a/n: hi everyone! I'm so excited to have finished this story, I've been working on it for a while trying to make it perfect!!! I had so much fun writing it ++ any vegas jungkook look always ends up being my favorite so I had to write something for it. vegas air x jungkook is definitely a dangerous combo!!! anyway, I hope you guys like my fic. I'm thinking of opening a taglist?? comment if you want to be tagged for any of my future works. tysm for reading... don't forget to reblog ⋆. 𐙚 ˚<3

The flight from LAX to LAS takes just over an hour, but you have been awake since four in the morning, watching the dark ceiling of your apartment, listening to the distant hum of the freeway. You told yourself you weren't going to do this. You told yourself you were going to be mature, respect the boundaries of his tour, let him have this without you hovering at the edges like some ghost of Los Angeles past.

But then you saw his story. Posted at 2 AM, the timestamp glowing accusatory in your dark bedroom. Backstage at Allegiant Stadium, the concrete corridors painted that particular shade of industrial beige that exists in every venue in every city in the world. He was holding that stupid vintage camcorder he insists on using for everything, the one that makes everything look like a memory even as it's happening, and he was complaining about the dry Vegas air, about how his skin feels tight, about how he misses the humidity of Seoul, of home, of-

Of you. He didn't say it. But you heard it anyway.

You booked the ticket before the video looped a second time. You packed a bag with clothes you didn't bother to fold, just stuffed them in like you were running from something, and you drove to the airport with the windows down, the Los Angeles winds whipping your hair into a frenzy, the city sprawling behind you in its perpetual golden-hour haze.

Now you are standing in the loading dock of Allegiant Stadium, ducking under yellow caution tape that says CREW ONLY in letters that have faded from sun exposure. The desert heat hits differently here, drier, more aggressive, sucking the moisture from your skin the moment you step out of the rideshare. You can hear them - distant, muffled, the thump of bass vibrating through the concrete bones of the building, the soundcheck for a show that won't happen for hours.

You should have told him. You know you should have told him. But there's something delicious about the surprise, about the look that will break across his face when he sees you, about the possibility that he might be as hungry for this collision as you are.

The security guard starts toward you, hand raised, mouth open to tell you to leave, but you flash the laminate that Hoseok sent you three hours ago in a text that just said come with seventeen exclamation points. The guard squints at the pass, squints at you, and waves you through with a shrug that says he's seen stranger things in this city.

Backstage is a labyrinth. You move through it like you're dreaming, past roadies coiling cables with practiced efficiency, past catering tables laden with fruit you know no one will eat, past the wardrobe racks that smell like dry cleaning and sweat. You find the corridor that leads to the stage-left wing, the one he's posted from, and you press yourself against a concrete pillar that is cool against your spine, and you wait.

The music stops. Starts again. Stops. They're running 2.0 now, you think, or maybe it's Aliens, the melody distorted through the walls, stripped of vocals, just the skeleton of the song. You check your phone. One hour until doors, three until showtime - an eternity.

You watch the makeup artist - Miyoung, you remember her name from his stories - touch up a dancer's jawline with a small brush, precise and unhurried. You drift toward her like you're caught in her orbit, and she looks up, recognizes something in your face, maybe, or just sees another lost girl in a venue full of them.

"You look like you need coffee," she says, not unkindly.

"I look like I need a lot of things," you reply, and she laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the industrial hum.

"Sit," she says, patting the chair next to her station. "I'll fix your face. You look like you flew in this morning."

"I did."

She makes a considerable noise and tilts your chin up with gentle fingers. The brush is soft against your skin, cool, soothing. She works in silence for a while, dusting something golden across your cheekbones, lining your eyes with a precision you could never manage yourself.

"You're the LA girl," she says finally. It's not a question.

You freeze. "He talks about me?"

Miyoung smiles, something knowing and soft. "He talks about the weather in LA. About the traffic. About this coffee shop near your apartment that he wants to try. About how the light looks different there, how it makes everything look like a movie." She steps back, assesses her work. "There. Now you don't look like you just survived a redeye."

You look in the mirror. You look like yourself, but sharper, more luminous, like someone worth flying for.

"Thank you," you say, and she squeezes your shoulder before turning back to her kit.

Time moves strangely backstage. You help a roadie tape down a cable. You accept a bottle of water from a staff member who doesn't ask your name. You watch the dancers stretch, their bodies bending in ways that seem to defy physics, and you think about your own body, about the way it feels heavy with wanting, weighted down by all the things you haven't said.

And then soundcheck ends. The distant thrum of voices, seven of them overlapping, laughing, complaining about the monitors, about the heat, about the dry air that makes their throats scratch. You press yourself harder against the pillar, heart hammering against your ribs, and you wait for him to appear around the corner.

But it's Namjoon first, tall and tired, glasses slipping down his nose, still in his rehearsal clothes. He sees you before you can decide whether to hide or run, and his face shifts from confusion to recognition to something like delight.

"LA?" he says, and his voice carries.

You push off the wall, suddenly nervous, suddenly aware of every hour of sleep you missed, every reason this was a bad idea. "Surprise?"

Namjoon crosses the distance between you in three long strides and pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off your feet, that smells like his cologne and the faint metallic tang of the venue. "You're insane," he says into your hair, but he's laughing. "He's going to lose his mind."

"I wanted to-"

"Surprise him," Namjoon finishes, setting you down but keeping his hands on your shoulders, studying your face with that particular intensity he has, the one that makes you feel like he's reading the footnotes of your thoughts. "I know. I can tell." He squeezes once. "Be gentle with him. He's been... he's been looking at his phone a lot."

Before you can ask what that means, there's a whoop from down the corridor, and Hoseok is running toward you, arms windmilling, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts.

"You came!" he shouts, and you brace yourself as he collides with you, spins you, sets you down only to step back and present his cheek with theatrical expectation.

You laugh, the sound surprising you, and you give him a light slap - firm enough to sting, playful enough to mean nothing - before pulling him into a hug that smells like sweat and peppermint gum. "I came," you confirm.

"Jungkook-ah doesn't know?"

"Not yet."

Hoseok's eyes gleam with mischief. "Oh, this is going to be good. This is going to be so good."

The others filter past - Jimin with a wave, Taehyung with a curious tilt of his head, Yoongi and Jin with nods that somehow feel like approval. They don't question your presence, or if they do, they keep it to themselves. You're part of the furniture here, part of the landscape of Jungkook's life that they've all learned to navigate around.

And then, there he is.

He's at the end of the corridor, still holding that camcorder, the one with the duct tape on the side where he dropped it in Tokyo. He's talking to it, narrating his life in that soft, sleepy voice he gets after he sings, something about the venue, about the soundcheck, about how the dry air makes his throat feel like sandpaper.

He doesn't see you at first. He's looking at the lens, at himself, performing even when he thinks no one is watching. You have time to study him - the way he has slimmed down since the last time you saw him, all sharp angles and new edges, the way his forehead is finally visible again with this haircut, the one you told him suited him best, and the tiredness in his shoulders that he carries like a secret, like something he's ashamed of letting show.

You step out from behind the pillar.

"LA?"

Your name hangs in the air - the nickname he gave you three years ago in Budapest, then cemented during those long weeks in Los Angeles when they filmed the album, when you were around so much you became part of the furniture, part of the language. They say it like a word, like a place, like something that means her and home and the one who keeps leaving all at once. The camcorder lowers slowly. His face shifts through seventeen emotions: confusion, disbelief, hope, fear, sunlight breaking through clouds.

"You're not-" He stops. Steps forward. "You're actually here."

You shrug, missing casual by miles. "You said you missed humidity."

He stares. The camcorder hangs forgotten, still recording. You see the pulse in his throat, his hand tightening on the strap until his knuckles whiten.

Then he's moving.

He crosses the space in a rush that feels gravitational, arms around you, lifting you off your feet, spinning you once, twice, laughing into the curve of your neck. He smells like rehearsal - sweat and cologne and something uniquely him, the fabric softener you bought him last Christmas.

"You're insane," he says, setting you down but not letting go, hands gripping your waist like you'll evaporate. "When did you- how did you-"

"Hoseok," you admit. Hoseok cackles behind you.

"Hoseok," Jungkook repeats, but he's not angry, only present, eyes scanning your face like he's memorizing it, like he's been starving and you're the first meal. "I can't believe you. I can't believe you're here."

"Surprise," you say softer, and his expression shifts, becoming tender and vulnerable.

"Yeah." He breathes. "Surprise."

He doesn't let go. The camcorder bumps your hip. He looks down at it, forgotten, then back at you with a question.

"Keep filming," you say.

He lifts the camera, captures both of you in the frame. You see yourself on the small screen - flushed, bright-eyed. See him looking at you instead of the lens.

"Day three in Vegas," he says, voice rough. "Soundcheck finished at Allegiant Stadium. We ran 2.0 and Aliens and-" he glances at you, swallows, "-LA is here. She just showed up. Like a ghost. Like a miracle."

"Not a miracle," you protest, smiling.

"Miracle," he insists. He turns the camera off, pulls you back into his arms, face buried in your hair. "Stay," he mumbles.

"I'll stay for now," you say, and he exhales like you've granted him something precious.

The hours blur. You find your place at the end of the southwest walkway, pressed against the scaffolding where the lights don't reach, where the curtain hangs heavy and dark between you and the world. Through the screen you can see them - seven figures moving through their formations on the central stage, then dispersing down the four walkways that stretch like arms reaching for the crowd.

From here the stadium opens up around you, three hundred sixty degrees of screaming, of light sticks creating oceans of color, of faces tilted upward like they're looking at something holy. You watch him move down the northeast walkway, then the northwest, then back to center, and you can imagine the sweat on his brow, can see the way he scans the crowd between lyrics, the way his shoulders relax when he finds your shadow in the wings.

You watch them run through Into the Sun - his voice rising through his verse like something carved from light, like a prayer offered up in a language only the faithful understand. He sounds angelic, truly, the kind of voice that makes you understand why people build religions around beauty, why they kneel before things they cannot comprehend. Through the screen his face flickers, close-up, ethereal, and you think of Hungary, of that bar in Budapest where you met, where he was just a boy with a pretty smile and you were just a girl who didn't know enough to be impressed.

He thought you were cute. You thought he was funny. The night ended in laughter and phone numbers exchanged on a napkin you still have somewhere, pressed between the pages of a book you never finished.

Now thousands of people scream his name, reaching toward the walkway like they could pull him down and keep him. You watch girls cry, boys scream, bodies pressed against barriers, living for this moment, this proximity to something they've only ever seen through glass.

And you realize - with something that feels like vertigo - that you are living someone's dream. That the boy they're screaming for is the same one who texts you memes at 3 AM, who sends you voice notes complaining about his laundry, who fell asleep on your couch last November and drooled on your throw pillow.

The thought makes you feel strange, temporary, like a glitch in the system. Like eventually the universe will notice and correct its error.

But then he's moving toward you, down the southwest walkway, and through the distance you see his eyes find yours, and he smiles - not the performance smile, but something smaller, real, meant only for you.

For a moment, the stadium fades. It's just his face - looking at you like you're the only person in the room.

Then the song ends, and he's turning, and the crowd roars, and you're just a shadow in the wings again, watching someone else's miracle from behind a curtain.

After, when the lights go down and the crowd roars and fades, you find yourself swept up with the others, with pizza that tastes like cardboard and the chaos of post-show adrenaline. You're part of the furniture here - helping Namjoon find his glasses, listening to Hoseok complain about his feet, letting Yoongi show you a meme.

"Where's Jin?" you ask at one point, noticing the empty chair.

"Asleep," Taehyung says, scrolling through his phone. "Said he's going to sleep for a year. So tired."

You laugh, and Jungkook watches you from across the room, eyes following the shape of your smile.

It's barely past eleven when Namjoon stretches, joints popping. "Food," he announces.

"That bar in the hotel, the one with the good sliders. Who's coming?"

"I'm in," Hoseok says, already reaching for his jacket.

"Me too," Jimin adds.

Taehyung looks at you, then at Jungkook, something knowing in his expression. "LA? You hungry?"

You are, suddenly - starving in a way that has nothing to do with food. You look at Jungkook. He's watching you, waiting.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm coming."

♤ ♡ ♧ ♢

The bar is in the lobby of their hotel, some trendy spot with leather booths and neon signs that look vintage but aren't. It's nearly midnight but Vegas doesn't sleep, the place half-full of tourists in sequins and people who lost money and are drinking their way back to even.

You slide into a booth after Namjoon, and Jungkook slides in after you, thigh pressed against yours in a way that feels deliberate. The others arrange themselves - Taehyung and Jimin on one side, Hoseok beside Namjoon - and a waiter appears with waters and menus.

He's tall, dark-haired, the kind of handsome that moves through spaces like he owns them. His eyes find yours immediately, skipping over the five famous faces at the table like they don't register, like you're the only one in the room.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asks, but he's looking at you, his smile slow and deliberate. "Another drink? Something... special?"

You order another gin and tonic, and he touches your hand when he takes the empty glass, his fingers warm, lingering. "Excellent choice. I'll make sure it's perfect for you."

You feel Jungkook shift beside you, his thigh going rigid against yours, his arm pressing harder into your shoulder.

"Thanks," you say, and the waiter smiles again, all teeth, before finally turning away.

"Friendly," Taehyung observes, his eyes amused, watching Jungkook."Very friendly," Jimin adds, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"He's just doing his job," you say, but under the table Jungkook's hand finds your knee, his grip tight, his thumb pressing hard enough to make you look at him.

