lukewarm before Jungkook’s pace faltered. His hips stuttered against yours, the tile biting into your shoulders as he pressed you deeper into the wall, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your throat. His fingers—still slick from your cunt—dug into your hip hard enough to leave crescent marks as he muttered, "Gonna come," like it was a warning, not a plea.
You arched into him, the shower spray hitting your closed eyelids as you gasped, "Inside—" just as his rhythm fractured completely. Jungkook’s groan was guttural, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he emptied himself into you with three sharp, uneven thrusts that made your toes curl against the porcelain.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the shower’s spray and your mingled panting. Then Jungkook’s hands slid up your sides—slow now, almost reverent—his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the soaked fabric of his shirt. "Fuck," he muttered, lips brushing your collarbone. The word was rough, but his touch was oddly gentle as he traced the red marks his teeth had left on your throat.
Outside the shower, the shop’s hydraulic lift whined—a distant, mechanical groan—and Jungkook’s head snapped up. His gaze flicked to the fogged bathroom door, then back to you, his pupils still blown wide. "Jimin’s downstairs," he said, like you might’ve forgotten. His voice was hoarse, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watched water sluice down your chest.
The shower spray cooled against your flushed skin, but Jungkook’s body heat kept you anchored—his chest rising and falling against yours, his breath uneven where it ghosted over your parted lips. His fingers lingered at your waist, tracing idle patterns through the water beading on your skin, as if memorizing the topography of your hips.
"You’re shaking," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual—wrecked in a way that made your stomach flip.
You weren’t sure if it was from the cold or the aftershocks still rippling through you, but you didn’t get a chance to answer. Jungkook’s palm slid up your spine, pressing you closer until your forehead bumped against his collarbone. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, the fabric translucent where it stretched over his pecs, and you could see the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath the damp material.
Downstairs, the shop’s hydraulic lift groaned again, followed by Jimin’s muffled curse. Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move—just exhaled sharply through his nose before tilting your chin up with two fingers. "You good?"
The bathroom door swung open with a groan, letting in a rush of cooler air that cut through the steam. Jungkook didn’t move—just kept you pinned against the tile, his thumb absently tracing the bruise forming on your hip. Jimin’s voice carried up from the shop floor, sharp with impatience. "Kook! Customer’s here for the Ducati."
Jungkook’s exhale was a warm gust against your temple. "Fuck," he muttered, his fingers flexing against your damp skin like he was debating whether to stay or go. The shower’s spray had cooled to a lukewarm trickle, but his body heat kept you anchored, the scent of his sweat and the shop’s motor oil clinging to his skin despite the water.
"You should go," you murmured, though your fingers curled into the soaked fabric of his shirt, holding him there.
His chuckle was dark, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "That’s not what you said five minutes ago."
The water ran cold before Jungkook finally stepped back, his fingers lingering at your waist like he was reluctant to let go. Steam curled around his shoulders as he reached past you to shut off the faucet, the sudden silence ringing in your ears. His shirt clung to every ridge of muscle, the fabric gone nearly transparent under the spray, and you caught yourself staring at the way it stretched across his pecs when he turned to grab a towel.
"Eyes up here, doll," he murmured, tossing the towel at your chest with a smirk. His voice was still rough, but there was something softer in it now—something that made your stomach flip.
You barely had time to catch the towel before Jungkook was crowding you again, his hands framing your face as he kissed you slow and deep, like he was savoring the taste of you. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with the bruising grip he’d had on your hips moments ago. When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his pupils still blown wide. "Stay put," he muttered, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before stepping out of the shower.
The towel smelled like motor oil and Jungkook—that sharp, metallic bite mixed with something warmer, earthier. You pressed it to your face for a second longer than necessary, breathing him in as water dripped from your hair onto the bathroom tiles. Outside, the shop noises filtered through the steam-fogged door: Jimin’s laugh, the clank of tools, the rumble of an engine coughing to life. Normal sounds. Mundane. Like what had just happened in this shower hadn’t rearranged your entire nervous system.
