luna𓍼ོ

i wrote this short fic on the 24th of april as a way for me to break up with jungkook, and i haven’t touched it since. i left bts the moment i saw the hooligan mv and then their concert in the cinema because i felt disappointed in the direction they were heading. and for me to see what has happened recently just… deepened that. they’re not who i thought they were, and truth be told i generally don’t like kpop anymore. i guess my eyes opened and i no longer want to worship a man that’s just doing his job—and is no longer creating art. arirang had so much potential, but certain someone simply doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

with that being said, all men do is disappoint.

i want to thank you all for spending years with me on here, reading my works, supporting me, giving me life. i will always remember these times positively, even though bts represent such a big painful chapter of my life. i hope you all take good care of yourselves, you will always be loved by me.

i hope you like this little angsty fic. it’s about how i felt at the time, and what i’d wished i could tell jungkook.

bye. i love you.

“I think I’m done here.”

It is the flash of an unprecedented bewilderment, rippling across the glossiness of his eyes, that gets to you first before the effect of your own words echoes back to you. It comes as a shock to you that you even spoke it out loud, this decision of yours—which has brooded within the blackened, burnt forest of your lungs for a week straight now, seeing as the boy standing in front of you, wearing the intimate matter of his rimless glasses on his blushed nose, a myriad of hoop earrings along the most sensitive parts of his ears, a lip piercing near the corner of his puffy lip, with an unlit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as a fond addition, does not resemble the boy you expected him to be.

The boy he was supposed to be after returning from the military, had its roughness and the distance not cut away his softness and his memory. The field of stars that you thought he would continue to personify at his phenomenal job, had its management not wrapped silken, carmine strings around his once clean wrists.

And what aches the most is the principle of him looking the same, yet embodying the depth of an empty cosmo.

An empty room.

A silence.

Jeongguk’s gaze dips to the cigarette in his hand, which now begins to vividly tremble. A gust of wind from the kitchen balcony to his left blows past his unruly hair, calling him out. It’s way past his time anyway. Had you not stopped him with your wet, soapy hands on his forearm from the washing of dishes you were doing, he’d be halfway done with his after-dinner dessert, and you’d be joining him soon after, despite the fact he’s told the world he tried to quit.

He discards it on the counter, just as you grab the dish cloth to wipe your hands dry. You avert your eyes, focusing on the hole within your chest that thumps uncomfortably. His trembling becomes your own, the moment gaining its devastating realness that you weren’t prepared for. You can’t tell what made you speak it out, but now that it’s here, you can’t take it back. Not that you want to, not that you’re lacking bravery. It is here, and you feel that it’s right, in spite of the fact that the normalcy of your evenings played out the same. But the thumping… the thumping grows. And you recognize it has been here the whole time.

The first time he came home from the military, a different boy.

The first time you saw the concept of his art that no longer belonged to the work of his hands.

It is the flow of fate that made you say it. It is supposed to be like this, it is supposed to end here, even though you don’t know where to go next.

Jeongguk faces you with his body, and takes away the dish cloth from your hands, squeezing it in his own until his knuckles turn white. His chest takes little breaths that you know very well, anxiety tightening his lungs in a way that won’t allow him to properly respire. You don’t have any oxygen of your own, and at this minute you feel as though your death is upon you.

“What do you mean?” he asks, innocently, and it cuts deep, the knife plunging into nothing. He knows your words could have a much different meaning, considering your mundane actions, but he feels it. You don’t even have to look at him to know that he senses that something is different, and horribly so.

The final words that end it all are on the tip of your tongue, burning the muscle. Tears prick at the lines of your eyes, and you wish this never happened. You wish things were as old as they used to be, as good as they used to be, full of abstraction of the arts that inspired you to live, that helped you dwell within this world. But those things no longer exist.

And the thought, the very important one, clicks in your brain: the void he represents no longer serves you, and you deserve to put yourself first.

And as much as it hurts, the words spring out. Not from your own will, but from the weakness of your butchered heart.

“It’s over, Jeongguk.”

