ayuna

𝒢℘ she/her ⭒ 9teen ⭒ jpn-brzl ⭒ obsessed w men that are way 2 old for me ⭒ kpop enthusiast ⭒ future journalist ⭒ entp

♫ kpop, taylor swift, radiohead, wave to earth, ethel cain, lana del rey, the weeknd.

١٥٧٤ . . .ᐟ writing things down to make them feel real ⊹ 2am playlists ⊹ romanticizing everything i do ⊹ jungkooks jawline ⊹ forbidden love trope ⊹ books that hurt a little ⊹ late night conversations that turn deep ⊹ repeating my favourite songs ⊹ the first page of a new book ⊹ long car drives ⊹

part of 𝒪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺, 𝓣𝘸𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

summary – you and jungkook have been fake dating for a while now, but it’s getting harder to tell what’s real and what’s not. after weeks of pretending, everything finally comes to a head when he walks you home. one kiss turns into more, and suddenly all the feelings you’ve been trying to ignore are impossible to hide. by the time morning comes, you know the truth. this was never just pretend. and there’s no going back.

　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ౨ৎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓈒 ◌ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚

you weren’t supposed to be here. not like this. not with your back pressed against the door of your apartment, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. your eyes lock on his, wide and uncertain, like you’re both waiting for someone to call cut, but there’s no director, no cameras, no script.

just you. just jungkook. and the space between you shrinking so fast it feels like the air itself is thickening.

he steps inside behind you, closing the door softly like he’s locking something precious inside. the muffled sounds of the city outside fade away, replaced by the cozy hum of your apartment. the faint tick of the clock, the soft rustle of curtains in the evening breeze, the subtle scent of your favorite candle still lingering in the air.

you don’t move. neither does he. it’s quiet. too quiet. you can hear the soft scrape of his sneakers against the hardwood floor and your own breath, uneven and shallow.

his eyes drop to your lips, and you feel it everywhere. that pull, that heat, the tension you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“jungkook,” you start, but the words catch in your throat. you don’t even know what you want to say anymore.

he closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, hands resting on your waist, fingers warm and steady. his thumb traces gentle circles over your hip bone and your whole body flinches. not from fear, but from the desperate want you’ve been burying.

“we don’t have to,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unspoken. “if you’re not sure.”

but you are sure. so sure it’s like your skin is buzzing with it. the words get stuck, heavy and dangerous on your tongue. so instead, you lean in and kiss him.

his hands clamp around your waist, pulling you impossibly close. your back hits the cool wall, and he groans low into your mouth, raw and hungry. this kiss isn’t gentle or careful. it’s messy and urgent and full of everything you both tried to hide. teeth brush, tongues swirl, and the heat between you spikes, swallowing everything else whole.

your fingers clutch the hem of his shirt, tugging him closer like if you let go, he might disappear. he lets out a shaky breath against your cheek, whispering, “fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

you laugh breathless, wild and free. “you’re the one who kissed me first.”

he smirks, eyes dark and fierce. “you didn’t stop me.”

he kisses you again, deeper, slower now, like he’s memorizing every second. his body presses against yours, warm and grounding, and you feel it in your knees, your spine. the way your hips instinctively grind against him.

his hands roam down your back, slow and reverent, settling on your hips. you roll into him, the soft, strangled sound he makes vibrating low in your chest.

“bed,” you whisper, tugging his hand toward your bedroom.

he doesn’t hesitate.

you stumble onto the mattress, tangled and laughing softly, breathless and raw. his mouth traces a path down your neck, hot and open, hungry for you. when he finds that spot just below your jaw and sucks gently, your hips jerk up without thinking, desperate for more.

“jungkook-” your voice trembles.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his hair is tousled, lips red and swollen, chest rising and falling fast like he’s been running.

“say stop if you need to,” he says, voice steady but serious. “i mean it.”

you nod. “i will.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, savoring you, the way you respond, like this isn’t just a hookup. like it’s never been just fake dating. like it was always meant to end here.

your clothes come off in pieces. his shirt first, then yours, the rest falling away like rules you don’t care about anymore. he takes his time, hands and lips exploring, drinking in every inch of your skin.

his eyes never leave yours, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin shivers under his touch, the way your breath hitches, the soft gasp when his fingers trace your curves.

when he finally touches you where you want him most, you gasp, hips lifting off the bed. his fingers are patient, sure, and he watches your face closely, wanting to remember the way you fall apart for him.

“you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmurs, lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder.

you pull him down by the neck, lips finding his in a hungry kiss. you moan into him as his fingers work inside you, slow and steady.

“need you,” you whisper, dazed. “please.”

he doesn’t tease or make you beg. he just nods, kisses you like a promise, and slides in slow and warm.

you both exhale, breath mingling, like you’ve been holding this in for weeks.

he stays still for a moment, forehead resting against yours, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to lose control.

“you okay?” he whispers.

“yeah,” you breathe. “you?”

he nods, eyes dark and soft. “you feel like a fucking dream.”

he moves slowly at first, wanting to make this last, every push and pull unraveling the tension and doubt you’ve been holding in since this all started.

you grip him tight, fingers tangled in his hair, gasping his name when he hits deeper, harder. the way he holds you. steady and sure, afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. makes everything feel overwhelming and perfect all at once.

when you come, it crashes over you like a wave, and you don’t even realize you’re crying until his lips brush your cheek, tasting salt.

“hey,” he whispers, worried. “you okay?”

you nod, arms tightening around him, still trembling. “i’m just. i don’t know. it’s a lot.”

he kisses you again, softer now, full of everything he can’t say. “i know.”

you feel him relax against you, body shuddering with release, holding on like this is real and not going to disappear with the morning light.

you stay tangled up for a while, neither of you speaking, just breathing each other in. the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but thick and trembling, full of everything you can’t bring yourself to say out loud.

jungkook’s skin is hot against yours, sweat cooling slowly where your chests are pressed together. his fingers keep moving. slow, lazy strokes across your waist, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. like he can’t believe you’re real.

his nose nudges against your temple. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move like he’s about to leave or shift or joke it off. he just stays there, chest rising and falling, grounding you. tethering you to the moment. to him.

your hand rests over his heart. it’s still pounding, not fast exactly, but steady. purposeful. like it’s trying to convince you that this is safe. that he’s not going anywhere.

you don’t know how long you lie like that. time stretches and folds around you, soft and slow and impossibly loud. his breath, his heartbeat, the faint creak of the bedsprings when either of you shifts. it’s all you can hear.

your legs are tangled. your bodies too. the sheets twisted down at your calves, the warmth of his thigh against yours. he smells like skin and salt and something sweet, like your shampoo mixed with his cologne. you think you could live in this second. you think it might kill you.

your chest tightens.

finally, your voice cracks the stillness, soft and broken.

“we can’t go back after this.”

your words land heavy in the air between you. irreversible. real.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink.

then, slowly, his hand curls around the back of your neck. his thumb brushes your jaw as he tilts your face to his. his eyes are wide open. unreadable.

“i don’t want to,” he says quietly. like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

you swallow hard. your throat burns.

you want to ask what this means now. what you mean to him. but the words won’t come. you’re too scared the answer will crack whatever this is wide open.

so instead, you just lean in. and he meets you halfway.

it’s not a desperate kiss this time. it’s not frantic or needy or wild. it’s slow. deep. the kind of kiss that says stay. the kind that lingers even after it’s over.

he pulls you closer, presses your body to his like he wants to feel every inch of you again. your fingers ghost down his spine, nails dragging lightly, and he shivers under your touch.

you think he might kiss you forever if you let him.

and honestly, you might let him.

when he pulls back, your noses brush. his eyes are so soft you almost have to look away.