"What?" you mouth.

He shakes his head, jaw tight, reaching for his water with his free hand. "Nothing."

But his hand doesn't move from your knee, and when the waiter returns - your drink balanced on his tray, his smile even wider - Jungkook's fingers dig in just slightly, a warning, a claim.

"Here you are," the waiter says, setting the glass down, his hand brushing yours as you take it. "Made it just for you. Extra lime, like you asked."

"You remembered," you say, surprised.

"I pay attention," he says, his voice dropping, intimate in the noise of the bar. "To things worth remembering."

Jungkook makes a sound, low in his throat, almost a growl. The waiter glances at him, finally, recognition flickering - oh, that’s Jeon Jungkook - but he doesn't back down. If anything, his smile widens, a challenge in his eyes.

"Anything else I can get you?" he asks, but he's looking at you, only you.

"We're good," Jungkook says, his voice flat, final, his hand sliding from your knee to your thigh, his palm hot through your jeans, claiming territory. "Thanks."

The waiter nods, slowly, his eyes lingering on you one last time before he turns away.

"Possessive," you murmur, not looking at Jungkook, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Not," he lies, his hand staying on your thigh, his thumb tracing patterns that feel like writing, like spelling something out in a language only you two speak.

"You literally just-"

"Drink your gin," he interrupts, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on the waiter's back across the bar. "Before I do something stupid."

"Like what?"

He finally looks at you, his expression dark, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. "Like go over there and explain that you're not... that he shouldn't..."

"That I'm not what?"

He stares at you, his jaw working, his hand tightening on your thigh. "Available," he says finally, the word torn out of him. "That you're not available."

The silence between you stretches, filled with the noise of the bar, the laughter of his friends, the weight of three years of pretending.

"Am I not?" you ask, your voice quiet, barely audible.

His eyes search yours, desperate, hungry, all the things he's never let himself show you. "Are you?"

You don't answer. You can't. But you don't move his hand from your thigh, and when the waiter passes again, you don't look up, and Jungkook's fingers relax, just slightly, like he's breathing again.

"So," Jimin interrupts the two of you, leaning forward, eyes bright with mischief. "LA flies to Vegas unannounced. This is a rom-com plot."

"It's a horror movie," you say. "I'm the ghost who haunts his tour."

"You're not haunting," Jungkook says, "You're... visiting."

"Visiting," Taehyung repeats, tasting the word. "Very casual. Very normal."

You kick Jungkook's ankle. He kicks back, grinning.

The conversation moves around you - tour logistics, the venue tomorrow, Jin asleep upstairs dreaming of hibernation. You eat a slider that tastes like salt and grease and watch Jungkook from the corner of your eye. He's animated, hands moving as he talks, but every few minutes his attention drifts back to you, checking, making sure you're still there.

Hoseok orders a third plate of sliders. He eats them with the focus of a man possessed, and when he finally sits back, patting his stomach with a groan, he stretches his arms over the back of the booth and sighs, long and loud.

"God, I love Vegas," he says. "No consequences. What happens here, stays here, right?"

He says it with a grin, rubbing his stomach, and you realize he's talking about the sliders - about the gluttony, the grease, the way he's going to feel this in the morning. It's a joke about guilt, about indulgence, about pretending the things you do in this city don't follow you home.

But Jungkook looks at you, and you look at him, and for a second the noise of the bar fades out entirely. His eyes are dark in the dim light, and you know he's thinking about all the things that could happen here, all the things you've never let happen anywhere else.

You look away first. Take a long sip of your drink.

"Speaking of," Namjoon says, and his voice is careful, deliberate, breaking the spell.

"We should head up. Early call tomorrow."

"Already?" Jimin whines, but he's already sliding out.

"Come on," Hoseok says, standing. He looks at you, then at Jungkook, and his smile softens into something almost gentle. "Don't stay out too late."

They leave in a cluster, Taehyung waving over his shoulder, Jimin making a kissy face that Jungkook flips off. And then it's just you and him, alone in the booth, the neon buzzing overhead.

"You didn't have to stay," you say, tracing a water ring on the table.

"I wanted to." He pauses. "I have stuff for you, actually. Merch. The good stuff. It's in my room."

"In your room," you repeat.

"In my room."

You look at him. He's watching you carefully, no smile now, just open want and the fear that you'll say no.

"Okay," you say.

♤ ♡ ♧ ♢

The elevator ride is silent. The corridor is silent. His room is on the thirty-fourth floor, corner suite, Vegas sprawled out below like a circuit board, like a promise.

You stand at the window while he dumps his bag on the bed, spreads out offerings - a hoodie that smells like him, a hat, stickers, a photocard.

"Here," he says, patting the space beside him.

You sit. The bed dips. You're close enough to feel his heat, see the tiredness in his eyes, feel your hand trembling when you pick up the photocard.

"Someone had a fan tonight," he says, and his voice is casual, too casual, the way it gets when he's hiding something sharp.

You blink, looking up from the photocard you've been turning over in your fingers. "What?"

"At the bar." He doesn't look at you. He's arranging the stickers in a neat row, aligning their edges with precision that feels like avoidance. "The waiter - he couldn't stop looking at you."

You laugh, surprised, the sound bright in the quiet room. "Are you serious? You had like seventy-two thousand people screaming your name tonight."

"Seventy-two thousand and one," he corrects, and there's a smirk tugging at his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "But I'm serious. The waiter, Sunshine. He was into you."

"I didn't notice." You set the photocard down, reach for the hoodie, bring it to your nose to breathe in the smell of him-fabric softener and something else, something warm. "I was too busy watching you eat like you hadn't seen food in a week."

"Of course you didn't notice." He says it softly, almost to himself, and something in his tone makes you look up.

"What?"

"Nothing." He stands suddenly, moves to the window, his back to you. "It's just... you never do. Notice things."

You frown, the hoodie forgotten in your lap. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you fly in, you fly out, and you act like you're just passing through." He's still not looking at you, his reflection fractured in the glass, doubled by the city lights behind him. "Like this-" he gestures vaguely at the space between you, at the room, at everything "-like it's just... convenient. Like I'm just convenient."

"Jungkook-"

"Three months." He turns now, and his face is carefully blank, the mask he wears for interviews, for cameras, for strangers. "Three months since you were in Seoul. And you didn't even tell me you were thinking about coming tonight. Hoseok knew before I did."

"I wanted to surprise you-"

"Surprise me," he repeats, and there's a note in his voice you can't name. "Or keep your options open? In case you changed your mind?"

You stand up, blood starting to rush in your ears. "That's not fair."

"Is it?" He takes a step toward you, then stops, like he's afraid of what he'll do if he gets closer. "Last time you were in Tokyo, you left early. Said you had work. But I saw the pictures. You were at the beach with friends. You just... didn't want to stay."

"That was different-"

"Was it?" Another step. His hands are fisted at his sides. "Or the time before that, in New York? You said you'd come to the show, but you got 'caught up' with your ex-"

"He needed help moving-"

"And you needed to be there." He's close now, close enough that you can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the flush high on his cheeks. "You needed to be there for him, but you can't be here. Not really. Not when it counts."

"That's not-" You shake your head, defensive, confused by the velocity of this, by how fast the ground is shifting beneath you. "I'm here now. I flew here. For you."

"For now," he says, and his voice cracks, just slightly, just enough. "For tonight. And then what? Tomorrow you'll be back in LA, and you'll text me when you're bored, when you need a distraction, when you want to feel like someone wants you-"

"Stop-"

"But actually showing up?" He's not yelling, but his voice has gone tight, strange, the way guitar strings sound before they snap. "Actually staying? Letting this be real? You'd never risk it. Because then you might have to want me back. You might have to need me. And god forbid, Sunshine-god forbid you ever need anyone."

The words hit like a slap. You stare at him, breathing hard, the makeup Miyoung applied feeling suddenly like a mask, like armor you don't know how to remove.

"That's not fair," you whisper, but your voice breaks.

"Isn't it?" He turns away again, paces to the window, and his reflection is fractured, doubled, and you can't tell which one is the real him. "At least the waiter looked at you. At least he saw you. You act like I'm invisible unless you need something. Unless you're lonely, unless you're sad, unless you want someone to tell you you're pretty at 3 AM-"

"Fuck you," you say, louder now, anger rising up to meet the hurt. "That's not- I'm not-"

"What?" He spins around. "What are you, Sunshine? Tell me. Because from where I'm standing, you're the girl who keeps me on a shelf. Who takes me down when she's bored and puts me back when she's done. And I keep letting you. I keep waiting by the phone like some fucking-"

"Stop it!" You grab your bag from the chair, hands shaking. "I'm not doing this. I'm not-"

You get three steps toward the door before his hand closes around your wrist.

"Let go."

"Why?" His grip tightens, not hard, just enough to stop you, enough to make you feel the heat of his palm against your pulse point. "So you can run again? Back to LA, right? Back where it's safe? Where you don't have to feel anything?"

You wrench your arm, but he doesn't let go. You're facing each other now, breathing hard, inches apart, and you can see the shine in his eyes that he won't let become tears, can see the way his jaw is clenched so tight it must ache.

"Say it," he says, low, rough. "Say you're running."

"I'm not-"

"Say it."

And you can't. Because you're not running, you've never been able to run from him, not when he's looking at you like this - like you're breaking his heart and saving it all at once.

"I hate you," you whisper.

"No, you don't," he says, and then his mouth is on yours.

It's hard and desperate and tastes like years of waiting, and for a moment you melt into it, your body betraying you, your hands fisting in his shirt and pulling him closer. But then your brain catches up, the words he just threw at you still sharp in your chest, and you push against his shoulders, breaking the kiss with a gasp.

"Wait," you breathe, your lips tingling, your heart hammering. "Wait, you don't get to do that."

He's breathing hard, his eyes dark, his hands still gripping your waist. "Do what?"

"Blame me," you say, your voice shaking. "You don't get to tell me I never stay, that I never risk anything, and then just kiss me like that fixes it. Like I'm the only one who messed this up."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I-"

"It is," you cut him off, pushing against his chest until he steps back, giving you space. "You want to talk about me leaving? About me not expressing my feelings? Well what about you, Jungkook? When have you ever told me to stay? When have you ever actually said what you want?"

He stares at you, chest heaving, and you see something flicker in his eyes - hurt, defensiveness, the mirror of your own accusations.

"I've been here," he says, his voice low, dangerous. "I've been right here, watching you date assholes who don't deserve you, watching you leave and come back and leave again. What was I supposed to do? Beg you?"

"Yes!" you shout, the word tearing out of you. "Maybe! Or at least tell me! Tell me you want me to stay instead of just letting me go, letting me think you don't care-"

"I care," he snaps, stepping toward you again, crowding you back against the wall. "I care so fucking much it makes me sick. Is that what you want to hear? That I've been in love with you for three years and I've been dying every time you walk away?"

Your breath catches. "Then why didn't you say-"

"Because you were always leaving!" He's close now, so close, his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in. "And you seemed fine with it. You seemed fine with whatever we are."

"I'm not bored," you whisper, your voice breaking. "I was never bored. I was scared. I'm still scared."

"Of what?"

"Of this," you say, gesturing between you. "Of wanting you this much. Of needing you and having you leave instead."

"I'm not leaving," he says, his voice softer now, raw. "I've never left. You're the one who-"

"Because you never asked me to stay," you interrupt, and there are tears in your eyes now, hot and humiliating. "You never said don't go. You just let me."

He stares at you, his expression shifting, softening, the anger draining out of him like water. "I didn't think I had the right," he admits, quiet. "I didn't think you wanted me to ask."

"Well I did," you say, your voice small. "I do."

He leans in then, slow, giving you time to pull away, and brushes his lips against yours - softer this time, questioning. You don't pull away. You kiss him back, tentative, tasting the salt of tears you can't tell are his or yours.

"Stay," he whispers against your mouth, his hands moving to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "Don't go back to LA. Not yet. Stay with me."

"You don't mean that," you say, but you're kissing him again, deeper now, your hands sliding up his chest.

"I do," he insists, breaking the kiss to look at you, his eyes fierce. "I've never meant anything more. Stay tonight. Stay tomorrow. Stay-"

"Stop talking," you breathe, and pull him back to you, your mouth crashing against his, hungry, desperate.

He groans, his hands dropping to your waist, lifting you, and you wrap your legs around him, the friction of him against you making you both gasp. He walks you backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, and then you're falling, hitting the mattress with him on top of you, settling between your legs with a weight that feels perfect, inevitable.

"Wait," you gasp, tearing your mouth away, your head spinning. "Wait, I'm still mad at you."

"Good," he growls, his mouth moving to your neck, sucking hard enough to mark. "Be mad. Yell at me. But don't leave."

"I'm not-" you break off with a moan as he grinds against you, his hips rolling in a way that makes you see stars. "I'm not leaving, but you- you have to-"

"Have to what?" He lifts his head, his eyes dark, challenging. "Tell me what you want, Sunshine. Use your words."

"I want you to stop talking in circles," you manage, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him back to you. "I want you to show me. Show me you want me."

He kisses you again, hard, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, and you meet him with equal fervor, your teeth clicking, your breath mingling. He pulls back just enough to strip your shirt over your head, and you help him, your bra following, and then you're bare and he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world.

"Beautiful," he breathes, and then his mouth is on your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth, and you cry out, arching into him.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hands tangled in his hair, holding him there. "Jungkook-"

He switches sides, his hand replacing his mouth on the first breast, pinching and rolling your nipple while he sucks hard on the other, and you're whimpering now, your hips bucking up against him, seeking friction.