You keep your head low, not wishing to see the widening of his eyes, the dark blossoming of the gloss over them. You only hear the sharp inhale, full—as if no longer constricted by the anxiety he felt. And then, the following silence as he takes in that cataclysmic sentence.

The wind brushes its fingers along your skin, his as well. Tender in nature, in feeling. Sympathetic. And it is a preparation, a foreshadowing of some sort, of the replacement that comes after.

Jeongguk touches your arm, the dish cloth plopping to the floor at the gap between your slipper-shod feet and his. And for a moment, a phony and a dreamy one, everything returns to normal. And for this second, before it withers away, you pretend everything is normal and that he touches you because he simply wants to. Like he always did, being the touchy-feely person he always has been.

It is too brief, like all good things are.

The moment is ruptured by the joining of his other hand. He grabs you by both of your arms, forcing you to face him, his touch burning. There’s a certain hastiness to it all that you dislike, and the tears that stream down your cheeks mimic the sinister fire that scorched down your lungs once you realized Jeongguk wasn’t the same anymore. Like the pace of fate, taking a different turn, flinging you out of the rhythm you knew and loved well.

And the question he asks you next brings out the sob that was buried in you for too long.

“What have I done wrong?”

Hot, hot tears. The heft of the sob absconding from your throat, which tightens and tightens. As do your eyes, smudging your mascara and eyeliner, its liquid blackness so terribly symbolic of this whole situation.

“Look at me.”

Jeongguk softens his voice, a tiny bit. The little control he shows soothes the lump in your throat, helps you do as he says, gives you the imaginary impression that the strings around his wrists slightly untangle. But none of it is true. The hastiness, the roughness remains, despite the fact its surface seems to be a little smoothed out.

Little.

Not enough.

You lift your eyes, and the blurriness of your sight does not steal the heartbreak unfolding over his face. Towering over you, his eyebrows pinch in the middle while his eyes are narrowed to confine in his spilling tears. His lips, which were so puffy from the spicy pasta he had cooked, are now pressed together in a thin line that wavers. And how blushed his cheeks were, they are now as pale and ghostly as flower fields in the dead of winter.

The Adam's apple you loved so much, and one you won’t see anymore, bobs up and down.

This is it.

It is over.

“You’re not someone I recognize anymore,” you say, confidently, although your voice cracks with every word spoken. There’s power to them, power you’ve invariably held, standing tall amidst the things you hold dear to your heart. Your faith, your principles, your arts. The building blocks to the person you are.

Jeongguk blinks in confusion, a solitary tear running down his pallid cheek. His mouth parts as he registers your words, but you know beforehand that he won’t understand. He is a man after all, and you’ve attached yourself to a poetic version of him that suited you.

There’s nothing else to it. And now that you’ve looked beyond this dream and woke up from it, he is a stranger.

A stranger you love. What a peculiar circumstance.

“You need to explain this to me,” he urges, hoarsely, proving your internal thoughts right. And you nod once, dipping your head. As if your agreement was a truce between the pair of you, his trembling hands let go of your arms, dropping to his sides as his back hunches over you. You become distinctively aware of the scintillas of heat left over your skin by his hands, and how it, little by little, leaves. You wonder if there’s a mark, a handprint to keep a memory of before everything washes away by the end of the night, and you cry at how much you wish for that.

A memory to keep. A good one. Of what he gave you, of what he pulled you out of; of why and how you fell in love with him, however wrong that was. Just for a little while before you bloom into strength and move on.

The canvas of the darkening sky outside rumbles. And the first spring storm of the year speaks for you first, plummeting down from the ashen clouds, soaking the earth. Your own tears seem to cease their fall, having spread wide beyond this house, and you can’t help but think of his first concert in this second chapter, and how hard it rained.

A harbinger, a sullen one. Because you shrunk yourself into that adjective, watching the vast, yet small in depth, content of this plot point.