“you ruined me tonight,” he whispers, almost a laugh in his voice. “completely.”

you huff out a shaky breath. “you ruined me.”

“good.”

he presses another kiss to your cheek. your temple. your shoulder. like you’re his and he doesn’t need to hide it anymore.

your heart aches in your chest. too full and too fragile. because he’s looking at you like this is already more than a game. like it always was.

and god, you hope that’s true.

because if it isn’t. if this was just a heat of the moment thing, if you wake up tomorrow and he’s distant again. you don’t know if you’ll be able to pretend anymore.

you don’t know if you’ll be able to survive going back to just faking it.

so you stay. you stay in his arms. in his bed. in this strange, shimmering space between what you were and what you might be.

he falls asleep before you do.

you listen to the sound of his breathing, steady and slow, your fingers drawing mindless shapes on the bare skin of his chest.

you stare at the ceiling, the streetlight casting soft lines across the ceiling, and try not to think about what comes next.

but it’s too late.

because you already crossed the line.

and you already know you’ll never be able to go back

you wake up to light.

not the soft glow of morning creeping gently through your curtains, but the kind that’s already taken over the room—bold, golden, unignorable. it warms your skin before your eyes even open, and for a second, you forget where you are. forget what last night was.

until you feel the weight of an arm across your waist. warm, heavy, anchoring.

until you shift slightly and hear the soft exhale right behind your ear.

you turn your head. slowly. carefully. like if you move too fast it’ll dissolve into a dream.

but it’s not a dream. it’s jungkook.

his lashes cast soft shadows against his cheeks, his mouth parted just slightly in sleep. one curl falls over his forehead and your hand itches to push it back. his grip on you tightens instinctively like even in sleep he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

you lie there frozen, but not from fear. from the aching tenderness of it all. the vulnerability. the raw quiet of waking up beside someone and not needing to speak.

until he stirs.

his brows twitch slightly, nose scrunching the way it always does when he’s waking up against his will. his fingers flex against your stomach and then curl again, holding you closer. and then his eyes blink open, slowly.

he sees you. and doesn’t flinch.

doesn’t pull away. doesn’t panic.

instead, he smiles. soft and sleepy and real.

“hey,” he whispers, voice rough and low, like it hasn’t been used in hours.

you bite your lip. “hi.”

he shifts onto his elbow, eyes sweeping over you. not in the way he did last night. hungry and burning. but in a way that feels dangerous in its own right. gentle. present. like he’s really seeing you now.

“you didn’t leave,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your side.

you blink at him, surprised. “i live here.”

he grins. “right.”

a pause.

“you didn’t kick me out,” he adds, quieter this time.

your throat tightens.

“i didn’t want to.”

neither of you says what’s echoing between the lines: i wanted you to stay. i wanted you to wake up beside me. i wanted this.

his smile fades, but not in a bad way. just in that serious, grounding kind of way that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “last night…”

“i know.”

“it wasn’t-” he falters, biting the inside of his cheek, then trying again. “i didn’t just want it to happen. i needed it to.”

your breath catches.

“i know,” you say again, because it’s all you can manage.

but he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something.

so you swallow hard. sit up a little, blanket pooling at your waist. “what happens now?”

he sits up too, one knee bent, one arm still draped over your waist like he’s not ready to let go. he doesn’t look away when he says it.

“we stop pretending.”

the words land like a hit to the ribs. not painful. just sudden. sharp. real.

you blink. “you mean…”

“i mean i don’t want to fake date you anymore,” he says, gaze unwavering. “i want to actually date you.”

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. he keeps going.

“i want to take you out. hold your hand in public. not just when we’re playing some stupid game. i want to kiss you because i can, not because it’s part of the deal.”

you’re still frozen, staring at him like your brain is catching up to your heart.

“but only if you want that too,” he finishes. “only if this meant something to you.”

you let out a shaky breath, laugh a little, disbelieving. “jungkook, i… of course it meant something. i wouldn’t have let it happen if it didn’t.”

“then say yes.”

you glance down at your hands, then back at him. and this time, you don’t hesitate.

“yes.”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. then he leans in, presses the gentlest kiss to your lips. one that tastes like morning and honesty and second chances.

“good,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “because you’re mine now. for real.”

you don’t say anything back right away. just wrap your arms around him, fingers sliding into the warm skin of his back.

because you know what he means.

pairing: vacation fling!jimin x reader genre: smut with plot (kinda), vacation fling au, strangers to lovers, light angst, soft romance, language kink tags/warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soft dom, fingering, riding, balcony sex, language kink (portuguese), body worship, dirty talk, thigh grabbing, desperate grinding, praise kink, unprotected sex (be safe irl), intense eye contact, breathy moans, emotional tension.

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꒰ঌ summary : you meet jimin at your cousin’s wedding in rio and things just spiral from there. he’s beautiful, charming, and way too observant. he doesn’t speak portuguese, but he listens to you like every word you say is meant just for him. you start teasing him on purpose. whispering things he can’t understand just to see the way his jaw tightens and his fingers twitch. it’s a slow build. soft looks, hot glances, quiet tension, like something’s about to snap but neither of you says it out loud. until one night, it finally happens. he pulls you into his lap, you say something filthy in his ear, and he breaks. it’s messy. hot. needy. a little sweet. he wants all of you even when he doesn’t know what you’re saying. and afterward, when you’re both lying there sweaty and tangled up, he’s still whispering… what did that mean? what did you call me? and you just smile. you’ll tell him later. or maybe never.

the heat in rio hits you like a kiss, slow and heavy and impossible to ignore. as soon as you step off the plane, it wraps around your skin, sticky and warm, like the city is already pulling you into its rhythm. you wipe your damp hair back from your face and wish you hadn’t worn that stupid jacket on the flight. your skin itches, craving fresh air and sun, not recycled airplane heat.

the taxi winds through the streets, windows rolled down, the noise of the city alive around you. palm trees blur past, brushing the sides of the car, their leaves rustling softly in the humid breeze. the smell of salt and some wild green something, maybe the rainforest, maybe something else fills your nostrils. you lean your head against the window and let the scenery wash over you, the colors brighter and more alive than you expected.

you’re here for your cousin’s wedding. the villa they rented is perched high above the ocean, white walls glowing in the afternoon sun, surrounded by flowering bushes and the faint sound of waves crashing somewhere far below. it smells like fresh paint and jasmine, like summer and beginnings.

you step out of the taxi, the pavement hot beneath your sandals, and immediately your eyes catch him.

he’s standing on the balcony, leaning lazily against the railing, his linen shirt open just enough to catch the light on his collarbone and that gold chain resting there. his hair is tousled like he’s just come in from the beach, sun-kissed and messy in the best way. jimin. the groom’s cousin. the one everyone’s talked about in whispers and smiles.

he’s watching you. not like you’re just another face in the crowd, but like he’s trying to memorize you already.

you catch his gaze and your lips twitch into a smile. you say something to your aunt in portuguese, the words flowing easily from your mouth without thinking, full of teasing warmth.

jimin’s eyes flicker with interest but also confusion. he steps closer, lowering his voice when he asks, “what did you just say?”

you laugh softly, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “you wouldn’t want to know.”

he tries to hide his smile but it breaks through anyway, shy and a little breathless.

you turn and walk away, your heart doing that stupid fluttery thing you hate but secretly like.

you don’t know it yet but this moment is the start of something you’ll never forget.

you barely get a chance to catch your breath before the wedding party kicks into gear. music spills out from every corner of the villa, the beat bouncing off the walls and making your skin tingle in time.

later that evening, you find yourself at the beach bonfire, the sky dark but stars sharp and scattered overhead. the air is cooler now, but the heat between people feels electric.

you spot jimin across the firelight, sitting with a few others but somehow completely apart, like he’s watching the flames but really watching you.

he catches your eye and raises his glass in a small, shy toast. you smile back and walk over, slipping into the circle.

you lean in close and whisper in portuguese, your voice low and slow, “você fala tão bem com os olhos.” you speak so well with your eyes.

he blinks, clearly not understanding the words but loving the way your voice wraps around them. “what did you say?” he asks, his eyes dark with curiosity.

you grin and don’t translate. instead, you lean closer, letting the heat of your breath tickle his ear. “something you don’t want to know.”

he laughs, that soft laugh that makes your chest squeeze tight. the way he looks at you now is different, more open, more… interested.

you can feel the tension building, like electricity waiting to spark.

he reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. your heart stumbles.