"Still mad?" he asks against your skin, his voice smug, teasing.

"Yes," you breathe, but you're pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. "Take this off. I want to feel you."

He sits back, stripping his shirt off, and you sit up too, reaching for him, your hands running over his chest, his shoulders, the ink on his arms. He shivers under your touch, his eyes falling closed, and you lean in, pressing your mouth to his collarbone, his throat, biting gently at his jaw.

"Tell me," you whisper against his skin. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," he says, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips. "I want your mouth on me. I want to be inside you. I want everything, Sunshine, I've wanted everything for so fucking long-"

You push him back, guiding him until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and you sink to your knees in front of him, your hands working at his jeans. He lifts his hips, helps you strip him, and then he's naked in front of you, hard and thick and straining toward you, and you want him in your mouth more than you want to breathe.

"Fuck," he breathes as you wrap your hand around him, stroke him once, twice. "Sunshine, you don't have to-"

"I want to," you say, looking up at him through your lashes. "I've wanted to. Tell me to stop and I will."

"Don't stop," he groans, his head falling back. "Please, god, don't stop-"

You lean in and lick a stripe up the underside of his cock, from base to tip, and he shouts, his hips jerking forward. You take him into your mouth, sucking lightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, and his hands are in your hair, not pushing, just holding, his fingers trembling.

"Your mouth," he pants, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, your mouth, I've thought about this-"

You take him deeper, inch by inch, until he's hitting the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, hollowing your cheeks. He cries out, a raw, guttural sound, and you pull back slowly, letting him feel every inch, then sink back down, finding a rhythm.

"So good," he babbles, his hips stuttering. "So fucking good, you're perfect-"

You pull off with a wet sound, catching your breath, and he whines at the loss, his eyes opening, fixed on you with desperate hunger. You meet his gaze, then lower your head to his balls, heavy and drawn up tight. You lick at them, soft and wet, and he groans, long and low, his knees spreading wider.

"Sunshine- fuck, that's- don't stop-"

You take one into your mouth, sucking gently, rolling it on your tongue, and the sound he makes is inhuman, a broken moan that echoes off the walls. You lavish attention on them, sucking one and then the other, taking them both into your mouth and rolling them gently, and he's babbling now, incoherent, his hands tight in your hair.

"I'm gonna come," he warns, his voice strained. "Fuck, I'm close, please-"

You pull off with a wet sound, denying him, and he whines, high and desperate, his hips chasing your mouth.

"Not yet," you say, your voice filthy, and you start kissing your way up his body - his hip bone, the sharp line of his stomach, the ridge of his ribs. You push him back onto the bed, your hands firm on his chest, and he goes willingly, sprawling back against the sheets, his cock twitching against his stomach, wet and aching.

"Sunshine," he groans, his voice wrecked. "Please, I need to-"

"You don't get to finish yet," you interrupt, straddling his thighs, pinning him down. "Not when you've been such an ass."

"Then punish me," he challenges, his eyes dark, his chest heaving. "Go ahead."

You lean down, your mouth finding his nipple, and you suck hard, teasing with your teeth, and he shouts, his back arching off the bed, his hands flying to your hair. "Fuck- fuck, that's-"

He snarls, flipping you over suddenly, his strength surprising you, pinning you beneath him. You gasp, your back hitting the mattress, and he's between your legs, his hands rough on your thighs, spreading you open.

"My turn," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You got to play. Now I get to taste."

He doesn't wait for permission. He dives in, his mouth hot and filthy on your cunt, licking a broad stripe up your folds that has you screaming, your hands fisting in the sheets. He groans against you, the vibration making you see stars, and then he's spitting on you, wet and obscene, rubbing it into your clit with his thumb before he goes back to sucking you into his mouth.

"Look at you," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to speak, his chin wet with you, his eyes fixed on your face. "Look how fucking desperate you are. Grinding on me like you couldn't wait to get this pussy on my tongue."

"Jungkook-" you whimper, your hips bucking up, seeking more.

"You want me to eat you out?" he asks, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "You want me to make you come all over my face? Say it."

"Yes," you gasp, your face burning, your body aching. "Yes, please, eat me out, I need it-"

He goes back to work with a vengeance, his tongue circling your clit before he sucks it hard into his mouth, his fingers sliding into you, curling to find that spot that makes you cry out. He's messy, filthy, spitting on you again to make you wetter, his fingers fucking you in time with the suction of his mouth, and the sounds he's making - groaning like he's the one being worshipped-are driving you insane.

"So fucking sweet," he pants against your thigh, his fingers never stopping, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. "Tastes so good. Been dreaming about this, dreaming about having you like this, making you scream-"

"Don't stop," you beg, your voice breaking, your hands in his hair, holding him there. "Please, don't stop, I'm so close-"

"Come for me," he demands, his tongue flat against you, licking broad and filthy. "Come on my tongue, Sunshine. Let me drink you down."

You do. You let go, and the orgasm crashes through you, violent and overwhelming, your back arching, your vision whiting out, your body clamping down around his fingers in rhythmic pulses. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out until you're whimpering, oversensitive, trying to close your legs.

"Can't take it," you gasp, pushing at his shoulders. "Too much-"

He crawls up your body, his face wet with you, and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself, filthy and perfect. You can feel him, hard and thick against your thigh, already ready again, desperate and throbbing.

"Let me get a condom," he mutters against your mouth, his hand reaching toward the nightstand.

You catch his wrist, stopping him, your heart hammering against your ribs. "No," you breathe, your voice raw, desperate. "Please. I want to feel you. Just you."

He freezes, his eyes snapping to yours, dark and blown wide. "Sunshine," he warns, his voice rough, strained. "You sure? I can't- fuck, I need to be careful with you-"

"I'm sure," you insist, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, your heels digging into his lower back. "I'm on the pill. And I trust you. I want to feel you come inside me, Jungkook. Please."

He groans, a broken, guttural sound, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling against you. "Fuck," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "You can't say shit like that. You can't-"

"Then do it," you challenge, rolling your hips against him, feeling the hot, hard length of him slide against your wetness. "Fuck me bare. Fill me up. Show me you mean it."

He snarls, his restraint snapping, and then he's pushing into you, slow and deep and completely unhindered, and the feeling is overwhelming - hot and thick and perfect, skin against skin with nothing between you. You both cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck," he pants, his eyes rolling back, his jaw clenched tight. "Fuck, you feel- you're so hot, so wet, I can feel all of you-"

"Move," you beg, your voice breaking, your legs tight around him. "Please, Jungkook, move, I need you-"

He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrusts back in, hard and deep, and the sound that tears from your throat is primal, needy. The friction is perfect, intense, every ridge of him dragging against your walls, and he's groaning with every thrust, his head thrown back, his chest heaving.

"So good," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours, setting a brutal rhythm. "So fucking good, you're taking all of me, fuck- you're so tight around me, squeezing me-"

"Yes," you gasp, your head thrown back, your back arching off the bed. "Yes, just like that, don't stop, harder-"

He gives you harder, his hips pistoning against yours, the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall. He's hitting something deep inside you, a spot that makes your vision blur at the edges, and you're clawing at his back, your legs wrapped tight around him, pulling him deeper with every thrust.

"Touch yourself," he demands, his voice ragged, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own pleasure mounts. "I want to see you touch yourself while I fuck you."

You slide your hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, swollen and sensitive, and you rub tight, desperate circles. The added sensation is too much, just enough, and you're climbing again, the pleasure building in waves that crash higher and higher.

"Jungkook," you warn, your voice high, broken. "I'm gonna- I'm close-"

"Not yet," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm as he chases his own release. "Not yet, I need to feel you from behind, need to see that ass while I fuck you-"

He pulls out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, and he flips you over with rough hands, pulling your hips up until you're on your knees, your face pressed against the mattress. He spreads you open with his hands, groaning at the sight of you, wet and open and waiting for him.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading your folds. "Look how fucking wet you are for me, dripping down your thighs-"

"Please," you whimper, pushing back against him, seeking friction, seeking him. "Please, Jungkook, I need you inside me-"

He pushes in with one long, smooth thrust, deeper from this angle, hitting places that make you scream into the mattress, your fingers fisting in the sheets. He's groaning, long and low, his grip on your hips bruising as he pulls you back onto his cock, meeting his thrusts.

"So deep," he pants, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, you're so deep like this, taking all of me, fuck-"

He sets a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, wet and filthy. He's hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, the one that makes your legs shake, your vision blur, and you're pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, desperate for more.

"Touch yourself," he demands again, his hand coming around your hip, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough and filthy. "Come for me, Sunshine. Come on my cock while I fuck you like this-"

"Yes," you gasp, your voice muffled against the mattress. "Yes, don't stop, I'm so close-"

He doesn't stop. He fucks you harder, his fingers working your clit in tight, desperate circles, and you're climbing, climbing, the coil tightening, tightening, until-

You come with a scream, your back arching, your body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that draw out his own climax. But he doesn't stop, keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you're whimpering, oversensitive, your body trembling.

"One more," he growls, his voice strained, his thrusts becoming jerky, desperate. "One more position, I want to see your face when I come-"

He pulls out, flipping you over again, and pulls you up until you're straddling him, your hands braced on his chest. He guides himself back into you, his hands on your hips, and you sink down onto him, taking him deep, so deep you feel impossibly full.

"Ride me," he demands, his eyes dark, his jaw clenched. "Ride my cock, Sunshine. Show me how much you want it-"

You do. You roll your hips, finding a rhythm, your hands bracing on his chest, your nails digging into his skin. He's groaning, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your waist, guiding you, lifting you and pulling you back down onto him.

"Fuck," he grits out, his hips bucking up to meet you, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing rhythm. "You're so fucking beautiful like this, taking my cock, fuck- I'm close, I'm so close-"

He groans, long and low, and then he's coming, his whole body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you, hot and thick and filling you completely. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his forehead pressed against your chest, his breath hot and fast against your skin.

"Fuck," he pants, still twitching inside you, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, Sunshine, I wish you could taste me inside of you."

You whimper at the thought, at the filth of it, but before you can respond, he's flipping you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, and diving between your thighs. You gasp, shocked, as he licks at your folds, messy and desperate, gathering the wetness of you both on his tongue.

"Jungkook-" you breathe, your hands flying to his hair, but he's relentless, lapping at you with long, filthy strokes, his tongue delving inside to taste where he just filled you, where you're still warm and full of him.

He lifts his head, his chin wet, his eyes dark and fixed on yours, and then he's crawling up your body, his hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. He leans down and spits into your mouth, the taste of you both mingled on your tongue, warm and filthy and intimate, and you moan around it, swallowing, your whole body trembling.

He kisses you then, hard and desperate, his tongue sweeping through your mouth, sharing the taste, the intimacy of it overwhelming, perfect. You kiss him back with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you, tasting yourself and him together, the most vulnerable thing you've ever shared.

When he finally pulls back, he's breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching your face like he's memorizing you.

"Stay," he whispers, his voice rough, his thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. "Not just for now. Stay."

You close your eyes, your heart hammering, and for the first time, you let yourself want it too. "Okay," you whisper. "I'll stay."

♤ ♡ ♧ ♢

The Vegas sun is too bright. It cuts through the gap in the curtains like a warning, landing directly on your face, and you groan, pulling the sheet over your head. Your body aches in places you forgot existed. Your mouth tastes like him, like the filthy things you said to each other in the dark.

You become aware, slowly, that you are not alone in the bed.

He's awake. You can tell by the quality of the silence, the way he's holding himself still, pretending to sleep. You can feel his eyes on you even through the sheet.

"Stop staring," you mumble, your voice wrecked.

"I'm not staring," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm admiring."

You peel the sheet down just enough to glare at him. He's on his stomach, chin propped on his hands, the blanket low on his hips, the ink on his arm shifting as he breathes. He looks annoyingly perfect. Rested. Like he didn't spend hours fucking you until you couldn't remember your own name.

"You're too smug," you say, pulling the sheet back up. "This is weird."

"What's weird?"

"This." You gesture vaguely at the space between you, at the wreckage of the room, your clothes scattered like evidence. "Weird."

He laughs, soft and warm, and reaches out, his hand finding your hip under the sheet. "It's not weird. It's us. Just... finally."

"Don't say finally like that. Like it's inevitable. Like you knew."

"I did know," he says simply, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. "I've known for three years. You were the one who needed convincing."

You bury your face in the pillow, your face burning. "I hate you."

"You don't." He tugs at the sheet, trying to pull you closer. "Come here."

You let him pull you, let yourself be arranged against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on your head. You breathe him in, memorizing this, knowing you shouldn't.

"I have to go back," you say, the words quiet, into his skin.

He goes still. "What?"

"To LA. My flight's at noon."

"Today?" His voice changes, something cracking. "You just got here."

"I know." You close your eyes, your heart hammering. "But I have work. I have... I can't just stay, Jungkook. I can't just-"

"Can't you?" He pulls back, his hands finding your face, tilting it up to look at him. His expression is wrecked, all the softness gone, replaced by something desperate. "Can't you just... stay? For once?"

"I can't." Your voice breaks. "I want to. God, I want to. But I can't."

He stares at you, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, his eyes searching yours like he's looking for something to hold onto. "So that's it? We do this, we finally do this, and you just... leave?"

"Jungkook-"

"Don't." He lets go, rolling onto his back, his arm thrown over his eyes. "Don't say my name like that. Not if you're going."