The rustling of the rain gains intensity, leading you to the belief that it is inching closer and closer. Jeongguk doesn’t glance behind himself at the opened balcony door, at the ivory-laced curtain flapping up and down in an ominous dance to celebrate this ending. No, he keeps his eyes fixed on you, blinking with a little delay, while his eyes rush with waves of tears. To and fro, to and fro. As patient as ever—the only quality you recognize, which makes the words in your mouth fairly difficult to spit out.

A fleeting one. He will change again.

“I thought this comeback would look different,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat, taking a deep breath to keep your liquid emotions at bay, although you know well your tenacity will crumble. Jeongguk doesn’t react, the patience clutches to him, though the persistent shaking of his hands divulges just how on edge he is, and that distresses you. “Knowing what you and the boys went through before you took the rest you’d needed, I thought you, and especially Namjoon, would have the strength to stand up to Bangpig—”

“Talk nicely,” he interrupts, in one breath, in one tone of voice.

You snap your head up, taken aback, a wrinkle forming between your brows as you begin to frown at him, and at the rude way he cut your sentence at the expense of the single-minded man who stands behind all of this. And as cold the spring wind is, scattering your skin with goosebumps, you feel hot all over.

Hot with rage.

“Talk nicely?” you spit, straightening your spine so you’re not as little beneath him, even when the action is futile. “Talk nicely about the man who uses you to make the money he’d lost?”

Jeongguk sighs, and out with his breath comes the calling of your name within the essence of a reprimand. Sliding his now tear-stained glasses up to his hair, pushing them up, he covers his eyes with the length of his hand before wiping his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. It feels dismissive; it sends you away, placing you inside a padded, sound-insulating box, where your opinions or feelings don’t matter, but you’re not stopping there. No way in hell.

“If only he let you make the decisions, if only it was at least worth the time you spent away,” you continue, pointing your finger at him, brimming with rage, yet not shouting as you wish you were. Jeongguk looks over to the side, listening. His lungs respire heavily now, mimicking those sea waves his eyes overflowed with, fists clenched tight by his side. “But no, you’re only at his beck and call—”

He calls you by your name again, firmer this time.

Your anger rises, being interrupted for the second time now, and at last you shout. You allow yourself to. You need to. “What?”

He glances at you, his darkened eyes now an abyss that sprinkles morsels of terror across your clavicles. It very much mirrors the burnt forest within your chest, and the feeling it brings about is foreign, nameless, one coated in absolute sadness. He doesn’t let his irises wander, doesn’t blink. He stares like a volcano about to erupt, devouring everything that’s left of you.

“I’m doing this for you,” he reveals, quietly, not matching your tone of voice. The atmosphere thickens, and the world appears to tilt on its axis, triggering your vertigo. “The only reason I came back with the members is to do this, all over again, with you.”

The wrinkle between your brows deepens because he still doesn’t comprehend the meaning of your words. “You don’t get it from my point of view,” you say, lowering your voice as well, sensing that if you speak any more on the beginning of your journey with him, or even remember it you’ll start crying once more and it’ll ache more.

More than it already does knowing that he remembers.

Jeongguk averts his body away from you, and you panic. The sensitive topic hangs between the pair of you like a heavy coat on a satin-lilac hanger, pretty on the eye, but worn out in reality, and the fact that he decides to need space right now pricks so much that the tears do rush through.

Why right now?

Wordlessly, he picks up the cigarette he had discarded, and much to your surprise, he doesn’t head for the balcony. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his white lighter, and leaning against the counter, he lights it up. Sucks in the first puff. Doesn’t offer the next one like he invariably did every time he smoked. Your black heart splits, no longer made out of mass, collapsing at the bottom of your ribcage, left there to rot.

“I know about you and Hobi-hyung,” Jeongguk states, avoiding your eyes, skimming the floor as he smokes more quickly than you’re used to seeing him do, bending at the waist to fetch the dish cloth he had dropped at the start of this conversation. By bringing up this even more sensitive matter, he seizes your heart and grips it in his white-knuckled fist, just like he did the piece of rag. Your tears pour out, and with them the memories of Hoseok visiting you late at night when you were just getting entangled with Jeongguk, of him kissing your neck, your thighs and marking you there, aware that Jeongguk would later find those traces, if you let him.