“teach me,” he says quietly, “teach me what you’re saying.”

you consider it for a moment, then whisper, “maybe later.”

he smirks, but there’s something in his eyes that says he’s not giving up anytime soon.

and just like that, the game between you starts to play out. slow, teasing, and impossible to stop.

the next few days pass in this strange, quiet rhythm.

you don’t seek jimin out, but he always seems to be where you are. by the pool. near the drinks. waiting for an uber to the beach party at the same time you are. he doesn’t hover, doesn’t push. just… appears. like the universe keeps throwing you into each other’s orbit to see what happens.

every time you speak portuguese, his head turns.

it’s not just the words. it’s your voice. soft, low, like you're saying something intimate even when you're not. sometimes you catch him staring at your mouth. like he’s trying to understand you by watching how you form your syllables.

you’re lounging on the villa steps one afternoon, sunglasses sliding down your nose, sweat curling around your neck. jimin walks by, shirt clinging to his chest, skin golden and damp from the heat.

he pauses. “you look like you’re melting.”

you glance up at him, take a slow sip of your drink. “maybe i am.”

his mouth twitches. “what do you say in portuguese when someone looks like that?”

you smile lazily, tilt your head. “when someone looks like what?”

“like… that,” he says, gesturing vaguely at you. “like they’re trying to kill me.”

you hum, pretending to think. then, slowly, you say, “você me olha como se já soubesse como eu gosto de ser tocada.”

he blinks.

you let it hang there.

he leans in a little, voice lower now. “what does that mean?”

you shrug, eyes never leaving his. “you’ll figure it out.”

he looks wrecked for a second. cheeks a little pink, mouth parted just barely.

and then someone calls his name from across the terrace. he hesitates, still looking at you, then finally backs away with a soft laugh, like he knows he’s in trouble and doesn’t mind at all.

later that night, the wedding party spills out into the city. dancing, drinks, way too much laughter echoing down the narrow streets of rio.

you don’t remember exactly how it happens, but somehow you and jimin end up in the back of the same cab, pressed too close together, the air conditioner broken and the music too loud.

you’re not drunk, not really. just floaty. warm. loose in a way that makes you lean into him a little more than you should.

his knee brushes yours. neither of you move.

“where are we going?” you ask, voice soft, eyes on the road.

“back to the villa, i think,” he says. “i lost everyone.”

you nod, barely paying attention. the city lights blur outside, golden and fast, and the heat between your legs has nothing to do with the weather.

his fingers graze yours on the seat between you. not on purpose. maybe.

you turn your head, slow.

“you keep looking at my mouth,” you say.

he swallows. “i know.”

you smile, tilt your head. “why?”

he doesn’t answer right away. then, quietly, like it costs him something: “because i want to hear you say something that’s meant for me.”

you blink, surprised.

then you lean in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you whisper, “tudo que eu digo é pra você.” everything i say is for you.

he exhales hard through his nose, eyes shut, jaw tense.

“jesus christ,” he mutters.

you kiss his neck. just once. just to see.

he turns toward you, fast. his hand finds your thigh, firm. warm. he doesn’t pull you in, just rests it there, like he’s asking.

you give the tiniest nod.

the cab stops at the villa. you don’t remember walking up to your room. you only remember the way he stood behind you in the elevator, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off of him like a second sun.

your hands shake when you unlock the door.

he steps inside like he’s crossing a line he’s been staring at all week.

you don’t say anything.

neither does he.

you just look at each other for one long, burning second.

then you kiss him.

and it’s over.

his lips are soft. a little unsure at first, like he’s still testing the edge of whatever this is. but the second you pull him closer. fingers tugging at the back of his shirt, your body pressed tight to his. he makes this sound, low and breathless, like he’s finally letting go of whatever he’s been holding in. his hands roam your waist, your hips, your back. he doesn’t settle anywhere for long. like he doesn’t know where to start, or maybe like he wants to touch all of you at once.

you drag him backwards toward the open balcony doors, kissing him between steps, stumbling a little because neither of you can stop. the night air is thick and warm as it rushes over your skin, but it doesn’t cool anything. your blood’s still boiling. the moonlight floods in, pale and heavy, painting both of you in silver. you back him into one of the balcony chairs and straddle his lap, your dress sliding up as you settle your weight onto him. he’s already hard beneath you.

he curses under his breath and grips your thighs, looking up at you like you’ve just knocked all the air out of his lungs. “say something,” he whispers, voice shaky, like he needs it.

you lean down, lips brushing his ear, and murmur, “você quer me ouvir gemer?” his breath stutters. his grip tightens. “what… what does that mean?”

you smile, press a kiss to his jaw. “you want to hear me moan?”

he groans, a real, full-body kind of sound. “fuck.”

you rock your hips against him, slow and cruel, grinding down once just to see what he does. his head drops back, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering shut. he looks so pretty like this. flushed, panting, already falling apart and you’ve barely touched him.

you kiss down his neck, soft and slow, and whisper against his skin, “você fica assim só de me ouvir?” he gasps, doesn’t understand, not really, but he nods anyway. his voice is barely a whisper. “i don’t even know what you’re saying but… fuck, keep saying it.”

you hum in approval and guide his hands up your thighs, under your dress. his fingers are warm and a little shaky, sliding over your skin like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. you let him touch, let him get bolder. when he finally reaches your underwear and pushes it to the side, he groans again, fingers slipping into the wet heat waiting for him.

your head drops to his shoulder as you roll your hips into his hand. “isso,” you murmur. “assim.” he starts to get the rhythm, fingers pumping slowly, the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. your whole body tenses with how good it feels, how perfectly desperate he is. his other hand grips your thigh like he’s holding on for balance. “you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers, almost like it hurts. “jesus, what do you do to me…”

you sit up, your breath coming quick, and look at him. he’s wrecked. cheeks flushed, eyes heavy, his cock straining under his pants. he looks like he’d let you do anything to him.

“tão obediente pra mim,” you murmur. so obedient for me.

he whines. actually whines.

“tell me what to do,” he begs. “say it in portuguese. please.”

you smile. slow, dangerous. and lean down until your forehead rests against his. your voice is a whisper. “tira a roupa.”

take off your clothes.

he moves fast, fumbling with the buttons, shrugging off his shirt, then his pants, his boxers. he’s hard and flushed and already twitching against his stomach, leaking at the tip. you don’t look away. don’t hide how much you want him.

you slide off his lap and stand up, pulling your dress over your head in one slow motion. his eyes never leave you. you take your underwear off last, slow enough to torture, and when you step out of it, he looks like he might lose his mind.