The silence stretches, heavy and awful, filled with the hum of the city below, the reality of morning after.

"I'll be back," you whisper, not sure if it's true, not sure if you're promising something you can keep.

"When?"

"I don't know."

He laughs, but it sounds broken. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

You sit up, the sheet pooling around your waist, your chest tight, your eyes burning. You should get dressed. You should leave. You should do what you always do.

But you can't move. You can't make yourself stand up and walk away from this, from him, from the only thing that's ever felt like home.

"Look at me," you say, your voice rough.

He doesn't. He keeps his arm over his eyes, his jaw tight, his whole body radiating hurt.

"Jungkook. Look at me."

Slowly, painfully, he lowers his arm. His eyes are red-rimmed, wet, and it breaks something in you to see it, to know you put that there.

"I'm not running," you say, the words careful, deliberate. "I'm not... this isn't me leaving because I don't want this. I want this. I want you. But I have things I can't just drop. You know that. You have things too."

"So what do we do?" he asks, his voice small, younger than you've ever heard him.

"I don't know," you admit. "But... we figure it out? Together?"

He stares at you, his expression shifting, hope warring with fear. "Together," he repeats, like he's testing the word.

"Yeah." You reach for his hand, your fingers interlacing with his. "I'm not good at this. I'm going to mess it up. But... I want to try. If you do."

He doesn't answer immediately. He looks at your joined hands, at the morning light catching on your skin, at the wreckage of the room around you.

"There's a show in LA," he says finally, his voice quiet. "In three months."

Your breath catches. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He looks up at you, his expression softening, something like a smile touching his mouth. "Maybe... maybe you could be there. In the audience. Not backstage, not hiding. Just... there. Watching."

"I could do that," you whisper, your heart hammering.

"And after," he continues, his thumb brushing your knuckles, "maybe we could get dinner. Somewhere public. Where people might see."

"Jungkook-"

"I want people to see," he says, his voice firmer now, his eyes holding yours. "I want them to know. I'm tired of hiding this. I'm tired of pretending you don't matter."

You stare at him, this boy who waited, who wanted, who finally let himself have you only to watch you leave. You think of three months, of phone calls and time zones and the particular ache of missing someone who exists in a different world.

"Okay," you say, the word barely audible. "Okay. I'll be there. Front row."

"Please," he counters, a ghost of his smirk returning. "I want to see your face when I sing."

"Deal."

You lean down, kiss him slow and careful, tasting the salt of tears neither of you shed, the promise of something you don't know how to keep. When you pull back, he's smiling, sad but real, his hand still holding yours like he's afraid to let go.

"Go," he says softly. "Before I convince you to stay."

"I don't need much convincing."

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "That's what scares me."

You dress in silence, wearing the hoodie he gave you last night, your clothes scattered like breadcrumbs, evidence of what you did here. He watches from the bed, the sheet wrapped around his waist, his eyes following you like he's memorizing you, like he's already missing you.

At the door, you turn. He's still watching, his expression open, vulnerable, nothing like the boy who performs for millions.

"Three months," you say.

"Three months," he echoes.

You smile, small and real, and walk out the door before you can change your mind.

♤ ♡ ♧ ♢

The camera wobbles as he adjusts it on the hotel dresser, angling it toward the bed. He's shirtless, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep and something else, something sated and sad all at once. The morning light filters through the curtains, golden and lazy, illuminating the wreckage of the room - clothes on the floor, sheets tangled, evidence of a night he can't talk about.

"Morning routine," he says, his voice rough, still sleep-thick. "Vegas edition."

He moves through the room collecting things - his phone charger, a water bottle, the vintage camcorder he uses for everything. He doesn't make the bed. He doesn't notice the white bra peeking out from beneath the rumpled white sheets, the strap just visible, the lace detail catching the light.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the camera still rolling, and runs a hand through his hair. "Good show last night," he says, his smile small, private, meant for someone who isn't there. "Really good night."

He stands, stretches, his back to the camera, and the sheets shift, the bra sliding more fully into view - delicate, feminine, utterly wrong for a hotel room where a boy band member sleeps alone.

"Anyway," he says, turning back, oblivious. "Day four today, I'll see you all very soon." He reaches for the camera, hand covering the lens. "Cut."

♤ ♡ ♧ ♢

The video is everywhere within minutes. Screenshots, zoomed-in crops, slow-motion replays. The hashtag starts trending before lunch.

@/kookielover97: um. um. UM. WHAT IS THAT IN THE BED????

@/bangtantheories: THE SHEETS ARE WHITE. THE BRA IS WHITE. HE DIDNT EVEN NOTICE. HE POSTED THIS. HE ACTUALLY POSTED THIS.

@/jungkookbiased: zoom in. zoom in on the bed. second frame from the end. that is NOT a tank top. that is NOT his. WHOSE IS THAT

@/rkivesarchive: ENHANCE. ENHANCE. the lace detail. the strap width. that's a WOMEN'S bra. a women's BRA.

@/kookenthusiasts: he slept in that bed. someone else slept in that bed. HE SMILED LIKE THAT AND SOMEONE SLEPT IN THAT BED.

@/jimingotjams: the bra appears to be a standard white t-shirt bra, possibly Calvin Klein or similar mid-range brand. not expensive. not fancy. someone PRACTICAL was there

@/seokjinsfishingrod: practical. someone practical. someone who doesn't need to impress him. someone who already KNOWS him.

@/theorythread: let's analyze the timeline. he posted the vlog at 11am vegas time. his flight was at 2pm. that means he filmed this MORNING. after someone LEFT. the bed is unmade. the bra is UNDER the sheets. they SLEPT there. together

@/kookielover97: IM SO JEALOUS

@/bangtantheories: the smile. watch the smile again. that's not a performance smile. that's a "i got laid and i'm sad about it" smile. that's a "someone left me" smile. WHO LEFT YOU JUNGKOOK???

@/armydetective: the hoodie he was wearing in his last story. the oversized one. the MERCH one. someone was wearing it. someone was wearing HIS hoodie. and left their BRA.

@/tatasandtaetas: SHE TOOK THE HOODIE. SHE LEFT THE BRA. THIS IS CINEMA.

♤ ♡ ♧ ♢

The text comes through as you're above the clouds, the plane humming around you, his hoodie still soft against your skin. You pull out your phone, expecting a goodbye, a safe flight, something sweet.

Instead: a photo. His hand. Your bra - the white one you couldn't find this morning, the one you left behind in your hurry - wrapped in his fingers, the comments visible on his laptop screen in the background. No words. Just proof.

Then another text.

JK: 2.7 million views

JK: They found you

Your stomach drops. You open the link he sends and there it is - the vlog, the screenshot, the zoomed-in crop of white on white, your bra visible in the wreckage of the bed you shared. The comments are already endless. Bra girl. Who is she. Find her.

You: oh my god

You: jungkook you didn't notice???

JK: I noticed now

JK: I'm keeping it

JK: let them look. let them wonder. I know who you are

You stare at the screen, your heart hammering against your ribs, the hum of the plane filling your ears. Somewhere below, the internet is on fire. Somewhere behind you, he's holding onto the only piece of you he has left, refusing to let go.

JK: three months

JK: front row

JK: I'll see you there

You close your eyes, the phone warm in your hand, his words settling somewhere deep in your chest. Outside the window, clouds stretch endless and white. Ahead, Los Angeles waits. And three months from now, so does he.

a/n: hi pretties! I've had this story drafted for a while and finally finally finally finished it up! currently obsessed with biker jungkook so I thought why not write something with this baddie vibe. also I have dark&wild on repeat and it's sooo west coast coded, hence the 2000s socal aesthetic for the story. my next post will be part 2 for what happens in vegas, for those of you that are interested in reading it! well I hope you enjoy reading this and don't forget to heart and reblog ⋆. 𐙚 ˚<3

The phone book page is soft with humidity, yellow edges curling where you've gripped it too hard. You started with the full-page ads, the ones with motorcycles silhouetted against sunsets and 24-hour towing promises, but they're all the way out in Riverside or asking questions you don't want to answer about make and model. So you went to the small print, the entries that are just names and numbers, and found him third from the bottom in a column of locksmiths and septic tank services.

JK MOTOR REPAIR. No address listed, but the exchange is local.

You memorized the directions he gave you over the phone, repeating them back while standing in your kitchen with the cordless pressed to your ear, certain you're going to end up in someone's backyard being murdered. But the street is real, the building is real, a narrow storefront wedged between a check-cashing place and a store that sells quinceañera dresses in neon pink and electric blue. The garage door is open when you pull up, late afternoon sun cutting hard shadows across the concrete.

You kill the engine. The bike ticks cooling, and you sit there a second longer than you need to, watching the interior.

The shop is deeper than it looks from the street, a tunnel of tool chests and hanging parts and a hydraulic lift that hasn't been raised in a while. There's a radio playing somewhere, something you don't recognize, guitar and a man's voice that sounds like it's coming through a wall. You can smell oil, the particular sweet rot of gasoline that means someone spilled it and cleaned it up but not really.

"Help you?"

You didn't see him. He's in the shadow near the back, bent over something on a workbench that catches the light in pieces. He doesn't straighten up all the way, just enough to look at you, and you see grease on his forearms where he's pushed his sleeves up, and a streak across his jaw you suspect he doesn't know about.

"Phone book," you say, which is not an answer. "I called. About the steering."

He comes toward you then, wiping his hands on a rag that doesn't look like it's helping. He's younger than you expected from his voice, maybe twenty-five, twenty-six, with hair pushed back from his face, an arm full of tattoos, and the kind of tan that comes from being outside at the wrong hours. He looks at your bike, not at you, and you feel the strange relief of being assessed as a mechanical problem first.

"Bring it in."

You wheel it up the slight incline, the concrete uneven where years of tires have worn channels. He meets you at the bench and takes the handlebars without asking, straddling the seat to test the weight, and you watch his thighs spread against the leather, the shift of his shoulders as he turns the front fork back and forth.

"Gritty," he says.

"That's the word."

"Only when you steer?"

"Yeah. I mean, I think so. It's hard to tell when you're actually riding it."

He makes a small sound, not quite agreement, and keeps working the handlebars. The motion is rhythmic, hypnotic, his body rocking with the resistance. You can hear it now, the catch in the steering column, a grinding that isn't quite mechanical failure but isn't right either.

"How long's it been doing this?"

"A week. Maybe two."

He looks up at you then, direct, and you see that his eyes are very dark, and that he has a small scar through his left eyebrow that breaks the hair into two distinct sections.

"You ride it every day?"

"Most days."

"And you waited two weeks."

"I was busy."

"Busy."

"Yes."

He goes back to the bike, but you think you see something shift in his mouth, not quite a smile. He releases the handlebars and steps back, and you miss the motion of him immediately, the way he made your machine into something he was touching with intention.

"I can look at it. Leave it overnight."

You hadn't planned on that. You look around the shop, the single window in the back that's probably an office, the door that probably leads to an alley or nowhere. You think about being without your bike, about coming back tomorrow, about the fact that you don't know his name and he hasn't asked for yours.

"Is that necessary?"

"Not if you want to keep hearing that noise."

You watch him watch you, his expression patient in a way that feels practiced, like he's used to people deciding whether to trust him. The radio has moved on to something else, slower, a woman singing about wanting someone who's bad for her.

"I can wait," you say. "If it's something you can do now."

He looks at the bike, then at the street outside where the light is starting to turn gold, the long shadows of palm trees you can't see but know are there, everywhere in this city, marking the hours.

"Hour till I close," he says. "I can look. But I'm not stopping if you change your mind."

"I won't."

He nods, once, and reaches for a tool on the bench, some kind of wrench you don't recognize. "There's a chair. Or you can stand there. Your choice."

You stay standing. You tell yourself it's because the chair looks like it was salvaged from a dentist's office in the seventies, cracked vinyl and exposed springs, but really it's because you want to see his hands on your bike, the way he moves around it, the way he knows exactly where to touch.

He works in silence for a while, the radio filling the space. You learn things about him without meaning to: he's left-handed, he has a habit of holding screws in his mouth when he needs both hands, he doesn't wear a watch but checks the time on a clock you can't see, somewhere in the back. When he finally speaks again, you startle.

"You found me in the phone book."

"Yeah."

"Nobody uses the phone book."

"I do."

He looks up at you, the screw still between his teeth, and you see that thing in his mouth again, not quite a smile, something more knowing.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me? Big ad, three pages back. Mike's Cycle. They do free estimates."

You feel your face heat, the specific embarrassment of being caught in a choice you can't fully explain. "You were closer."

"To where?"

"Home."

He takes the screw from his mouth and turns back to the bike, but you know he's filed the information away, that he's thinking about where you live now, mapping it, probably knowing the neighborhoods better than you do.

"You're lucky," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Could've been worse than gritty steering. Could've been your brakes."

"I check my brakes."

"Course you do."

He says it like he doesn't believe you, like he's teasing you, and you feel the strange urge to prove yourself, to list the maintenance you do, the way you know your own machine. But he's moving again, rolling the bike onto a stand, and you watch the shift of his shoulders under his thin t-shirt, the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the dark line of a waistband you can see when he reaches up for something.

The sun is lower now, cutting across the floor in a band of orange light that catches dust and makes it look like something intentional, like stage lighting. You're aware of your own breathing, of the fact that you haven't moved in several minutes, of the way he hasn't asked you to leave or offered you anything to drink or done any of the things that would have made this feel like a normal transaction between strangers.