And you did. And you never said you were seeing his own band member.

But this has nothing to do with the reason why you’re breaking up with him. You open your mouth to say something, but Jeongguk continues, far from being finished.

“He had told me this in LA when we just finished recording the album. We had a few drinks, and Hobi-hyung, when he drinks, he gets sad and starts spilling his heart out. As you know,” he says, adding the last sentence with a bitter laughter that has nothing to do with amusement, stopping your bloodflow. He walks closer towards you, tapping off the ash in the sink, leaving his hand there while you’re back to being underneath him, body to body almost. “The record made him think of you, and he felt bad for having you first,” he pauses to think about the words he just uttered, and your tears soak the lacy lining of your off-white pajama tank top. He watches it all, and if it makes him feel anything, he doesn’t show it. And if you had a heart right now, it would be thumping hard, as the beginning of your journey with them is suspended in the air, begging to be let out. “And to make things worse, he praised your pussy, he praised how well you took everything he did to you.” He takes a long drag, some of the ash falling onto his hand, right on the tattooed one, some of it on your hair strands, and you feel like vomiting. “So tell me, how do you think he would feel if I told him you weren’t Army anymore?”

That silences you, and you loathe that it does.

The beginning of your journey with them both has burst open, enveloping you and him in its glittery, yet uncanny aura. You sniffle, the entire trajectory of your little fling with Hobi passing through your sight, illustrated over the cloud of smoke from Jeongguk’s cigarette. From meeting him at a party as your then-bias that you went on with Jeongguk and falling in love for the second time with his laughter, to bumping into him at the empty hallway and battling your eyelashes at him until you caught his attention, to ending up being bent over the sink in the bathroom, only to begin a secret ouroboros of casual fucking and dates, in spite of the fact you were his fan.

In spite of the fact, Jeongguk had already called the dibs on you.

You have nothing to say to that, and you’re not ashamed of what you did in your single life in order to feel alive before you decided to settle with Jeongguk. And because of that, you halt your tears. Your mouth forms a natural pout, fatigued from all the emotions you experienced so rapidly, yet indescribably deeply. You’re not wiping your tears away, you’re letting him see them, and what he does next completely takes you by surprise.

Jeongguk grabs you by your chin and kisses your pout. Inhales it, eats it, swallows it.

Lets you go with barely any breath left in your throat while he is out of his own. Cages you in against the counter with his hands on each side of you on the wood while his cigarette quietly burns away between his fingers, forgotten.

And he might as well be kissing you like this, staring down into your eyes, his lips above your nose. Back to being puffy and flushed pink—merely from that one harsh kiss.

Damn him. Damn him for it.

“So, that’s what I thought of while making the album, while saying yes to all those decisions circling around the seven of us,” he utters, running his tongue across his lips, as if to taste you again. “The decisions you don’t like. I thought about how he fucked you so good for so long, how he ate your pussy like I never could because he’d told me all about your responses, and I knew I never got those. I never made you forget your own name, did I?” he asks, not expecting an answer, as the busy hand with the cigarette lifts and brushes down the side of your hair in a fatherly manner, one you never sensed in your childhood. “Yet still, I wanted to feel this comeback with you in it, since I didn’t get the chance to all those years ago.”

His hand halts at the side plane of your head, thumb fondling your damp cheek. And you feel so sorry, not for your past, not entirely. But because he went ahead with this mindset, and the comeback turned out the way it did.

Not resembling the grandiose vision of their past concepts.

“You hate the songs?” he asks once more, softer this time, his thumb reaching the corner of your lip.

You shake your head, barely. “No.”

“What is it then?” he nearly whispers, sorrowfulness lacing his voice. “What are you leaving me for?”

By some cosmic strength, you elevate your hand to wrap your fingers around his wrist. Just for some sort of comfort as the ambience dunks into the waters of tenderness, but Jeongguk gets the wrong impression. He lifts his hand and presses the cigarette between your lips, letting you have the last puff instead of the first.

And it couldn't have been more significant.