“come here,” you say, softer now. he does.

he steps into you like he can’t help it. his hands slide around your waist, holding you bare and close, like he’s still scared you might disappear. you kiss him again, slower this time, deeper. his hands wander over your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch. your stomach. your back. the curve of your hips. he moans into your mouth when your fingers wrap around his cock, slow and easy, like you’re savoring him.

he’s warm and heavy in your hand, already leaking, already pulsing. he drops his head to your shoulder and groans when you stroke him once, twice. you press soft kisses to his temple and whisper, “gosta disso?” – you like that?

he nods, desperate. “yes. fuck, yes.”

you guide him back toward the balcony chair again, but this time you keep him standing. you sink to your knees in front of him, lips brushing over his hipbone as you say, “olha pra mim.” look at me.

he does. dazed. shaky. ruined already and you haven’t even started.

you take him in your mouth slowly, letting the heat of you melt around him. he gasps, one hand flying to your hair but not forcing, just holding, grounding. his thighs tremble. every time your tongue moves he lets out this soft, broken sound like he’s losing the ability to hold back.

you pull off with a soft pop, breath warm on his skin, and say, “você quer gozar assim ou dentro de mim?”

he whimpers. “what, what does that mean?”

you stand up, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “do you want to come like that,” you whisper, “or inside me?”

his hands are on you instantly, pulling you into him, mouth crashing into yours. “inside,” he says, rough and breathless. “please. inside.”

you turn and guide him toward the bedroom without another word. the sheets are cool against your back when he lays you down, but it doesn’t last. not with the way he’s kissing you now. like he’s starving. like every second without your body against his is unbearable.

he lines up at your entrance and pauses, forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching your face. “tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.

you shake your head. “i won’t.”

then he pushes in.

slow, careful, inch by inch until you’re full, stretched around him, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. his mouth falls open like he’s never felt anything like this. like you are something unreal.

he stays still for a second, buried deep inside you, trying to breathe.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “you feel… oh my god.”

you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, legs tightening around his waist.

“move,” you whisper. “go slow.”

he does. every thrust deep and deliberate, like he wants to feel all of it. your nails scrape down his back and he moans. you say his name in portuguese, soft and breathy, and he thrusts harder without meaning to. he says your name in return, like a prayer.

his hands are everywhere. your hips, your thighs, your face. he kisses you through it, messy and open-mouthed. every time you whisper something in portuguese, he moans louder. me fode assim. isso. não para. he doesn’t know what the words mean but his body does.

you feel him start to tremble. he’s close. you are too.

“don’t stop,” you gasp, clinging to him, your voice broken now. “don’t stop, i’m right there-”

he fucks you through it, chasing your high, his name falling from your lips in pieces.

you come first. hard and fast and full-body, your legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry. jimin groans as you clench around him, and within seconds he’s coming too, deep inside you, hips stuttering, body going stiff before collapsing over you.

you stay like that. tangled up, slick with sweat, chest to chest, both of you breathing like you just survived something.

he presses his lips to your shoulder. then your neck. then your cheek. his hand strokes your side, lazy and warm.

“what did you say earlier,” he mumbles, lips barely moving, “on your knees… that one line… what was it?”

you smile, eyes still closed, voice hoarse. “you’ll have to learn portuguese if you really want to know.”

he groans and buries his face in your neck.

part of 𝒪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺, 𝓣𝘸𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

summary - after a kiss on your cheek in the middle of campus, things start to shift between you and jungkook. what was supposed to be a fake relationship feels a little too real, and neither of you knows how to handle it. you both avoid the tough conversations, trying to keep the act going, but the silence only grows heavier. finally, when you walk him home, the walls break down. this is way more than pretending now.

　　 　˳ 　 　౨౿　　⁺　　༄　　　༝　 　 ₊

you knew it was getting out of hand the second he kissed your cheek in the middle of the quad.

not like, a stage kiss. not like, “we’re definitely pretending and this is for the audience” kind of kiss. just casual. instinctive. like he forgot the whole thing was fake.

you were halfway through a sentence about your lit assignment. you’d just made some stupid joke about your professor being allergic to joy, and he laughed, real and full, and then just leaned in and kissed your cheek without thinking. warm, quick, soft. then went back to sipping his iced americano like it meant nothing.

and maybe it didn’t mean anything.

maybe you were the only one whose stomach flipped. maybe he didn’t notice the way your voice caught after or how you had to blink a couple times before you remembered how to talk.

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t. not without making it weird.

so you just pulled your sleeves down over your hands, cleared your throat, and tried to pretend like your face wasn’t on fire.

he didn’t look at you again after that. not really. not until you were walking back to class and he brushed his pinky against yours.

and didn’t pull away.

“you’ve been quiet,” jungkook said later, nudging your knee under the table.

you were both sitting on the grass behind the library, half-eaten sandwiches in your laps and two empty juice boxes between you. the sky was that soft kind of blue that only shows up when you’re supposed to be doing something else.

you blinked at him. “i’m always quiet.”

he gave you that look. the one he only used when he wasn’t buying your bullshit. “not with me.”

you shrugged and took another bite of your sandwich, chewing slowly just to avoid talking.

he waited. didn’t push. just sat there, knee against yours, looking at the clouds like they were more interesting than the fact that you were very obviously spiraling.

after a minute, you sighed and muttered, “you kissed me.”

“...yeah?”

“like. for real.”

he glanced over. “i didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“that’s the problem,” you said, a little sharper than you meant to. “you never think it’s a big deal.”

he sat up straighter. “okay. what’s going on?”

you shook your head. looked anywhere but him. “i don’t know. i think i’m just… confused.”

he was quiet. so quiet. and you hated it. hated that he was letting you talk but not giving you anything back. hated that you were the one catching feelings for something that was literally your idea. this was your fault. you were the one who said no feelings. no real kisses. no anything.

and then he went and kissed your cheek like it meant something. like you meant something.

it wasn’t fair.

“we’re faking it,” you said, trying to sound level. “and it’s starting to feel real. and i don’t know what to do with that.”

“do you want to stop?”

you hated how fast your stomach dropped at that. “...no.”

he nodded slowly. looked down at his hands.

“me neither.”

and maybe that should’ve been comforting. but it wasn’t.

because neither of you said what you wanted instead.

he doesn’t look at you after that.

not in a dramatic way, just… quieter. less direct. like if he looks too long, he might say something he shouldn’t. like you both might.

you sit in silence for a bit. the grass itches behind your knees, your throat feels dry, and the sandwich in your lap is somehow still untouched. you keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, waiting for him to crack a joke or change the subject or even just do something stupid to break the weirdness hanging in the air.

he doesn’t.

instead, he leans back onto his elbows, gaze fixed on some point in the distance. you wonder what he’s thinking. if he’s regretting it. if he’s already planning how to pull away without making you feel bad.

your chest tightens.

“i don’t want to ruin this,” you say, quieter now.

he blinks. glances over. “what?”

you stare down at your hands. “whatever this is. i don’t wanna make it weird.”

“you didn’t.”

you look at him. “jungkook-”

“you didn’t,” he repeats, voice more certain this time. “it’s not weird. i just… i don’t know how to do this either.”

you nod slowly. you believe him. that’s the worst part.

he’s not faking it as well as he thinks he is.

his foot nudges yours gently. “we’re still good, right?”

you hesitate. then nod.