"What's your name?" you ask.

He doesn't answer right away. He's bent over the front fork, his face close to the metal, and you can see him listening to something, feeling for something with his fingers that you can't see.

"Jungkook," he says finally, like he's deciding to give it to you. "Shop's mine."

"Just you?"

"Just me."

You wait for him to ask your name in return, but he doesn't. He keeps working, and you keep watching, and the hour he promised stretches longer in the golden light, the radio playing songs you don't know, the city outside moving toward evening without you.

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹♡

It's been nine days. You counted, though you won't admit that to anyone, not even to yourself in the quiet of your apartment where the number sits like something shameful. You told yourself you were giving it a week to make sure the repair held, that you weren't being the kind of customer who hovers, who doubts. But you knew the truth on day three, when you took a long route home just to pass the street, when you slowed at the intersection and saw the garage door closed, the neon OPEN sign unlit, and felt something like disappointment settle in your chest.

You told yourself the noise was back on day five. It wasn't, not really, but you convinced yourself you heard something, a faint catch in the steering that hadn't been there before, or had always been there, or you were imagining. You rode anyway, to work, to the store, to your friend's apartment in Echo Park where you drank cheap wine on her fire escape and didn't mention the mechanic once, not his name, not his shop, not the way he'd looked at you like he was waiting for you to reveal your real reason for being there.

Day six you almost went. You got dressed to go, stood in front of your bathroom mirror with your keys in your hand, and realized you had no pretext. The bike ran fine. Better than fine, smoother than it had in months, the steering clean and responsive in a way that made you think he hadn't just fixed the problem but improved something, tuned something you hadn't asked for. You put the keys down. You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

But now it's day nine, and you're pulling up to the same narrow storefront, and the gritty sound is real this time, unmistakable, a grinding that matches the rhythm of your heartbeat as you kill the engine. You're not sure if you're relieved or terrified that you have a legitimate reason to be here.

The garage door is open. The radio is playing, louder than before, something with drums that you can feel in your sternum before you even step inside. He's in the same spot, bent over the same workbench, but he looks up before you can announce yourself, like he heard you over the music, or like he's been listening for the sound of your bike.

"Back," he says. Not a question.

"The noise," you say, and your voice sounds wrong, too high, defensive. "It's back."

He straightens up, wipes his hands on the same rag, though you can't tell if it's the same rag from nine days ago or if he has a stack of them, all equally useless. He doesn't move toward you right away. He looks at your bike, then at you, and you feel the weight of his attention like a hand on your throat.

"Riding it hard?"

"No. Normal."

"Normal for you."

"Yes."

He crosses the space between you, and you smell him before he touches the bike, oil and soap and something underneath that might be sweat, the particular salt of a body that's been working in heat. He's wearing a different shirt, you notice, black this time - the sleeves pushed up to the same place on his forearms, revealing his tattoos. The scar through his eyebrow catches the light when he angles his head to look at your front fork.

"Same sound?"

"Yeah. I think. It sounds the same."

"You think."

"It sounds the same," you repeat, firmer, and he makes that small sound again, not quite agreement, something that might be amusement or might be skepticism. He straddles the bike the way he did before, thighs spreading, and you watch the fabric of his jeans pull tight across his hips. He works the handlebars back and forth, listening, and you listen too, but all you can hear is the radio and your own breathing and the faint scrape of his boots on the concrete.

"I don't hear it," he says.

"It's there. It was there this morning."

He looks up at you, his hands still on the grips, his body still angled over your machine. "This morning."

"On my way to work."

"Where's work?"

You tell him, the name of the street, the building, and you see him place it mentally, the map of the city he carries in his head. He nods, once, like the information confirms something for him.

"Road's rough there. Potholes."

"Not that rough."

"Could've knocked something loose."

"It was fine when you fixed it."

He stands up, steps back from the bike, and you feel the loss of him like a physical thing, the space where his body was suddenly empty and cold. "I can look," he says. "But I'm not finding what I can't hear."

You nod, though you want to argue, want to insist, want to make him understand that you heard it, that you're not making this up, that you're not here for reasons you can't name. He moves to his tool chest, opens a drawer with a sound of metal on metal, and you watch him select something, a wrench or a driver, you're still learning the names.

"Nine days," he says, not looking at you.

"What?"

"Nine days. Most people, something comes back, they're here the next day. Suspicious, angry. You waited nine days."

"I was busy."

"Busy," he repeats, and now you know he's mocking you, the same word you used before, the same excuse. He comes back to the bike and crouches down, his face level with the front wheel, and you see the shift of muscle in his back, the way his shirt pulls up slightly from his jeans, a strip of skin you shouldn't be looking at.

"Or maybe," he says, his voice coming from somewhere near the axle, "you wanted to make sure it was real. The noise. Before you brought it back."

Your mouth goes dry. You open it to deny it, to laugh, to say something about customer service and warranty work, but nothing comes out. He stays crouched, his hands moving over the bike with a familiarity that makes you jealous, and you realize you're holding your breath.

He stands up suddenly, too close, and you step back, your shoulder blades hitting the edge of his workbench. He doesn't move away. He looks at you with those dark eyes, the scar bisecting his eyebrow, and you see something there you didn't see before, a heat that matches the heat in your own chest.

"Or maybe," he says, softer now, almost gentle, "you just wanted to see if I'd remember you."

You should say something. You should step away, should reassert the distance between customer and mechanic, between stranger and stranger. But his hand is on the bench beside your hip, his body angled to trap you without touching you, and you can smell him again, closer now, the oil and the salt and something else, something clean underneath, soap or shampoo or the faint chemical bite of the shop itself.

"I remembered," you say, and your voice is barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Your name. Jungkook."

Something shifts in his face, the almost-smile becoming real, small and sharp and directed at you alone. "You looked it up?"

"No. I just... remembered."

He leans in, not much, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the heat radiating from his skin after hours of work. "Most people don't," he says. "Remember. They come in, they pay, they forget my face before they're out the door."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees. "You're not."

The radio moves to a different song, slower, something with a bass line that vibrates in your chest. You realize your hands are gripping the edge of the bench behind you, white-knuckled, and you force them to relax. He notices, his eyes flicking down, and when he looks back up there's a question in his face, or permission, or both.

"You want me to find the noise?" he asks.

"I want you to find it."

"Even if it's not there?"

"Especially if it's not there."

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and you see him decide something, see the shift in his shoulders as he steps back, puts space between you that feels like a wound. He turns back to the bike, but the energy has changed, charged, and you know he felt it too, the thing that passed between you, the acknowledgment that this is no longer about the machine.

"Hour," he says, the same promise as before. "Maybe less, if I'm not being careful."

"Be careful," you say, and you don't mean the bike.

He looks back at you, and this time the smile is wider, knowing, and you feel it in your stomach, low and hot. "Careful," he repeats. "That's not what I thought you wanted."

You don't answer. You don't have to. He goes back to work, but differently now, his movements slower, more deliberate, and you watch him the way you did before, but without the pretense of casual interest. You watch the flex of his hands, the shift of his weight, the way he looks up at you every few minutes like he's checking to make sure you're still there, still watching, still wanting.

The sun moves across the floor, the same orange light, the same dust made beautiful. You don't sit in the chair. You don't look at your phone. You stand where you are, pressed against his workbench, and you wait for him to find what you're both pretending is broken, or to admit that some things can't be fixed with tools, that some noises only stop when you stop listening for them, when you let yourself hear something else instead.

He works for twenty minutes, maybe thirty, and the shop grows darker as the sun sets, the radio playing songs you don't know, songs that feel like they belong to this moment, to the two of you alone in this space with the door open to the cooling evening. He stands up finally, wipes his hands on the rag, and comes toward you, and you see in his face that he hasn't found anything, that he knew he wouldn't, that this was always going to end with the two of you standing too close, breathing the same air, waiting to see who moves first.

"Couldn't find it," he says.

"It was there."

"Maybe." He stops in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him. "Or maybe you just wanted to come back."

"Maybe."

"You could've said."

"So could you."

He laughs, a short sound, surprised. "What was I supposed to say? Hey, customer with the mysterious bike problem, you free for dinner?"

"Something like that."

"I'm not good at that. Asking."

"I noticed."

"But I'm good at other things."

You feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, everywhere. "Yeah?"

"Finding problems," he says, but his voice is low, intimate, and you know he doesn't mean the bike. "Fixing things. Being patient. Waiting for people to figure out what they want."

"And if they already know?"

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, warm and faintly metallic. "Then they should say."

"I want-" you start, but he interrupts you, not with words, with his hand on your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone, and you stop breathing entirely.

"Not here," he says. "Not like this. You come back tomorrow. Come back when the shop is closed, when there's no pretending, when you can say what you want without an audience."

"Tomorrow," you repeat, and it sounds like a promise, like a threat, like the only word you know how to say.

He steps back, releases you, and you feel the air rush in where his hand was, cold and empty. He goes to the bench, writes something on a scrap of paper, and holds it out to you. An address, you realize, not the shop, a street you don't recognize in a neighborhood you don't know.

"Seven," he says. "Or don't come. Your choice."

You take the paper. You fold it into your pocket without looking at it again. You know you won't lose it, won't forget, won't convince yourself this didn't happen. You meet his eyes, and you see the uncertainty there, the vulnerability he didn't mean to show you, and it makes you brave.

"I'll be there," you say.

He nods, once, and turns back to your bike, rolling it off the stand, checking the tire pressure with a gauge you didn't see him pick up. "Ride careful," he says, not looking at you. "That noise you heard. Might be nothing. Might be something important. Hard to tell from the outside."

You understand what he's telling you. You understand that he's talking about himself, about the two of you, about the risk of wanting something you're not sure you can name. You swing your leg over the seat, start the engine, feel the familiar vibration between your thighs that will never feel the same now that you've imagined his hands there, his weight, his mouth.

You pull away from the shop without looking back, but you feel him watching you go, feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner and lose him in the gathering dark. The address is burning in your pocket. The noise, you realize, is gone, has been gone since you arrived, was probably never there at all. You don't care. You'll be back tomorrow. You'll be back every day, if that's what it takes, until there's no pretense left, until he touches you for real, until the only gritty sound is the two of you breathing together in the dark.

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹♡

You don't go to the address.

Not because you're scared. Because you don't chase. Because he gave you his time and his location and the expectation that you'd show, grateful, eager, and something in you resists that shape, that story. You want him, but you want him on different terms.

So you go to the beach. It's Saturday, late afternoon, the light turning gold and pink, and you tell yourself it's for the air, the space, the cold shock of the Pacific. You don't admit that you chose this beach because it's close to the neighborhood he mentioned.

You park. You walk down in your boots because you didn't plan this, and you stand at the waterline watching the last surfers. You're not thinking about him. You're not.

Then you see him.

Walking up from the water with a board under his arm, no wetsuit, just board shorts and a rash guard, and you know the way he moves before you see his face. The economy of it. The way he carries his weight like he owns whatever ground he's standing on.

He stops when he sees you. Twenty feet away, water dripping from his hair, and you watch him process it, the coincidence that isn't one. Something shifts in his face. Not tenderness. Something sharper.

"You didn't come," he says.

"Did you want me to?"

"Seven o'clock. I waited."

"Sounds like you wanted me to."

He sets down his board and walks toward you with that same unhurried pace. Stops close. Too close. Close enough that you can smell the salt on him, the ocean, the faint residue of wax on his skin.

"You're here now," he says.

"Coincidence."

"Bullshit."

You smile. "You don't believe in coincidence?"

"I believe in you looking up my neighborhood and picking the closest beach." He tilts his head, studying you. "I believe in you wanting to run into me without admitting you were looking."

"And if I was?"

"Then you should've just come to the shop." He steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back. "Saved yourself the trouble."

"Where's the fun in that?"

He laughs, short and surprised. "Fun. That's what this is?"

"Isn't it?"

He steps closer still, close enough that his chest almost brushes yours. "I thought you were scared," he says, soft, mocking. "Too much wanting. Too dangerous."

"I changed my mind."

"Or you just like the chase better when you think you're the one doing it."

You feel the heat of him, the sun-warmed skin, the cold water still evaporating off his shoulders. "You're wet," you say.

"Ocean does that."

"Cold?"

"Warm enough."

"You should dry off."

He raises an eyebrow, the scar catching the last light. "You offering to help?"

"I'm offering to watch."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he reaches down, grabs the bottom of his rash guard, and pulls it over his head in one motion.

You watch. You don't pretend not to. His chest is tan, defined, the muscle of someone who works with his body. There's a smattering of hair, darker than on his head, trailing down to his shorts, and you follow it with your eyes.

"Better?" he asks.

"Getting there."

He drops the shirt on his board. Stands there in nothing but the shorts, the wind picking up, cold against his wet skin, and you see the goosebumps rise on his arms and you want to warm them, want to put your mouth on his shoulder and feel him shiver.

"You always this forward?" he asks.

"Only when I know what I want."

"And what do you want?"

You look at him, at the mouth that has said your name zero times, at the hands that fixed your bike with a familiarity you envied. "I want you to stop pretending you don't know why I'm here."

"And why are you here?"

"Same reason you waited at seven." You step closer, close enough that your mouth is near his ear. "Same reason you're standing there freezing and hard and waiting for me to notice."

Something flickers in his eyes. "Hard," he repeats.

"Aren't you?"

He doesn't answer. He steps toward you, close again, and his hand comes up to your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone, rough with calluses. "You're playing a game," he says.