You inhale the blackness of the nicotine, feeling it give you the sensation of strength and confidence to the fullest extent. And when you exhale it, Jeongguk draws closer, opening his mouth. Receives it, gladly. Inhales it. Ends it with another kiss, a slow and a noisy one this time. And if the stupor of your anger hid your arousal from the first kiss, this one unveils it. And the thumping of your ache that bothered you so much at the beginning now travels down to your private parts, uncoiling a blanket of heat to spread down to your utmost sensitivity.

You receive him as well. Perceive him, at this very moment, to be someone so devastatingly real, so out of the mythical boundaries of your former idol attachment. He is not Jung Kook, but the Jeon Jeongguk only the closest clandestinely know.

The one you never did.

Plunging your tongue inside his mouth, Jeongguk groans. A sound that grows when you pry your fingers away from his wrist and take them to his freshly washed hair, instead. Pulling at the strands as you press your body against his heated one, against that one particular part that has awakened, too. And you want it.

For the last time.

Jeongguk moves to your neck, finding immediately your sweetest spot beneath your ear, closing his mouth there before he swipes his tongue over it. Nibbles ever so slightly, just to make you a little crazy, and you fall for it.

Your hands tremble as you work your way down to his belt. Not from your former anxiety, ache, but from the utmost animalistic arousal. And when he sucks on the skin and you let out your first moan that coalesces with the pitter patter of the spring rain, he stops.

“Talk,” he demands, grinding his hardness against your lower stomach, making your bundle of nerves long for the friction to be on it. Takes your hands in his, holds them in the air.

“Nicely?” you tease, but bittersweetly, not trying to hide the venom drenched in it from earlier.

He narrows his lips in a thin line that downturns at the corners. Pins your hands up against the cabinet. Rubs his nose against yours, setting the butterfly wings fluttering within your stomach on fire.

Fire, you’re nothing but fire.

“I need you to realize it was this or nothing,” he says, the movement of his eyelashes this up close the perfect depiction of those dying winged creatures. “And I chose this for you.”

You nod, lips extending in a smile that doesn’t express happiness. “And that’s exactly my point,” you say, the scent of petrichor hitting your nostrils, calming your senses enough to sober them from your looming anger. “You have no freedom, when you can afford to have one. And at the expense of doing this together quickly for an alternate reason we both know, you downgraded.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrow twitches. Dusk descends, flattening over the planes of his face until it is only the dots of stars in his eyes that shine. Scarcely. “I downgraded?”

A film of his past concerts, filled with the myriads of rainbow colors, nestles over your sight, and you nod, pangs of sadness clinging to your body. “You’re not dark. You’re a boy of light. A boy who dances and sings with his body. A boy who tells a story. All seven of you.”

He thinks about your words, his gaze turning empty, and it is death now that stands between you and him.

“I’m a man, sweetheart,” he says, ending your life. “I grew up.”

Flames of grief burn behind your eyes, your body becoming dull and boneless. Fate twists, squeezes, lets out its last breath. Though it brings you back to the realization of how you’ve been seeing him all this time, despite being his girlfriend of many years. The last thing it does before it cracks.

There’s no fight to be had anymore. No points to prove, nothing. It ends here. Even though you shall love him for many years to come upon this Earth, he no longer serves an important role in your life.

Because art is the oxygen you breathe, and he no longer offers that.

“Okay,” you say, at last, receiving the change.

He purses his lips, looking away for a fleeting moment to grasp your unexpected lenience. And when he returns his gaze, there’s a small slighter of hope that flashes across the resilient stars upon his irises.

“Do you want to just… take a break?” he murmurs, realizing he’s been holding you hostage all this time and he lets go of your wrists. Lamenting the absence, you’re conscious of how limp and bloodless they feel, sore, and you shake them to get the blood flowing back again.

Although you doubt there’s any blood left in your system. You’re exhausted, your emotions, however dull now, on full blast that you hardly recognize.

You shrug your shoulders, mind roomless. “I guess,” you say, matching his low tone, yearning for a bed to rest in as your eyelids get heavy. “I’ve been seeing you as an idol this entire time,” you admit, deeming he should know now that the cards have been laid out on the table. “I don’t know you as a boyfriend. As a person.”