“yeah. we’re good.”

you don’t feel good. you feel like your heart’s on a timer.

you don’t talk much the rest of the afternoon.

he walks you to your next class like usual. keeps close to your side, says hi to someone you don’t recognize, holds the door open for you and mumbles something about meeting up later for that “photo op” thing he mentioned earlier in the week. something casual. something for the feed. “soft couple vibes.”

you just nod and say sure.

he doesn’t try to hold your hand this time.

you don’t know why it’s that moment. the quiet click of the lecture hall door behind you, the way the air changes when he’s not next to you, but your eyes burn and you sit down two rows from the back and suddenly want to cry.

you don’t. obviously. you just sit there and stare at your blank notes and pretend like the ache in your chest is just from lack of sleep. pretend like you’re not thinking about the kiss that wasn’t even a kiss and how it still meant too much.

you’re the one who made the rules.

you’re the one who said no feelings.

you’re the one breaking them.

two hours later, he’s waiting outside the building, leaning against the wall with his hoodie pulled over his head and headphones hanging around his neck. he doesn’t say anything when you walk up, just pushes off the wall and starts walking beside you.

you don’t know if he’s mad or just trying to give you space.

either way, it sucks.

“are we still doing the photo thing?” you ask, voice too casual.

he glances over. “do you want to?”

you shrug. “doesn’t matter.”

he stops walking.

you stop too, confused. “what?”

he just looks at you.

not annoyed. not even frustrated. just… like he’s trying to read you. like he’s trying to figure out if you’re about to break this whole thing wide open.

“it does matter,” he says.

you don’t answer.

he waits another beat, then runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“i’ll text you later,” he says, not unkindly.

you nod.

he walks the other way.

you hate how cold your hand feels once he’s gone.

when you check your phone later that night, there’s a picture.

a blurry one. the one he took last week, under that tree near the arts building. your face is half-lit, your hand holding the smoothie cup, a little smile tugging at your lips as you look down.

you don’t even remember smiling that day.

under the photo, he’s typed:

i was gonna post this tonight. but only if you’re cool with it. lmk.

your chest does that thing again. the thing that feels like guilt and softness all tangled into one.

you type out a response and delete it.

then type another.

you end up just sending:

it’s cute. post it.

three minutes later, it’s up.

captioned: my favorite person.

the comments blow up instantly.

you turn off your phone.

you don’t sleep for a long time.

you wake up feeling worse than when you fell asleep. your mouth is dry, your eyes puffy, and your phone buzzes softly somewhere under your pillow like it knows you don’t want to look. but you check it anyway. the post is still up. jungkook’s account. that blurry photo from the coffee shop, the one where you’re smiling at something off-camera with his jacket draped over your chair. captioned, still, my favorite person. almost five hundred likes, three dozen comments. 

omg stop.

is this real?? 

cutest couple on campus hello??? 

i knew it. 

you don’t reply to any of them. you don’t even like the post. and for some reason, that makes your stomach twist worse.

you lie in bed a while longer, then sit up and drink water, trying to ignore the heavy silence in your room. around noon, he texts.

hey wanna meet before class?

you stare at it. you want to say no. you want to say yes. you want to say what did that post mean? or why are you making this feel so real? or maybe just please don’t make me fall for you if you’re not going to catch me.

but you don’t say any of that. you just reply: sure.

he meets you outside like always, standing under that tree that’s barely started turning yellow, kicking at a leaf like it wronged him personally. when he sees you, his face softens.

“hey.” you nod. 

“hey.” he holds out a drink without asking. it’s your usual. you take it and sip. it’s perfect.

the silence stretches, but not in a terrible way. more like both of you are thinking too much to speak.

“so,” he says after a while, “did you hate the post?”

you shake your head. “no. it was fine.” he looks at you. you don’t meet his eyes.

“you didn’t like it.”

“i saw it.”

“not what i said.”

you press your lips together. you want to explain. you want to say i didn’t like it because i didn’t know what it meant. or i was scared that if i liked it, it’d make it real. or i wanted to, but then i thought about your ex seeing it and maybe it wasn’t about me at all. but you just shrug. “i was tired.”

he doesn’t push. he never does. and that’s part of the problem.

you walk to class together again. his hand swings a little too close to yours the whole time, but he doesn’t reach for it. you kind of wish he would. you kind of wish he wouldn’t.

the tension is different now. heavier. quieter. not playful like before.

and all through class, you keep waiting for him to say something else. to make a joke. to nudge your arm. to just look at you like he used to. but he doesn’t. you both just sit there, pretending everything’s fine. pretending it didn’t mean anything. pretending you’re not unraveling a little more every time he breathes.

when class ends, you gather your stuff too fast and almost spill your pen case. he catches it, hands it to you without a word. your fingers brush. you flinch. not because you didn’t want it, but because you wanted it too much. you mumble a thank you. he nods.

“you okay?” he asks.

you look at him. really look. he’s not doing the smile thing anymore. the one where he pretends not to notice how close you’re sitting. the one where he flirts just enough to keep you guessing. he just looks tired. like maybe he didn’t sleep either. like maybe he’s trying not to ask the same questions you are.

and maybe you should answer him. maybe you should say no. maybe you should say i’m not okay, and i haven’t been since you started making this feel real. but instead, you say, “yeah. just tired.”

and he says, “me too.” then you both walk out of the building side by side, not touching.

you step outside and the cool air hits your skin like a sudden jolt. the sky is heavy with gray clouds that promise rain, and it feels like everything around you is rushing forward while you’re frozen in place. jungkook walks beside you, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, his pace slow and steady. the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable or awkward. it’s filled with the weight of everything you both want to say but don’t know how to start.

you glance at him sideways, stomach twisting, but he keeps his eyes fixed ahead, like looking at you might make this all too real. you wonder if he’s thinking about the same things, how pretending to be okay is becoming impossible, how the line between what’s fake and what’s real is blurring. you want to reach out, to close the space growing between you, but your hands feel heavy and unsure.

finally, your voice breaks the silence, barely above a whisper. “do you think this is gonna get easier?”

he breathes out slowly, like he’s been holding it in for far too long. “honestly, no.”

you almost laugh, because you know exactly what he means. this whole fake relationship thing was supposed to be simple, even fun. but it’s not. it’s complicated and messy and it hurts more than you thought it would.

“then why do you keep doing it?” you stop and turn to face him. “if it’s this hard, why not just walk away?”

he looks at you, really looks, and there’s something raw in his eyes that makes your chest tighten. “because even if it’s hard, it’s better than being alone.”

you swallow hard. part of you wants to argue that being alone isn’t so bad. but deep down you know he’s right. the quiet moments when he’s next to you, even wrapped in silence and hesitation are better than the emptiness that used to swallow you whole.

you take a small step closer, heart pounding. “i’m scared,” you admit, voice trembling. “scared that this fake thing is gonna turn real and i won’t know what to do.”

his fingers brush against yours gently, like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly. “then we figure it out together.”

you don’t say anything, just let his words settle over you. even though the future feels scary and uncertain, you realize you don’t want to face it without him.

then the rain starts, soft and steady, and you both laugh like it’s your little secret. you don’t pull away when he slides his hand fully into yours. it’s warm and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel so far apart.

you walk side by side down the quiet street, the city lights flickering above you and casting long shadows on the pavement. the night air is cool and crisp, and the occasional distant hum of cars blends with the soft sound of your footsteps. jungkook’s hand brushes against yours, and without thinking, you reach out and lace your fingers through his.

he glances over with that small, easy smile that’s been growing on you more than you want to admit. “so, this is happening,” he says quietly, like testing the waters.

you shrug, a little breathless. “guess it is.”

you don’t say much after that, letting the silence settle comfortably between you. walking with him feels less like pretending and more like something real, something you both haven’t dared to admit yet. your heart pounds, a little faster with every step.

when you get to your building, you fumble with your keys for a moment before the door swings open. jungkook steps inside behind you, the smell of rain mixing with the faint scent of your apartment. you kick off your shoes and lean against the door, your fingers still tangled with his.

he pulls off his hoodie and drops it on the back of a chair, the damp fabric soft in the dim light. the space suddenly feels smaller, warmer. your breath catches when he steps closer, eyes locked on yours, like he’s waiting for something.