"So are you."

"What's the prize?"

You lean in, your mouth near his ear. "Whoever breaks first."

His hand tightens, not painful, just present. "And if I don't break?"

"Then you win." You pull back, meet his eyes. "But you don't get to fuck me."

He stares at you. Then he laughs, sharp and surprised. "You're cold," he says.

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering."

"It's the wind."

"Or it's me."

"Could be."

His other hand comes up, rests on your waist, heavy through your jacket. "I could warm you up," he says.

"Could you?"

"Find somewhere private. Somewhere with heat." He leans in, his breath warm against your cold skin. "See how long you last before you're begging."

You pull back, meet his eyes, and you see the challenge there. You smile, slow and deliberate, and you put your hand on his chest, feel the muscle jump under your palm. "You think I'd beg?"

"I think you'd love it."

"And if I don't?"

He shrugs, the motion shifting the muscle under your hand. "Then I lose. But at least I'd have you naked."

You stare at him. He stares back, patient, waiting for you to decide, to break, to give him the satisfaction. The wind picks up, colder now, and you feel your nipples harden against your jacket, and you know he notices, know his eyes flick down and back up, know he's cataloging every reaction.

"Not tonight," you say.

He raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"I don't fuck on first dates."

"This a date?"

"Isn't it?"

He laughs again, softer this time. "Next time, then."

"Next time?"

"You come to the shop. Real problem this time, no pretending." He steps back, releases you, and you feel the cold rush in where his hands were. "I'll fix it. Then I'll fix you."

"Big talk."

"I'll back it up."

He grabs his shirt, his board, and walks toward the parking lot without looking back. You watch him go, the shape of him in the dying light, and you feel the wanting like a physical thing, the game unresolved, the prize still in play.

⊹₊ ⋆🏍₊˚⊹♡

It's been six days. You know because you counted, not because you care, not because you keep replaying the beach in your head, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he walked away like he knew you'd follow.

You don't follow. You don't go to the shop. You ride your bike and you feel the wanting every time you grip the handlebars, every time you pass a street that might lead to his neighborhood, and you resist, you resist, you resist.

But now there's a noise.

Not the old noise, the one you invented. Something new. A whine in the engine that climbs with the RPMs, a vibration you can feel in your thighs that wasn't there before, that shouldn't be there, that makes you think of metal grinding against metal, of something about to give.

You ignore it for a day. You tell yourself it's nothing, paranoia, your mind playing tricks because you want an excuse. But it gets worse, louder, and by the second morning you know you're not making this up, know it in the way the bike feels wrong beneath you, the way it resists when you lean into turns.

You pull up to the shop at four in the afternoon, the garage door open, the radio playing something with bass you can feel in your chest. He's in the back, bent over a workbench, and he looks up when you kill the engine, and you see him register you, the bike, the expression on your face.

"Back," he says. Not a question.

"There's a noise."

"Different noise?"

"Different noise."

He wipes his hands on a rag and walks toward you, and you watch him move, the same economy, the same certainty, and you feel it in your stomach, the wanting you thought you'd finished with.

He stops by your bike, doesn't touch it yet, looks at you instead. "Six days," he says.

"Yeah."

"No beach."

"You didn't invite me."

He smiles, small and sharp. "Didn't want to seem eager."

"And now?"

He looks at your bike, then back at you. "Now you came to me."

"With a real problem this time."

"That so?"

"Listen," you say, and you start the engine, let it idle, and you see him hear it, the whine, the vibration, his head tilting.

He kills the engine. He straddles the bike, thighs spreading, and you watch him work the throttle, listening, feeling, and you feel the absurdity of it, the way your body responds to him on your machine.

"Engine mount," he says finally. "Loose. Could've gone another week, maybe two. Then real damage."

"So I came in time."

"You came." He looks up at you, and you see something in his eyes, heat and amusement. "Lucky for you I'm not busy."

"Lucky for me."

He stands up, steps close, too close, the bike between you. "Hour to fix," he says. "Maybe less if I rush."

"Don't rush."

He raises an eyebrow.

"I want to watch," you say. "Like before."

"That so?"

"That so."

He holds your gaze. Then he smiles, the real one, hungry. "Chair's still there," he says. "Or you can stand. Your choice."

You stay standing. He goes back to your bike, selects tools, and you watch his forearms flex, remember those hands on your jaw, the roughness of his calluses.

"Six days," he says, not looking up.

"Yeah."

"You think about me?"

"Do you want me to say yes?"

"I want you to say whatever's true."

"Yes," you say. "I thought about you."

"Doing what?"

"Riding my bike. Working. Sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

"Not much."

He looks up, and you see the satisfaction in his face, male and uncomplicated. "Me neither," he says.

"That so?"

"That so." He goes back to the bike, tightening something. "Kept thinking about your mouth," he says, casual. "The way you looked at me when I took my shirt off. Like you wanted to bite."

"I wanted to do more than bite."

He pauses, the wrench still in his hand. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He stands up, steps around the bike, close enough that you can smell him, oil and soap and the faint salt still in his hair. "I could stop working," he says. "Lock the door. Take you in the back."

"And my bike?"

"Fuck your bike."

You laugh, surprised. "You said an hour."

"I said maybe less." He steps closer, his hand coming to your waist. "I could make you wait. Make you watch me work. See how desperate you get."

"And if I'm not desperate?"

He smiles, sharp. "Then I'll have to try harder."

He goes back to the bike, and you watch him work, and the minutes stretch, and you feel the wanting build like a physical thing. At five thirty, he stands up. Rolls the bike off the stand, tests the throttle. The engine sounds clean, smooth, the noise gone.

"Done," he says.

"That fast?"

"That fast." He looks at you, the heat banked but present. "You pay at the counter. Cash or card."

"That's it?"

"That's the job."

You stare at him. He stares back, patient, waiting for you to make the move. You feel the urge to step forward, to put your hands on him, to make him stop pretending.

But you don't. You reach for your wallet, pull out cash. You hand it to him, and his fingers brush yours, deliberate, and you feel the spark of it.

"Receipt?" he asks.

"Keep it."

He folds the bills, puts them in his pocket, and he walks toward the big garage door, and you think he's going to open it, let you leave. But he stops. He pulls the door down, the metal screeching, and the shop goes dim.

He turns back to you. "Door's locked," he says. "Owner's strict, but he makes exceptions."

"Exceptions?"

"For customers who can't wait."

You feel your pulse everywhere. "And if I can wait?"

He smiles, the game cracking open. "Then you wait," he says. "But I'm closing in fifteen minutes either way. Your choice."

You look at him, the grease on his hands, the sweat on his neck. "I can wait," you say.

He nods, once, and he walks back to his workbench, picks up a tool, keeps working on something that doesn't need working on. You watch him, and the minutes stretch, and you feel the wanting build like the noise in your engine, like something about to break.

At six, he puts down the tool. Turns off the radio. The silence is heavy, expectant, and he looks at you across the dim shop.

He pulls the door down, metal screeching, and the shop goes dim except for the single bulb over his workbench and the red glow of the exit sign. He turns back to you, and you see the shift in him, the game dissolving into something hungrier, more direct.

"Still here," he says.

"Still here."

He crosses the space between you in three strides, and his hands are on your jaw, his mouth on yours, rough and claiming. You taste salt on his lips, the ocean still on his skin, and you arch into him, wanting more, wanting everything he's been holding back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Take this off," he says, tugging at your jacket.

You shrug out of it, let it fall to the concrete floor. He watches you, his eyes dark, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. He reaches out, runs his hands down your sides, over your shirt, and you shiver under the roughness of his palms, the calluses catching on the fabric.

"And this," he says, fingers finding the hem of your shirt.

You lift your arms, let him pull it over your head. The air is cool against your skin, and you feel your nipples harden, feel him notice, his eyes dropping to your chest and staying there.

"Fuck," he breathes, and there's reverence in it, hunger, the sound of a man seeing something he's been imagining. He reaches out, cups you through your bra, and you gasp at the pressure, the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"These," he says, squeezing, testing the weight of you in his hands. "I've been thinking about these."

"Yeah?"

"Every night since you walked into my shop." He thumbs over your nipples, and you feel the jolt of it straight to your core, your knees weakening. "Wondering what color they are. How they'd feel in my mouth."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He reaches behind you, unclasps your bra with practiced efficiency, and pulls it off, drops it on top of your jacket. He looks at you, really looks, and you see him swallow, see the muscle in his jaw jump.

"Perfect," he says, and then his hands are on you, skin to skin, and you moan at the contact, the roughness of his palms, the grease that's still on his fingers from working. He doesn't care, or he likes it, you can't tell, because he's squeezing, kneading, spreading his fingers to capture as much of you as he can.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and he pushes your breasts together, creates cleavage with his palms, and you look down, see the smear of grease he's leaving on your skin, the dark marks of his work against your pale skin. "Marked you already."

"More," you breathe, and he smiles, sharp and knowing.

He lowers his head, takes one nipple into his mouth, and you cry out at the wet heat of it, the way he sucks, the way his tongue circles and flicks. He switches to the other, gives it the same attention, and you're holding his head, your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting him to devour you.

He pulls back, looks up at you with dark eyes, his mouth wet. "You like that?"

"You know I do."

"Good." He stands up, and before you can protest, he's lifting you, his hands under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feel the hard line of him through his jeans, through your own. "We're not done."

He carries you to your bike, still sitting on the stand where he left it, and he sets you down on the seat, your back against the tank. He positions you, spreads your legs wide around the machine, and you feel the leather of the seat against your bare skin, the vibration of the engine still warm beneath you.

"Stay there," he commands, and you do, watching as he walks around to the front of the bike, to the handlebars, to the mirrors.

He adjusts them, angles them until he can see you, and you realize what he's doing, understand the view he has from where he stands. He looks at you in the mirror, meets your eyes, and you see the satisfaction in his face.

"Look," he says. "Don't look at me. Look at yourself."

You turn your head, look into the mirror, and you see yourself, naked from the waist up, your breasts heavy and marked with his grease, your nipples hard and wet from his mouth. You look wrecked already, and he's barely started.

He steps behind you, out of sight, and you feel his hands on your shoulders, sliding down your arms, and then they're on your breasts again, lifting, squeezing, and you watch in the mirror, watch him play with you, watch your own face as he pinches your nipples, rolls them between his fingers.

"Fuck," you whisper, and you see yourself say it, see your mouth open, your eyes half-closed.

"Watch," he commands, his voice low in your ear, and you do, you watch his hands work you, watch him push your breasts together, create cleavage that he then fucks with his fingers, sliding them between, the motion you want from him elsewhere. "You see how good you look? How fucking pretty you are like this?"

"Please," you breathe, not sure what you're asking for, just knowing you need more.

"Please what?"

"Touch me. Actually touch me."

"I am touching you." He pinches your nipples hard, and you cry out, arch your back, push yourself into his hands. "I'm touching you exactly how I want to. And you're going to watch. You're going to see what I see when I look at you."

He keeps working you, his hands rough and sure, and you watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the sight of yourself, by the way you respond to him, the way your body moves without your permission. He's hard against your back, you can feel him, and you grind against him, wanting friction, wanting more.

"Greedy," he murmurs, but he doesn't stop you, just keeps playing with your breasts, his fingers slick now with more than grease, with your own arousal, with the wetness he's drawing from you just from this.

"Need you," you gasp, and you feel him smile against your neck, feel his teeth graze your shoulder.

"You'll get me," he says. "When I'm ready. When I've had my fill of looking at you like this."

He keeps you there, straddling your own bike, watching in the mirror as he plays with your tits, marks you with his grease, makes you watch yourself come apart just from his hands on your breasts. 

He holds you through the aftershocks, his hands still cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples until you whimper and push at his wrists. He laughs, low and satisfied, and finally releases you, but only to slide his hands down your sides, grip your hips, hold you steady on the bike.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your neck, and you feel his breath, hot and damp. "Already coming apart and I haven't even started."

"You started," you manage, your voice wrecked.

He doesn't answer. He presses his mouth to your throat, open and wet, and you feel his teeth, the scrape of his stubble, and then he's sucking, hard, marking you where your pulse beats frantic beneath the skin. You gasp, arching into it, offering yourself to his mouth, and he takes it, moves lower, finds the hollow above your collarbone and leaves another bruise there, dark and claiming.

"Everyone's going to know," he says between presses of his lips, between bites that make you shiver and clutch at his forearms. "Everyone's going to see what I did to you."

"Good," you breathe, and he laughs again, pleased, and keeps working down your shoulder, your chest, back up to your throat where he sucks another mark, higher this time, visible above any shirt you own.

He spends time on your breasts again, not gentle now, sucking your nipples until they're swollen and aching, leaving hickies in the soft skin above, below, branding you with his mouth everywhere he can reach. You watch in the mirror, can't stop watching, your body marked and mottled with him, his dark hair against your pale skin, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

When he finally lifts his head, your chest is a map of him, grease and spit and bite marks, and he looks at his work with dark, satisfied eyes.

"Up," he commands, and his hands are under your arms, lifting you off the bike like you weigh nothing.

Your legs are shaky, unsteady, and he holds you until you find your balance, then steps back. He looks at you, at the mess he's made of you, and his jaw tightens, his hand going to the front of his jeans to adjust himself, the outline of him straining against the denim.

"Strip," he says.

You stare at him. "You first."

He shakes his head, slow, deliberate. "You. I want to look at you. I want to see what I've been imagining."