He sighs, taking a step back. And not just one, but many, needing a surface to lean against, and you panic, even though you hate feeling so. Hate needing him close so much whenever things get so tough.

Jeongguk rubs his face, and you fear the stars in his eyes will dwindle away with the movement.

And your fear turns out to be true because when he finally looks at you, there’s nothing but blackness plastered over them. Void, emptiness, unhappiness. The stars have been shunned out.

And you don’t want to walk away with this picture in mind.

“I’ll be on tour for almost two years,” he says, like it’s a formal business negotiation, laced with an unallowed intimacy. “That’ll give you the space you need to see me for who I am, and if you still want me then, I’ll come get you. No Hobi-hyung, just me.”

You scrunch up your brows, vexed by the mention of his band member. “Why do you keep bringing him up? He’s not important here.”

Time doesn’t beat once before he responds.

“Because he had you in a way I never did.” Silence smothers the large crevice between you and him, and you’re so stunned by the string of his thoughts that you choke on the rising lump in your throat. “And it bothers me. If he stood here instead of me, things would’ve looked different.”

Your muscles tighten, that rage making an appearance again. “You genuinely think I wouldn’t be going off at a fucking dance leader because Bangpig stripped off your choreo?”

“Yes,” he seethes, gripping the wooden edges of the counter, those knuckles white again. “Because you’re scared of him. Because I know you were even too scared to look at him when he had you tied up and bent in fucking half.”

You grow quiet, the sensitive topic of Hoseok taking the load off your baggage with his dominance softening your rage. And you realize what the undercurrent of his words tries to say.

You see it, you comprehend it, and you’re about to put an end to it.

“I think your problem is the same as mine,” you say, done—done with everything. “You don’t see me as a person, you see me as Army in love with Hoseok, even though that’s a thing of the past and I’ve been your girlfriend for three years.”

He bites his lip, taking in the new angle of this conversation. “You should’ve told me.”

You nod, agreeing with him, so overwhelmed with everything that you fail to remember why you didn’t. “Yeah, I should have. I’m sorry.”

His eyes soften and blossom in size, and that one star you missed peeks up from the sea of darkness. Jeongguk takes a step forward, but not just one—many, until he reaches you. Then, he curls an arm around your waist and pulls you close. Then, he kisses the dried down graves of tears upon your cheeks. And you let it happen. You let him make it happen. You let yourself have this bit of love for the last time, and you allow him to give it to you. As a person, as a man.

“I just want to be what you need,” he whispers, splattering kisses along your jawline, and you nod again, wrapping your arms around his neck, inhaling his scent of cleanliness and musk. The burnt forest landscape within your chest begs for it, devastatingly, and your eyes wet with tears. Pitiful tears. Because you had him for so long, and you had him wrong.

“I want that, too.”

He hums, delighted. You can hear it in that noise, and you desire to feel it in every sensitive point of your body. His, too. “I’ll do anything.”

You hear him, and perhaps your following words are more for him than for yourself. For his growth and healing, than for your own. Because you’ve always handled endings and absences on your own within your rosy aurora of faith. You’ll be okay, but can the same be applied to him?

“Fuck me like the man you are, then,” you rasp, grabbing his face to make him look at you and hear you. “Not like Hoseok, like you.”

And then you gently pull away the glasses from his hair, careful not to get the short strands stuck in the nose pads, and place them down on the countertop that has seen and heard enough. You run your fingers through his hair while he leans into your touch, his features melting into those of a devastated puppy. You try your hardest to blink away your tears, for the effect of missing him already is now being seeped into your wounds like salt.

“I don’t think I can get it hard right now,” he whispers, and your own blurry vision concealed his own because as soon as he admits his weakness, a fresh set of tears leak from the corners of his eyes, and like he kissed your ghosts, you kiss his corpses.

“It’s okay,” you promise, the saltiness of his tears upon your lips heightening the adversity of this moment. “We don’t have to do anything.”