“want some coffee?” you ask, your voice quieter than you expected.

he nods, following you to the kitchen. you start the kettle, the sound of water filling the silence. when you pour the coffee, your hands brush, and that spark you’ve been ignoring flares up again.

you bring the mugs to the small table and sit close enough that your knees touch. jungkook’s fingers find yours, squeezing gently. the warmth from him seeps into your skin, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

“this feels different,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“yeah,” he agrees, voice low and steady. “it does.”

you look up, catching the way his eyes soften when they meet yours. without thinking, you lean in, closing the small gap between you. his lips are warm and tentative at first, brushing against yours like a question. then the kiss deepens, slow and sure, like he’s telling you everything without saying a word.

your hands move up to cup his face, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. your chest tightens, and the world outside fades away until there’s only him and you, tangled together in the quiet glow of your apartment.

when you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the small space between you. a smile tugs at your lips, and you feel something fragile and beautiful shift between you.

he whispers, “i’m glad i came here tonight.”

you squeeze his hand, heart pounding. “me too.”

you sit there for a moment longer, just breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat under your fingertips. the world outside your window keeps moving, distant sirens, the occasional car passing by. but here, it’s still. suspended. safe.

he shifts closer, like there’s a gravity between you pulling him in, and you don’t resist. his hands settle on your waist, steady and sure, anchoring you. you can feel the warmth radiating from him, seeping into the space between your bodies.

“i don’t want this to be just fake anymore,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile quiet.

you look up, eyes searching his, and for once, you don’t have an answer. all the pretending, all the rules you made to keep your heart safe, they don’t matter now. none of it feels real except this moment, this closeness, and the way your chest feels like it might burst.

without thinking, your lips find his again, softer this time, slower. the kiss deepens, and it’s no longer about games or plans or revenge. it’s about two people who somehow found something worth holding onto in the mess.

he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “stay,” he says simply.

you don’t need to say anything. you already know you won’t be letting go

part of - 𝒪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺, 𝓣𝘸𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

summary - you just got out of a painful breakup and can’t stop crying. jungkook, the university's star athlete and ex to the girl who dumped him, catches you at your lowest and makes a wild offer: fake date each other to make your exes jealous. it sounds ridiculous but you’re desperate enough to say yes. the deal is made but neither of you likes how awkward and forced it already feels. and this is only the beginning.

　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ౨ৎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓈒 ◌ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚

the thing no one tells you about breakups is how quiet they are. no dramatic shouting, no stormy skies, no slamming doors. just a cold bench outside the humanities building, a sleeve soaked in snot and tears, and a phone screen lighting up with his name. over and over.

you didn’t look. not again. not when you already knew what it said. hey. i think we should see other people. as if you were a choice. as if you hadn’t spent over a year giving him every soft piece of yourself.

around you, campus was still alive. students rushing between classes, headphones in, laughing like the world hadn’t just ended. you blinked up at the sky, jaw clenched, trying to stop the burning behind your eyes, but it didn’t work. the tears came anyway. hot. stupid. relentless. you didn’t even notice the footsteps.

“uh…”

you froze.

you didn’t lift your head. didn’t say anything. maybe if you stayed perfectly still, whoever it was would walk away. but the footsteps stopped, and after a beat, the voice came again.

“are you… good?”

you sniffed. didn’t even bother looking. “do i sound good?”

a pause. then: “no. i mean, not like… bad. just, like, not okay. which is totally fair. um. shit.”

you finally glanced up.

jeon jungkook.

seriously?

he stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, wearing a half-zipped hoodie and gray sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d just left the gym. he looked like he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. which would’ve been funny if you weren’t in the middle of crying your eyes out.

you wiped at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie and looked away. “it’s fine. you can go.”

he didn’t.

instead, he just… stayed.

“do you wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice softer now.

you shook your head. “not really.”

he nodded. “cool. i hate talking.”

the silence that followed wasn’t as awkward as it should’ve been. weirdly, it almost helped. like just knowing someone was there made it a little easier to breathe. you reached for your phone and shoved it into your pocket without checking it. another vibration buzzed through the fabric.

“was it… boyfriend stuff?” he asked carefully.

your throat tightened. you hated how saying it out loud made it feel real. “ex-boyfriend,” you muttered. “he broke up with me. in a text.”

jungkook winced. “ouch. that’s rough.”

“yeah. we were together for over a year. and now i’m apparently not worth a conversation. just a text. ‘we should see other people.’ like we were on the same page or something.”

your voice cracked at the end and you hated that. you felt stupid and raw and so small it made your skin crawl. but jungkook didn’t laugh. he didn’t act weird. he just sat down next to you on the bench like it was the most normal thing in the world.

you blinked. “what are you doing?”

“sitting.”

“why?”

“because crying alone outside the humanities building kinda sucks,” he said, shrugging. “and also… i get it.”

you turned your head to look at him. “you’ve been dumped?”

“hell yeah. last week. she sent me a voice note. sixty-two seconds of vague reasons and weird passive-aggressive energy.”

you blinked. “a voice note?”

“yeah,” he said, sighing. “said i wasn’t posting her enough. that i didn’t match her ‘soft aesthetic’ or whatever. i think it was mostly about how i didn’t repost her birthday collage.”

you snorted. “tragic.”

“i know, right?”

and just like that, something shifted. it was tiny, but it was there. a shared kind of pain. quiet, bitter, weirdly funny in the way only heartbreak can be when it’s still fresh.

“what did you do after?” you asked.

he tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. “ate a whole pizza, listened to the weeknd for like four hours, and considered deleting instagram. didn’t, though.”

“strong of you.”

he grinned. “thanks.”

you stared at your shoes for a second, then glanced at him again. you’d never really talked to jungkook before. he was always surrounded by people, laughing and flirting and being way too hot to exist on campus. but right now, sitting next to you on this shitty cold bench, he looked… normal.

and then he said it.

“you know, we could fake date.”

you blinked. “what?”

“fake date. just for a little bit. make our exes jealous. get people talking. help us both save face.”

you stared at him, genuinely unsure if he was joking. “are you serious?”

“yeah,” he said casually. “you want revenge. i want revenge. seems efficient.”

“you are out of your mind.”

he laughed. “maybe. but you’re still listening.”

you opened your mouth to argue. then closed it. then opened it again. “what would even be the point?”

“you show up to class with me. i show up to practice with you. maybe post a couple cute pictures. if we really commit, they’ll spiral. and even if they don’t, at least we don’t look pathetic.”

you raised an eyebrow. “so your solution to being dumped… is pretending to date someone you don’t even know?”

“i mean, you know my name. that’s a start.”

“jungkook, this is actually the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard.”

“and yet,” he said, a little grin tugging at his lips, “you haven’t said no.”

you hated that he was right. because deep down, the thought of your ex seeing you smile in a blurry photo next to jungkook’s annoyingly perfect face… didn’t sound so bad.

“no kissing,” you said.

“duh.”

“no feelings.”

“please.”