You hold his gaze for a long moment, the challenge in it, the power he's taking and you're giving. Then you reach for the button of your own jeans, pop it open, slide the zipper down. You push them over your hips, let them fall, step out of them and your boots together, standing there in nothing but your underwear, your skin flushed and marked and his.

"All of it," he says, his voice rough.

You hook your thumbs in your waistband, pull your panties down, let them fall. You're naked in his shop, surrounded by tools and grease and the smell of gasoline, and you feel more exposed than you ever have, more seen.

He looks at you, his eyes traveling down your body like a touch, lingering on your breasts, your stomach, lower. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and you see his hands twitch at his sides, the restraint costing him.

"Beautiful," he says, and the word sounds like worship, like prayer. "Fucking beautiful."

He steps toward you, and you think he's going to touch you, finally, but he doesn't. He drops to his knees in front of you, still fully dressed, his jeans dark with oil in places, his shirt hanging loose, and he looks up at you from below, and the angle of it, the submission in his posture while his eyes stay dominant and hungry, makes your breath catch.

He puts his hands on your hips, gentle now, reverent, and he presses his face to your stomach, inhales, groans like you're something sacred. He kisses you there, soft, open-mouthed, and you feel his stubble against your skin, the heat of his breath, and you sway, your hands finding his hair, holding on.

"Stay standing," he murmurs against your hip, and then he's moving lower, kissing down your pelvis, your thigh, skipping where you want him most, teasing, building. He nudges your legs apart, and you widen your stance, exposed and vulnerable and trusting him to hold you up.

He looks up at you again, his eyes dark and endless, and he kisses the inside of your thigh, high, close enough that you feel his breath, feel the promise of it. "Going to worship you," he says, his voice vibrating against your skin. "Going to take my time. Going to make you forget your name."

He lowers his mouth finally, licks a slow stripe through you, and your head falls back, your hands tightening in his hair, and he groans against you, the sound of a man who has found his religion, who plans to pray at your altar until you're both ruined for anything else.

He groans against you, the vibration traveling through your core, and you feel his hands grip your thighs, spread you wider. He lifts one of your legs, guides your foot onto the bike's foot peg, opening you completely to him, and you balance there, one leg braced high, the other trembling on the concrete floor, exposed and vulnerable and his.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his breath hot against your most sensitive skin, and you look down, see him kneeling between your thighs, his dark hair messy from your hands, his eyes fixed on you with single-minded hunger. "Perfect. Fucking perfect."

He dives back in, and this time there's no teasing, no building. His tongue finds your clit, circles it, sucks it between his lips, and you cry out, your hips bucking, but he holds you steady, his hands iron on your thighs, controlling your movement, your pleasure, everything.

He eats you like he's starving, like he's been waiting for this, for you, his mouth relentless, his tongue working you in patterns that make your vision blur. You feel the wetness of him, the roughness of his stubble, the sheer filthy intimacy of his face buried between your legs, and you grip his hair harder, pulling, guiding, desperate for more.

Then his hand moves, his fingers finding your entrance, and he slides one inside you, slow and thick, while his tongue keeps working your clit, and you moan, long and broken, your leg on the bike shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.

"Good?" he asks against you, the word muffled, and you can only nod, gasping, your head thrown back.

He adds another finger, stretching you, and starts to fuck you with them, hard and deep, curling to find the spot that makes you see stars, while his mouth never stops, never relents. The combination of it, the wet heat of his tongue, the thick pressure of his fingers, the way he's holding you open, using you, worshipping you with his mouth and his hands, builds you fast, too fast, your orgasm gathering like a storm at your center.

You feel it coming, the edge approaching, your body tensing, your breath hitching, and you tug at his hair, warn him, "I'm going to-"

He pulls back instantly, his fingers stilling inside you, his mouth leaving you, and you cry out at the loss, at the sudden emptiness, your hips chasing his face, desperate for the friction, the pressure, anything.

"Not yet," he says, his voice rough, his chin wet with you, his eyes dark and wild. "Not until I say."

"Please," you beg, shameless, your body throbbing, your leg shaking on the bike. "Please, I need-"

"I know what you need." He leans in, presses a soft, cruel kiss to your inner thigh, his fingers still buried inside you, motionless, keeping you full but unsatisfied. "And you're going to wait for it."

He waits until your breathing slows, until the edge recedes, just barely, and then he starts again. His mouth returns to your clit, softer now, teasing, and his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate, dragging against your walls, finding every sensitive spot, building you back up with agonizing patience.

You moan, your hands finding your own breasts, pinching your nipples, trying to give yourself what he's denying you, and he looks up, sees you touching yourself, and his eyes darken, his rhythm faltering for just a moment.

"That's it," he murmurs against you, the vibration making you shiver. "Touch yourself. Show me what you like."

You roll your nipples between your fingers, arch your back, and he watches you, his tongue working you in slow, devastating circles, his fingers fucking you harder now, deeper, and you feel the edge approaching again, faster this time, your body desperate for the release he's withholding.

"Please," you gasp, "please, let me, I can't-"

He pulls back again, his fingers stilling, his mouth leaving you, and you sob, actual tears pricking your eyes, your body on fire, your core aching with unfulfilled need.

"Not yet," he repeats, and his voice is gentler now, almost tender, but the command is absolute. "One more time. Let me feel you get there again. Let me taste how desperate you are."

He waits, kissing your thighs, your hips, your stomach, his fingers still inside you, stretching you, reminding you of what he can give you, what he's choosing to withhold. When your breathing slows, when the edge retreats just enough, he starts again.

This time he's merciless, his tongue flicking your clit in rapid, relentless strokes, his fingers fucking you hard and fast, curling to press against your g-spot with every thrust, and you scream, your voice echoing off the concrete walls, your body trembling, your vision going white at the edges.

You feel it building, unstoppable this time, your orgasm inevitable, your body beyond his control, beyond your own, and you warn him, "I'm going to come, I can't stop, please-"

He pulls back a third time, his fingers withdrawing completely, his mouth leaving you, and you collapse against the bike, sobbing, your body shaking, your core throbbing with denied pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

"Please," you whimper, broken, "please, I need you, please-"

He stands up, finally, his face wet with you, his eyes wild, and he looks at you, spread and wrecked and his, and he smiles, slow and predatory and full of promise.

"Now," he says, "you're ready for me."

You push yourself off the bike, your legs still shaking, and you reach for him, your hands finding the hem of his shirt, yanking it up. He lets you, raises his arms, and you pull it over his head, revealing his chest, his stomach, the defined muscle of his shoulders. You toss it aside and your hands are on him immediately, greedy, mapping the heat of his skin, the faint scars, the dark hair trailing down to his jeans.

He watches you, patient now, letting you take, and you unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down, and push them over his hips, his briefs with them, and he steps out, kicks them aside, and he's naked in front of you, hard and heavy and perfect.

You reach for him, wrap your hand around his length, and he hisses, his head falling back, his hips bucking into your touch. He's hot, thick, and you stroke him once, twice, watching his face, the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes close.

Then his hand is in your hair, gripping tight, pulling your head back, and you gasp, your mouth opening, and he spits into it, hot and filthy and claiming, and you moan, swallowing, tasting him, and he groans, watching you, his grip in your hair unforgiving.

"Fuck," he breathes, and he pulls you toward him, his mouth crashing into yours, his tongue sweeping in, tasting himself, tasting you, and you melt against him, your bodies pressed together, skin to skin, his hardness trapped between your stomachs.

He pulls back, his hand still fisted in your hair, and he walks you backward, guiding you, and you stumble, follow, your legs weak, your body throbbing with need. He backs you up to the workbench, the same one where you watched him work, where you imagined his hands on you, and he lifts you onto it, the metal cold against your bare skin, and spreads your legs, steps between them.

He looks at you, spread out on his workbench, naked and marked and his, and he groans, his hand finding himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes dark and endless.

"Condom," he manages, and he reaches past you, fumbles in a drawer, pulls one out, tears it open with his teeth. You watch him roll it on, your breath shallow, your body aching, and then he's there, pressing against your entrance, and he meets your eyes.

"Look at me," he commands, and you do, and he pushes into you, slow and thick and perfect, and you cry out, your head falling back, but his hand is in your hair again, pulling you back, forcing your eyes to his.

"Look at me," he repeats, and you do, you watch him as he fills you, as he bottoms out, as he holds there, throbbing inside you, and you feel complete, stretched, owned.

He starts to move, slow at first, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him closer, and he groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and fast.

"So tight," he murmurs, "so fucking perfect," and he speeds up, his hips snapping, the workbench creaking beneath you, and you moan, your nails digging into his back, your body climbing again, the denied orgasms making you sensitive, desperate.

He fucks you like that, missionary on his workbench, his eyes locked on yours, his hand still in your hair, controlling you, using you, and you feel it building again, inevitable, and you beg him, "Please, please, let me come, I can't-"

"Not yet," he grits out, his jaw tight, his rhythm faltering, and he pulls out, leaves you empty and aching, and you sob, but he's already turning you, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and you scramble onto your knees, your cheek pressed to the cold metal, your hands gripping the far edge.

He enters you from behind, deep and hard, and you scream, your back arching, and he groans, his hands on your hips, gripping tight, and he starts to fuck you, brutal and relentless, the sound of skin on skin filling the shop, your moans and his grunts and the creak of the bench.

He reaches around, finds your clit, rubs it in rough, desperate circles, and you cry out, your body shaking, your orgasm looming, and he feels it, feels you tightening around him, and he pulls his hand away, slows his strokes, denies you again.

"Please," you whimper, your voice broken, "please, please, I need to come, please-"

He pulls out, and you sob, but he's already moving, pulling you off the bench, turning you around, and he lifts you, his hands under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he presses you against the wall, the concrete cold against your back, and he enters you again, holding you up, your weight on him, and you feel him deep, so deep, hitting places he hadn't before.

He fucks you against the wall, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, leaving more marks, and you hold on, your nails in his shoulders, your head thrown back, and you feel it building, unstoppable, your body beyond his control, beyond your own.

"Now," he growls against your ear, "come for me now," and he reaches between you, finds your clit, rubs it hard and fast, and you explode, your orgasm crashing through you, your scream echoing off the walls, your body convulsing around him, and he keeps fucking you, keeps rubbing you, drawing it out, making you come and come until you're sobbing, limp against him.

He slows, still hard inside you, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. You feel him throbbing, feel how close he is, how he's holding back, and you tighten around him, wanting to draw it out, wanting to feel him lose control.

But he pulls out, sets you down, your legs barely holding you, and you stumble, catch yourself on the workbench, and he looks at you, dark and wild and commanding.

"On your knees," he says, his voice rough.

You drop, the concrete hard against your knees, and you look up at him, his length inches from your face, heavy and wet and perfect. You reach for him, want to taste him, want to take him into your mouth and finish him there, but he catches your wrist, stops you, his grip firm.

You look up, confused, desperate, and he smiles, slow and cruel and full of promise.

"Maybe next time, princess," he says, and he takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, his eyes locked on yours, on your face, on your body marked and naked and his.

He comes with a groan, his head falling back, his spend hot across your breasts, your nipples, your throat, marking you one final time, and you watch him, watch the pleasure wash over him, the way his jaw tightens, his muscles clench.

He looks down at you, at his mess on your skin, and he smiles, satisfied, sated, already planning.

"Next time," he repeats, and you know there will be one.

You don't even need to break your bike.

The smell of 2013 college basketball was a potent mix of stale popcorn, cheap body spray, floor wax, and the electric hum of a gym packed to the rafters. The neon lights of the scoreboard buzzed overhead, displaying a glowing victory for the university’s home team.

In the center of the court, Min Yoongi was basking in it.

He wore his jersey loose, the fabric damp with sweat, his snapback turned backward over messy black hair. He was the university’s star point guard, the guy whose face was on the campus flyers, and, worst of all, he knew exactly how good he was. He had a reputation that preceded him both on the court and off it: fast, ruthless, and entirely unapologetic. He was a playboy in the truest sense of the word, navigating the campus social scene with a lazy, cat-like grin that had half the student body falling over themselves just to get his attention.

He was currently laughing at something his teammate said, slinging a towel over his shoulder, when his eyes scanned the dispersing crowd.

That was when he saw you.

You were sitting near the top of the bleachers, clutching a heavy textbook to your chest like a shield. You wore an oversized cardigan that practically swallowed your hands, and your eyes were fixed firmly on the exit, trying to navigate the sea of rowdy students without making eye contact with a single soul. You were the epitome of the shy, quiet girl who accidentally wandered into a pep rally.

Yoongi stopped mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed, tracking your movement as you carefully stepped down the bleachers. There was something about the way you carried yourself—the quiet defiance of your existence in a room full of noise, the soft curve of your lips as you chewed on your inner cheek nervously.

He didn't just want you. He needed to have you.

"Hey, Yoongi, you coming to the after-party at the house?" his teammate asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

Yoongi didn't take his eyes off you. "Yeah. I'll be there. Just gotta take care of something first."

He knew your type. Safe. Innocent. The kind of girl who did her homework on Friday nights and got flustered when a guy asked for a pencil. A girl like you wouldn't be easy. You wouldn't fall for the usual lines, and you certainly wouldn't just jump into his bed because he wore a varsity jersey. But a smirk tugged at the corner of Yoongi’s lips. He was Min Yoongi.He liked a challenge, and more than that, he liked the thought of breaking down that quiet exterior until there was nothing left but his name on your lips.

It took him two weeks to finally get you in a space where you couldn't just walk away.