He shakes his head, gliding his irises along your damp, roseate mouth before he bores them into yours. “I want to, just not right now. Give me one more night with you, don’t go today. Please.”

There’s urgency that thumps in his eyes now, even in the middle of this somber dusk enveloping him, and you’re in awe how much that sensation has flourished and deepened—gained such meaning that it’s irreversible. And in order for it to flatten like your heart, you deem it best that you stay and listen to what he says.

You do it for him.

You caress both of his cheeks with your thumbs, and nod. Jeongguk reciprocates your touch by resting his warm hands on your hips, heavy as they are with the baggage you just learned about. You wish everything was different, and you wish to wash it all away, start anew—step into a different reality through a tepid door, where everything is merry and okay. Where you haven’t sought men for a heart-patterned band-aids for your brokenness, where you’re not broken at all. Where there are no managers and chairmans, hungry for quick money and corruption. Where there’s no darkness, but heaven.

Heaven with Jeongguk. Animals, flower fields, and castles. A place of rest.

“I need some fresh air. Do you mind if I go for a ride on my bike?”

You wouldn’t mind if he took the knife he’d cooked with and cut open the black hole in your sternum to make space for the love you have for him, since everything has been sucked out by the darkness you saw and the ache you experienced. Space is fine; you need to be alone right now.

“Go. I’ll have a shower.”

He leaves tacitly, without kissing you. And while your eyes zone out on a spot where he stood a mere moment ago, it still doesn’t go unnoticed by you how he pulls out a cigarette from the pack you share with him. Something about it is oddly familiar and domestic, and you fall deeper into the hole you’ve been dug into.

You don’t know how long you stood there for, lost within your own sphere of absolute numbness and zero thoughts, but it is the rev of his bike’s engine that snaps you out of the trance. Your feet move on their own, sore and cold from standing on the kitchen tiles for God knows how long, bringing you to the balcony, which now glistens with the dripping sheets of rain, illuminated by the moonlight. You stop yourself before stepping outside, not wanting to get your white socks wet, even though it has stopped pouring, as if it followed the flow of the conversation you had with him.

You can still see him, though, if you lean over just a little bit.

Jeongguk sits on his bike, his helmet perched on the spot before his outstretched legs. One hand is gloved while the other is not, the tattooed one with your former name holds a freshly lit cigarette he took from your pack. Old habits die hard they said, but what idiom is there for a name that you so abruptly lose? A name that ties to something you hold so dear, yet so far away from your soul?

He smokes silently while gazing up at the moon, as if he were seeking guidance or some kind of divine help that he never had much care for. As straight as he always kept his spine, it slopes forward now, and you wish you could drift your fingers down that seemingly weak column.

You let him finish his cigarette in peace. You don’t watch him drive off.

The hot steam of the shower doesn’t relieve the tightness of your muscles, or perhaps it does—you just don’t acknowledge it. You scrub your body raw with his body wash, only to soothe it with your hands, but not for yourself, but in order to feel him in some way. You imagine his skin, instead of yours. And you begin to cry so hard that you fall to your knees.

You don’t know how you wash your hair, but eventually you do. Shave. Dry off. Alleviate your skin with a rose-scented body cream. Slide on your pajamas that consist of just white granny panties and his clean Stüssy shirt. You blow dry your hair but only until it gets damp—you don’t have the strength to stay any longer upright.

Jeongguk has changed the bedsheets this morning, and you find out as soon as you step inside your shared bedroom with him. It is akin to letting yourself plop into the cushiness of a cloud as you drop down onto the bed, and you don’t get to cover yourself before the petrichor lingering in the room and the scent of the flowery fabric softener seizes you in a profound sleep.

One not profound enough.

You stir awake when you hear the shutting of the front door. You hear his footsteps as you blink in the dark, your tiredness oozing off and spreading across the ambience of the room. You calculate the time it’ll take for him to reach you, and once your math proves to be correct, the half-dead butterflies in your stomach soar with a lethargic glee.