Jungkook’s abandoned jeans lay in a soggy heap by the sink. You nudged them with your toe, your stomach swooping at the memory of how he’d shoved them down just enough to free himself—how the denim had scraped your thighs raw when he pinned you against the tile. The fabric was still warm from his body heat.
The bathroom mirror was fogged over, but you caught a glimpse of yourself in the sliver of clear glass near the sink. Your lips were swollen, your neck littered with bruises that stood out stark against your skin. Jungkook’s shirt clung to you like a second skin, the white fabric gone sheer under the shower spray. You looked wrecked. Owned.
A sharp rap on the door made you jump. "You alive in there?" Jimin’s voice was muffled but unmistakably amused.
You cleared your throat. "Yeah. Just—finishing up."
Jimin’s laugh was bright, cutting through the steam still clinging to the bathroom. "Take your time. Kook’s downstairs growling at customers like a feral dog. It’s hilarious."
You pressed the towel to your face, inhaling the scent of detergent and Jungkook’s sweat. The shop noises filtered through the door—the clang of a wrench against concrete, Jimin’s teasing drawl, the low rumble of Jungkook’s voice threading through it all like a bassline.
The floor was cold underfoot when you stepped out of the shower. Jungkook had left his hoodie hanging on the back of the door—black, frayed at the cuffs, smelling like motor oil and that same warm, earthy scent that clung to his skin. You pulled it on without thinking, the fabric swallowing you whole.
Downstairs, the Ducati’s engine roared to life. You peered through the bathroom window, the glass streaked with condensation, and caught a glimpse of Jungkook straddling the bike, his bare arms flexing as he revved the throttle. Sunlight caught the ink winding down his forearm—a serpent coiled around a dagger—and for a second, he looked every bit the outlaw his cut claimed him to be.
Then he turned his head, as if sensing your gaze, and smirked.
The customer—a middle-aged man in a too-clean leather jacket—flinched when Jungkook stood, tossing the keys at Jimin instead. "Take it for a spin," he said, already striding toward the shop’s backstairs. "Needs new rear shocks."
Jimin’s grin was wicked. "Sure that’s all that needs testing?"
Jungkook flipped him off without breaking stride. The stairs groaned under his boots, still damp from the shower, his shirt clinging to the ridges of his abs where he hadn’t bothered to dry off properly. Steam curled off his skin as he shouldered the bathroom door open, his gaze zeroing in on you drowning in his hoodie, your hair dripping onto the frayed cuffs.
His thumb brushed a water droplet trailing down your neck. "You’re still here."
It wasn’t a question. His voice had that rough undercurrent again, the one that made your knees weak.
You shrugged, acutely aware of Jimin’s laughter drifting up from the shop floor. "Didn’t say where to stay put."
The corner of Jungkook’s mouth twitched. He stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the tile. His shirt—your shirt now—slid off one shoulder when he reached past you to grab his jeans, his fingers lingering at the dip of your waist. "Smartass."
The word should’ve sounded harsh. It didn’t.
The hoodie sleeves swallowed your hands whole as you tugged them over your fingers, the fabric still warm from Jungkook’s body heat. He watched you with that same unreadable expression—half amused, half something darker—as he yanked on his jeans, the denim clinging to his damp thighs.
"You’re stealing my clothes now?" he murmured, stepping close enough that his bare chest brushed the soaked front of his hoodie where it hung off your frame.
You shrugged, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you must look—dripping wet, drowning in his clothes, smelling like his soap and the shop’s grease. "You told me to stay put. Didn’t specify naked."
Jungkook’s laugh was low, his fingers hooking in the hoodie’s drawstrings to tug you closer. "Keep it," he said, his breath warm against your forehead. "Looks better on you anyway."
a/n: this bar/biker idea is inspired by E85 - by gguksprincess | but its different i swear
requests will be irregular because i sleep like a normal person (unlike him.)
do not copy, repost, or translate without permission.
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