“and no couple hashtags or matching bios or weird pet names.”

he held a hand to his heart. “i promise not to call you ‘baby’ unless absolutely necessary.”

you rolled your eyes. “i’ll think about it.”

he leaned back against the bench, still grinning. “that’s basically a yes.”

you didn’t answer. just looked out across the quad again, the ache in your chest a little quieter now. it was stupid. probably a terrible idea. but after days of crying and overthinking and feeling like nothing…

you didn’t say yes that day. not officially. you just let him walk you to your next class and didn’t push his hand away when he held open the door. you were too emotionally wrecked to think clearly, too exhausted to ask why jungkook kept glancing over like he was checking to see if you were okay. you didn’t smile. you didn’t flirt. but when he said “text me if you change your mind,” and tapped his number into your phone without asking, you didn’t delete it either.

you went home. you cried again. and then you stared at his contact in your phone for way too long.

you didn’t text him. not until the next day.

and it was just one word.

okay.

fifteen seconds later, he sent back a thumbs up and a photo of a heart-shaped cake with “welcome to the club” written in pink icing. under that: we ride at dawn

you didn’t know what the hell you were signing up for. but your chest didn’t feel as heavy. not that day.

by monday, everyone on campus thought you and jungkook were a thing.

you’d barely agreed to the plan and already he was committed like it was a full-time job. he met you outside your lecture like it was natural, leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets, black hoodie pulled over his head like he hadn’t slept. he gave you this casual little smirk and nodded toward the door.

“ready to ruin your ex’s week?”

you stared at him. “do i have a choice?”

“nope.”

he grabbed your hand before you could argue. not tight, not overly performative, just enough that you felt it. enough that your heart did something weird in your chest that you definitely ignored.

inside the lecture hall, you could feel the stares. eyes flicking toward you both, whispers under breath, someone literally gasping in the second row when jungkook dropped into the seat next to you and leaned in to say something about how hot it was inside.

he didn’t even say anything flirty. he just sat close and sipped your iced coffee like it was already his.

and that’s how it started.

no big announcement. no full plan. just… him beside you. walking you to class. tagging you in memes. sending you goodnight selfies with captions like sleep tight, fake gf. your ex saw it. obviously. people talk.

and jungkook made sure he saw more.

“you free after class?” he asked one afternoon, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, the air cool enough to make your breath fog a little.

“why?”

“impromptu photo op. we’re going for the 'soft campus couple' aesthetic. it’s important for believability.”

you narrowed your eyes. “this is really about your instagram, isn’t it.”

he grinned. “maybe a little.”

you ended up sitting with him under a tree behind the arts building, sharing a smoothie and pretending to laugh at something on his phone while he took sneaky candids. he picked the one where you were looking down and smiling, your hair falling over your face, and captioned it lucky me with a white heart.

the post got 472 likes in an hour.

your ex didn’t like it, but his new situationship blocked you on everything later that night, so. win.

“we’re literally evil,” you muttered the next day as you scrolled through your dms.

“evil’s fun,” jungkook said, throwing an arm over your shoulders as he walked you to class. “you’re just new to it.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t push him off.

and maybe that’s when things started to shift.

not in a huge way. not all at once. just little things.

like how he’d always buy an extra iced americano and wordlessly hand it to you. or how he’d lean in close to say something stupid and stay there just a second too long. or the way his thumb would brush against yours when he held your hand for “fake couple reasons” but didn’t let go even after no one was watching.

you didn’t talk about it.

you didn’t think about it either. not really. not until that wednesday afternoon when he looked at you during your stupid “pretend to be a couple at lunch” moment and said, completely unprompted,

“you’re actually kind of cute when you’re annoyed.”

you froze.

your heart jumped, and not in the soft warm way. it was more like a jolt. a reminder. that this wasn’t real. wasn’t supposed to be anything. and the worst part? he didn’t even say it in a flirty way. he just looked at you like he meant it and then went back to eating fries like it was normal.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

so you ignored it.

until it kept happening.

on friday, he grabbed your hand in the middle of a party.

you didn’t even see him coming. one second you were standing with some friends, sipping from a red cup and doing your best to seem chill and unbothered. the next, jungkook appeared out of nowhere, wrapped an arm around your waist, and kissed your temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“sorry i’m late,” he murmured in your ear. “had to find parking.”

you blinked up at him. “we didn’t even come together.”

“don’t ruin the narrative,” he whispered, eyes glittering with mischief.

and then, because of course he did, he turned to your ex across the room and waved.

like. actually waved.

you nearly choked on your drink. “jungkook-”

“he’s looking,” he whispered again, lips brushing your ear. “act natural.”

so you did.

you slipped your hand into his. leaned your head against his shoulder. smiled at nothing. laughed at something he didn’t even say.

and when the music shifted and the lights dimmed and the room melted into bodies and noise, he pulled you into the corner and kept his hand on the small of your back like he’d always known you.

your heart beat a little too fast. not from the alcohol. not from the plan.

from him.

you didn’t say anything.

he didn’t either.

but when he leaned his forehead against yours and said, so quiet you almost missed it,

“you’re doing really good at pretending,”

you wondered for the first time if either of you were pretending at all.

the next few days were confusing in the way dreams are confusing. everything looked the same, felt mostly the same, but something had shifted under the surface and you couldn’t stop noticing it.

jungkook was still your fake boyfriend. technically. but now he was also the first person you thought to text when something funny happened. or when a song came on that made you feel a little too much. or when you caught your reflection and felt stupidly alone.

he didn’t make it weird. he just rolled with it. sent you memes. selfies with his hair a mess. weird voice notes of him singing off-key in the car. nothing serious. nothing loaded. but it made your chest feel weird anyway.

“how’s my fake girlfriend doing today?” he asked on tuesday, flopping down beside you on the library lawn like he belonged there.

you barely looked up from your notes. “emotionally unstable and caffeine dependent, as always.”

he smiled. “my dream girl.”

you nudged his knee with yours and tried not to react to how easy it felt now. how normal.

maybe that was the problem.

you were getting used to it. used to him. to the fake relationship that didn’t feel all that fake anymore.

by wednesday, you were spiraling in your own head. things were getting blurry. and when things got blurry, you ran.

so you did what you always did when your heart started acting up, you shut down. slowly, carefully, almost like you didn’t want him to notice. but of course he did.

you didn’t laugh as loud. didn’t text back as fast. didn’t let your hand linger in his when he reached for you in the hallway. you were still there. still playing the part. but it felt thinner now, like a wall you were trying to build before everything fell apart.

on thursday afternoon, it all caught up with you.

you were both sitting in the student center, pretending to do homework and mostly sharing a cookie that neither of you admitted you wanted first. the sun was slanting through the windows just right, making everything feel soft and slow.

he leaned back in his chair and said it so casually it almost didn’t register.

“so… are you mad at me or what?”

you blinked. “what?”

he tilted his head. his hair was a little messy, his sleeves pushed up. he looked so relaxed, like this wasn’t already making your lungs tighten.

“you’ve been weird,” he said simply. “distant.”

you turned back to your laptop. “i’ve just been busy.”

he didn’t push. didn’t sigh or roll his eyes. he just waited.

and when you didn’t say anything for a long time, he spoke again. quieter this time.

“you wanna talk about it?”

you closed your laptop slowly and looked at him.

“i think maybe we should chill with the fake dating stuff for a bit.”

his eyebrows twitched. “you mean… take a break?”

you hated how he said that. like it was real. like it actually hurt.

“not a break. just… i think it’s getting too close to real. and that’s not what we signed up for, right?”

he didn’t answer right away. just nodded, mouth tight like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

“you’re still my fake girlfriend though, yeah?” he said after a second. “you’re not firing me?”

you smiled, just a little. “no. you’re still on contract.”