You don’t see him in the dark, despite the evident map of his presence, but he makes himself known by touching your bare upper thigh with the leather of his gloved hand. You suck in a breath, a foreign vein of pleasure bursting in your body from the sensation—to such an extent that with your following exhale, you let out a small whimper. You don’t think he meant to touch this sensitive part, but it’s easy—the way you find his wrist, feel the leather upon his palm and fingers, and move it to where you’ve been wanting him the most.

He runs a finger up and down your clothed pussy, and it’s the most sensual thing you ever felt. A creek of your wetness lurches out, staining your panties, and you wonder what the material would feel like on your bare flesh. You hurry to find out, dragging his fingers to the hem of your panties, sliding them inside—

He halts your movement just above your clit.

“Easy,” he rasps, a deep thunder resonating from his chest, and you freeze, not understanding why he wants to stop. It appears he’s set his heart on having you soak up his sudden control, and the butterflies in your stomach shake off their coat of death, flying downwards to be close to his large hand. “You like that?”

If he moved his hand south, he would know how much you like that, but still you nod, despite the fact he can’t see you. And the fact clearly bothers him, for her turns on the bedside lamp, a soft orange glow opening within the room, and there he is.

Denim jacket, hugging his broad shoulders, never so oversized for his big stature. Messy strands of hair, black and pushed above his forehead, exposing his beauty in full. One gloved hand down your panties while the other is busy as always—holding the other glove and something… shiny.

A new pack of the brand of the cigarettes you smoke. He must’ve felt bad for taking yours.

There’s a crooked, drowsy smile hanging over his lips, exuding some kind of enthusiasm over what just happened, and you comprehend that the allure of his touch wasn’t intentional, not at all. And he proves your realization with his following words.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he says, spreading his fingers flat over your mound, bending over a little, before he shifts his palm over your bare stomach. He caresses the rose-planted canvas, and you have to bite your lip in order to stifle your pleasured sighs. Even such ordinary touch drives you mad, and if he doesn’t fuck you over the next couple of minutes, you’ll be fucking yourself with your own fingers, you don’t care.

“I was,” you confirm, ever so raspy and seductive, in such large longing for more. “But now I’m wide awake.”

Such foolish, useless words.

“And now what?” he questions, his own arousal dropping like a pink liquid from his voice. You squeeze your thighs together in reaction. “You want me to touch you with this glove?”

Oh yes, now we’re talking. You hum out a needy form of agreement, and your body begins to naturally writhe on the mattress, beckoning him to do something, anything. It burgeons with a flush of titillation, like if the flowers of sex were in full bloom, aching for his touch, warping and curling.

And this kind of ache is okay. It is the alleviation you’ve been seeking, needing.

Jeongguk echoes your noises, moving his hand north underneath his shirt that you’re wearing. Gets dangerously close to the swell of your breasts, fingers in between those peaks, and the sensation of the leather leaves behind tendrils of electricity. He stops there for a moment, allowing you to dwell in it while he watches you without blinking, pupils so large they coalesce with the color scheme of his irises. And when he goes even forward, even against the restriction of the fabric of the shirt that now uncovers your breasts, making them bounce, you suck in a sharp breath—because he wraps his fingers around your neck, and squeezes.

“You look so pretty.”

You drench your panties. You’re done and at his mercy beneath his hand, and he can do anything he wants with you and to you.

For the last time.

i took a break because the most important person in my life unfortunately passed away. it’ll be a month this weekend. i figured you deserved to know why i left so suddenly, and it didn’t feel right to me to speak about it so soon.

anyways this mf always wakes something up in me and i immediately need to write something about this jungkook.

i have to give my thanks to bts for bringing me out of that darkness with arirang. when the first content started appearing, i felt so bad that i was numb and that i wasn’t feeling excited due to my mourning. but they saved me again. arirang is yet again the best thing that ever happened to me, next to them finding me. the album is everything to me.

2.0. is one of my top 4s. it’s my fucking song. and this older 3D!jungkook ruined me and i need to write something filthy about him.

i’m sorry for disappearing, i’ll try my bestest to be your luna.

i love you all so fucking much. tell me your top 3s from the album.

mwah,