“good,” he said. “because i make a damn good fake boyfriend. ask anyone.”

you let out a soft laugh. “seriously.”

his voice gentled. “i know. i get it. we can take it slow.”

and for once, he didn’t make it into a joke. he just leaned back again, his fingers tracing the edge of the table, and looked out the window like he needed a second.

you stared at him. tried to figure out what was going on behind his eyes. but he didn’t give anything away. he never did.

“thank you,” you said after a while.

“anytime.”

and that should’ve been the end of it. that should’ve been enough.

but that night, lying in bed with your phone screen glowing beside you, you stared at the last thing he texted you:

let me know when you’re ready to go back to full chaos. my fake boyfriend powers are ready.

and your heart did something it wasn’t supposed to do.

by friday, things had settled into a quieter rhythm.

not in a bad way, just different. you and jungkook still sat together in lectures, shared snacks between classes, and sometimes your knees would brush under the table. neither of you pulled away, but the urgency had softened. it felt like you were both giving each other space without saying it out loud.

maybe that was what you needed.

from crying on a bench to playing the part of a couple on campus, you’d forgotten how to sit still with your feelings. slowing down wasn’t a step back, it was a chance to breathe.

he never pushed you. when your hand slipped away, he didn’t ask why. when you sat a little further apart, he didn’t tease or complain. but he was still there. sending good luck texts before quizzes, sharing half his sandwich when you forgot yours, or texting dumb photos of his cat with silly captions that made you smile more than you expected.

one afternoon, as you both waited for the next class, he nudged you gently. “you doing okay?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

you looked at him, the weight of everything still there but a little lighter now. “yeah. better than i was.”

he smiled. real, not fake. and reached out to squeeze your hand once. just once.

“good,” he said.

you found yourself watching jungkook more than you expected. not in the “i’m crushing hard” kind of way, because you’d sworn off all that, but in a quieter way. like noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed or the way he always tucked his hair behind his ear when he was thinking.

it was strange how someone you barely knew could start feeling so familiar. how the space beside you wasn’t empty anymore, even when you weren’t holding hands or pretending to be a couple for the camera.

one saturday, you met up at the campus coffee shop, not for any plan or social media stunt, just because jungkook said he needed to “study” and you needed an excuse to get out of your dorm.

you showed up fifteen minutes late and found him already there, laptop open, earbuds in. he looked up and grinned when he saw you, pulling one earbud out.

“fashionably late,” he teased.

you slid into the seat across from him, rubbing your hands around the warm mug of chai he’d ordered for you. “study mode?”

“barely,” he admitted, flashing you a crooked smile. “mostly just trying to survive midterms.”

you laughed softly, the sound catching you off guard. it felt easy to be around him, like you could almost forget this was all fake. almost.

for a while, you just sat there, sipping your drinks and stealing glances at each other. the noise of the busy coffee shop faded into the background, like you were in your own little bubble.

then jungkook shut his laptop with a snap.

“okay, serious question,” he said, leaning forward. “how long do you think we can keep this up?”

you blinked. “keep what up?”

“the fake thing. the pretending. the whole ‘we’re together to piss off our exes’ circus.”

you bit your lip, considering.

“i don’t know,” you said finally. “longer than i expected, honestly.”

he nodded, eyes darkening a little.

“me too.”

there was a pause.

“do you ever think about what comes next?” he asked quietly.

you swallowed, feeling the air grow thick.

“not really,” you admitted. “i’m scared. and honestly, it feels easier to just keep pretending than to deal with what ‘real’ might mean.”

he looked down at his hands, fingers tracing patterns on the table.

“yeah,” he said. “me too.”

you shared a look that didn’t need words.

later, when you walked out together under the early evening sky, the world suddenly felt colder and bigger and so full of things you weren’t ready to face.

“so,” jungkook said, breaking the silence. “should we try to keep this fake thing a little longer?”

you looked up at him, your breath visible in the chilly air.

“yeah,” you said softly. “i think we should.”

he smiled, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes your chest tighten.

“good. because i’m not done being your fake boyfriend.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled back.

“neither am i being your fake girlfriend.”

the days after that felt lighter. not perfect, but lighter. like the weight on your chest had loosened just enough for you to breathe without thinking about it every second.

jungkook kept showing up in those small ways, the text at noon to check if you’d eaten, the way he always remembered your coffee order, the quiet way he waited for you after class without making it a thing.

one afternoon, you caught him staring at you during a lecture, and when your eyes met, he just smirked and mouthed, “fake couple.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

sometimes, when you weren’t looking, you caught yourself wondering if the line between fake and real was getting blurrier than it should.

but you pushed that thought away.

for now, it was enough to have him there, to have someone who understood the messy parts without needing explanations.

when you walked out of class one day, he grabbed your hand again.

not because it was part of the plan, but just because.

you and jungkook are caught in the kind of mess you only see in movies. you’re both fresh off breakups, hearts still sore and pride completely wrecked. you’re crying outside a lecture hall, and he just happens to be there. he offers you something stupid, fake date each other to make your exes jealous. at first, it’s just a weird little idea to save face and maybe distract yourselves. but it doesn’t stay simple for long. there are fake kisses, forced hand-holding, and the kind of awkward tension that makes your skin crawl. except… it starts changing. somewhere between all the pretending, something shifts. the lines blur. and suddenly, what started as fake doesn’t feel so fake anymore. it’s a mess. it’s confusing. it’s everything you didn’t ask for. but maybe it’s also exactly what you need.

s - smut f - fluff a - angst hc - hurt/comfort

no link = wip!

ℴ𝓃ℯ 𝒻ℴ𝓇 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓂ℴ𝓃ℯ𝓎 [ a / hc ] ⤹ you just got dumped and ended up crying outside the arts building. jungkook, the football guy whose own ex just left him for someone else, finds you mid ugly cry and says something insane: you and him, fake dating. you laugh at first, but you’re too tired to say no. it’s awkward from the start, full of stiff hugs and fake photos. and this is only day one.

word count – 3.7k

𝓉𝓌ℴ 𝒻ℴ𝓇 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓈𝒽ℴ𝓌 [ f / a ] ⤹ you’re officially "together" now, or at least that’s what everyone thinks. every instagram story, every weirdly timed kiss on the cheek. it all feels a little off. like you’re trying too hard. and maybe you are. but behind the teasing and the sarcastic grins, there’s something else. something warm and terrifying that makes your chest feel tight every time he looks at you for a second too long.

word count – 3.1k

𝒻ℴ𝓇𝒸ℯ𝒹 𝓅𝓇ℴ𝓍𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉𝓎 [ s ] ⤹ the plan never included this. the heated looks. the lingering touches. the way your breath hitches when his hand brushes your waist. it was supposed to be all pretend. just holding hands and laughing in public. but now you’re in his room and it’s quiet, and you’re way too close, and neither of you is pulling away.

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𝓉ℴℴ 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓈ℯ𝒸𝓇ℯ𝓉𝓈 [ a / hc / f ] ⤹ everything changed after that night. now you can’t stop overthinking. the feelings are real, and that scares you more than anything. you’ve been hurt before and you can’t tell if this is real or just another setup for heartbreak. so you pull away. you ghost his texts. you act like nothing happened. but you miss him. and jungkook? he’s not letting you go without a fight.

word count –

𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓁 [ f ] ⤹ after all of it—the pretending, the jealousy, the hiding. you stop pretending. he does too. what started as a plan to get back at your exes turns into something softer, something real. and this time, when he holds your hand, it means something. this time, you hold on.

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