The university library was quiet, smelling of old paper and dust. You were tucked into a corner booth, a stack of research papers spread out in front of you, a glowing MacBook Pro casting a soft light on your face. You were completely in your element, focused and serene.

Until a heavy, leather varsity jacket slid onto the back of the chair opposite you.

You blinked, looking up from your laptop. Yoongi slid into the booth, his long legs stretching out under the small table, intentionally brushing his sneaker against your boot. He was wearing a grey hoodie, the hood pulled down, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"You're hard to track down," he said, his voice a low, raspy drawl that vibrated straight to your core.

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on your highlighter. You knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. "Can I help you?" you whispered, your voice small, instantly betraying your nerves.

Yoongi’s smirk widened. He loved it. The way your cheeks flushed a faint pink just from him looking at you. "Yeah. You can tell me your name. I've seen you at the games."

"I... I only went to one. My roommate dragged me," you stammered, looking back down at your papers, hoping he would take the hint and leave. "I'm just trying to study."

"I'm Yoongi." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, invading your space. The scent of him—something woody, masculine, and entirely intoxicating, it washed over you. "And I don't think I caught your name."

You hesitated, looking up through your eyelashes. You felt small beneath his gaze, exposed. "Y/N Name," you murmured.

"Beautiful," he purred, the word rolling off his tongue like dark honey. "You going to the bonfire this Friday, Y/N?"

"No. I don't really do... parties."

"Shame." Yoongi reached out, his long, pale fingers casually tapping the edge of your textbook. His knuckles were slightly scraped from practice, a detail that made your pulse quicken. "I guess I'll just have to keep finding you here, then."

"Why are you talking to me?" you asked, a sudden spark of defensive courage flickering in your chest. You weren't stupid. You knew his reputation. He was a heartbreaker, a guy who changed girls as often as he changed his sneakers. "Don't you have a hundred other people who actually want your attention?"

Yoongi’s eyes darkened, the smirk fading into a look of genuine, predatory interest. He liked that you had a little bit of bite behind that shy exterior. It made the anticipation even sweeter.

"They're not you," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a promise that made a shiver run down your spine. "See you around, sweetheart."

He slid out of the booth as smoothly as he had entered, leaving you staring at the empty space, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The slow burn was agonizing, and Yoongi played it beautifully.

For the next month, he was everywhere. He would pop up next to you in the campus coffee shop, buying your iced Americano before you could reach for your wallet. He would walk past your table in the student union, lingering just long enough to ruffle your hair or whisper something teasing in your ear that left you burning red for the rest of the afternoon.

He didn't rush you. He was breaking down your walls brick by brick, letting you get used to his presence, letting you crave the casual touches—the hand on the small of your back to guide you through a crowded hallway, the way he would lean close to whisper secrets in class, his hot breath brushing against your earlobe.

You tried to resist. You told yourself he was a playboy, that you were just a game to him. But the way he looked at you—like you were the only person in a crowded room—was a drug, and you were rapidly becoming an addict.

The tipping point came on a rainy Tuesday night in late November.

The campus was quiet, drenched in a cold autumn downpour. You were walking back from the late-night computer lab, shivering beneath your umbrella, when a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb beside you. The window rolled down, revealing Yoongi behind the wheel.

"Get in," he commanded softly.

"Yoongi, I'm almost at my dorm—"

"I said get in, Y/N. It's freezing."

Defeated and shivering, you opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. The warmth of the car hit you instantly, along with the heavy scent of his cologne. He immediately reached over, turning the heater up, his hand lingering near your knee for a second before he pulled back.

He didn't drive to your dorm. Instead, he drove toward the athletic complex, parking in the secluded, dark lot behind the old gym where the players usually kept their cars. The rain beat a frantic rhythm against the roof, creating an intense, suffocating bubble of privacy.

Yoongi turned off the engine, the sudden silence inside the car heavy and thick with tension. He turned in his seat, resting his arm on the steering wheel, his dark eyes boring into yours.

"You've been avoiding me this week," he stated, his voice quiet, dangerous.

"I haven't," you lied, looking down at your hands. "I've just been busy."

"Look at me."

The authority in his voice made you look up. He was staring at your lips, his jaw tight. The lazy, playful basketball star was gone; in his place was a man who was entirely out of patience.

"I've been good, haven't I?" Yoongi murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that always made your thighs press together. "I took it slow. I let you get comfortable. But I'm losing my mind here, Y/N. I think about you constantly. I want you so bad it hurts."

Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath hitched, your shy nature warring violently with the overwhelming desire pool in your lower belly. "Yoongi... you have so many girls..."

"I don't give a fuck about anyone else," he growled, leaning across the console. His hand shot out, his long fingers cupping your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek to force you to stay focused on him. His touch was hot, electric. "Look at me. Tell me you don't want this. Tell me to leave you alone, and I'll walk away. Right now."

You looked into his dark, fierce eyes. You saw the raw hunger there, but you also saw something unyielding. You knew that if you said no, he would walk, and the thought of never having his attention again made your stomach drop.

"I don't want you to leave," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Yoongi let out a low, dark growl, and then he was moving.

He didn't just kiss you; he claimed you. His mouth crashed into yours with a fierce, burning hunger that took your breath away. His tongue slid into your mouth, dominant and possessive, tasting you deeply while his hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, gripping your hair gently to hold you still for the onslaught.

You let out a soft whimper into his mouth, your hands instantly flying up to grip the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer. The sheer contrast of your innocence against his raw, experienced dominance was intoxicating. He tasted like mint and heat, and you were completely helpless against it.

"Fuck," Yoongi groaned against your lips, breaking the kiss for just a fraction of a second to press his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "My apartment. Now."

The drive to his off-campus apartment was a blur of rain-slicked streets and trembling hands. The moment the door to his place clicked shut behind you, the air exploded.

Yoongi didn't even turn on the lights. He threw his keys onto the counter, his hands instantly finding your waist, lifting you effortlessly up against the front door. The hard wood pressed into your back as his mouth found yours again, harder this time, more desperate.

"Yoongi—" you gasped as he tore his mouth away to bite down gently on the sensitive skin of your neck.

"You're so small," he muttered against your skin, his hands sliding up under your cardigan, his palms hot against your bare waist. "So fucking soft. I’ve been waiting a month to do this."

He carried you into his bedroom, throwing you onto the mattress. The room was dark, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlights outside his window. You looked up at him, your chest heaving, your hair wild against his pillows. He stood over the bed, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of you, before he reached down and pulled his hoodie over his head in one smooth motion, discarding it on the floor.

His body was lean, toned from hours on the court, his chest broad and his shoulders wide. You swallowed hard, a wave of shyness hitting you again as he crawled onto the bed, looming over you like a predator.

"Still nervous?" he whispered, his voice incredibly dirty, a wicked smirk returning to his lips. He reached down, unbuttoning your cardigan and pushing it off your shoulders, leaving you in just your thin camisole. "Don't be. I'm gonna take real good care of you, sweetheart. But I'm gonna make you scream."

He leaned down, kissing you thoroughly while his hands went to the button of your jeans. He undone them with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim, making you gasp against his lips. He pulled the jeans down your legs, throwing them to the floor, leaving you completely exposed to his gaze.

Yoongi sat back on his heels, his eyes scanning your body. The sheer appreciation in his gaze made you want to hide, but he wouldn't let you. He grabbed your ankles, pulling you down to the edge of the bed.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "Fucking perfect."

Without another word, he moved between your knees. He didn't hesitate; his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide, and he leaned down, burying his face between your legs.

The first touch of his tongue made your back arch completely off the bed. You let out a loud, high-pitched cry, your hands flying up to grip the headboard.

"Yoongi! Oh my god, wait—"

"Shh," he mumbled against your wet skin, his breath hot and damp. "Just take it."

He was ruthless. His tongue was heavy, stroke after stroke against your sensitive center, finding your rhythm instantly. He used his fingers, sliding two of them inside you, stretching you out while his mouth worked relentlessly on your clit. The combination was too much for your inexperienced body. You were burning up, twisting against the sheets, your hips moving involuntarily against his mouth.

"Please," you sobbed, the pleasure turning into a sweet, agonizing torture. "Yoongi, please, I can't—"

"Come for me," he demanded, looking up at you through his dark hair, his fingers working deep inside you. "Let me see it."

With a final, deep stroke of his tongue, you shattered. Your body went rigid, a loud, breathless scream tearing from your throat as your walls clamped down hard on his fingers. Yoongi watched every second of it, a look of pure, primal satisfaction on his face as you shook beneath him, completely undone.

He didn't give you time to recover.

Yoongi stood up, quickly stripping out of his own sweatpants and boxers. You caught a glimpse of him in the dim light—thick, heavy, and fully aroused—and your eyes widened. He looked monstrously large, and a spike of genuine fear mixed with desire hit your gut.

"Open your legs for me, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice dropping into a dirty, guttural rasp as he crawled back over you.

He didn't just slide in. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing his wet tip against you, making you whimper and writhe beneath him.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his jaw clenching as he pushed just the head inside. "Fuck, look at you. You're soaking wet for me."

"Yoongi, it's... it's a lot," you whispered, your hands gripping his broad shoulders, your knuckles white.

"I know. I'm gonna go slow," he promised, though the sweat tensing on his brow suggested otherwise. He gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, and with one smooth, heavy thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.

You let out a choked cry, your eyes flying open as a wave of fullness and intense friction washed over you. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his chest pressing down against yours, his mouth finding your ear.

"You feel so fucking good," he whispered, his dirty talk filling the quiet room. "Tight little thing. You're taking all of it so well."

He began to move, a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm that had you gasping for air. Every time he thrust into you, his lower abdomen slammed against yours, the sound of skin hitting skin loud and primal in the dark room. Yoongi wasn't the gentle, patient boy from the library anymore. He was a force of nature.

He changed the angle, lifting your legs onto his shoulders. The new position opened you up completely, allowing him to drive deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made your entire body tremble.

"Ah! Yoongi! Wait, right there—" you screamed, your fingers digging into his back, leaving red marks.

"Right here?" he growled, a wicked, triumphant look in his eyes. He began to hammer into that exact spot, his pace quickening, turning hard and fast. "You like it when I hit it like that? Huh? Tell me how my dick feels inside you."

"It's... it's too much, oh my god, Yoongi!" You were crying out, completely lost in the sensation, your head tossing from side to side on the pillow.

"Tell me," he demanded, his thrusts becoming savage, relentless. He was sweating now, his muscles rippling with every movement. "Say my name. Tell me who's fucking you."

"Yoongi! Yoongi, please!"

He let out a loud, guttural shout, his face contorting with pleasure. He flipped you over suddenly, forcing you onto your hands and knees. You barely had time to recover before his chest collapsed against your back, his heavy hand gripping your hip to pull you back against his thighs.

He entered you from behind with one brutal, deep thrust that made you buckle. He held you up by your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, leaving bruises that you knew would remind you of him for days. From this angle, he was hitting you deeper than before, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice completely vulgar now, stripped of any filter. "Look at you, taking it like a good girl. I knew I'd break you. I knew I'd get you in my bed screaming for me."

The dirty talk was the final straw. The combination of his thick, heavy length stretching you out and the raw, dirty dominance of his words pushed you over the edge for the second time. You collapsed onto the pillows, your hips still bucking back against him as your body convulsed in a violent, messy orgasm.

Hearing your undone cries, Yoongi lost his grip on his own control. He let out a loud, animalistic groan, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as he drove himself into your contracting walls. With one final, deep slam, he buried himself inside you, his body tensing completely as he came, filling you with his heat.

He collapsed on top of you, his heavy, sweaty body crushing you into the mattress. The only sound in the room was the heavy rain outside and the frantic, ragged breathing of both of you.

An hour later, the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle.

The room was cool, but beneath the heavy comforter, it was boiling. You were curled up against Yoongi's side, your head resting on his bare chest, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart. His long arm was wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you so close that there was no space between you.

The shyness had returned slightly, the reality of what you had just done settling in. You stared at the dark wall, wondering if tomorrow you would just be another girl he ignored on campus.

As if reading your mind, Yoongi shifted. His hand moved up to your chin, gently tilting your face up so you had to look at him. The dark, predatory look was gone, replaced by something softer, warmer, but no less intense.

"Hey," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lip. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" you whispered.

"Overthink it. I see it in your eyes." He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—a stark contrast to the bruising kisses from earlier. "You're not a game, Y/N. I told you, I wanted you. And now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."

A soft, genuine smile broke across your face, the last of your fears melting away. You buried your face back into his chest, your hands curling into his skin.

His absolute favorite way to start the day is waking you up with his head between your thighs. Gently parting your legs in the soft morning light and going down on you until you're a trembling, gasping mess before you've even had coffee. He loves the taste of you mixed with sleep.

Yoongi loves eating you out, hes trained for this. He will take u in any position— on his knees, sitting on his face, from behind— he will eat it, just pls tell him.

He has a thing for watching you come on his cock, then pulling out immediately after and finishing all over your stomach or tits. He likes to think of it as a territory marking. and he'll do it with this possessive, dizzy look in his eyes, moaning your name as he stripes your skin with his cum.

He loves it when you're messy. If you're on top and you ride him hard, he'll grip your hips and growl, “That's it, make a mess for me. Get your pretty pussy all messy on my dick.” He gets off on the visual and the slick, wet sounds.

Praise is filthy in his mouth. It's never just “you're pretty.” It's “Look at you, taking my cock so well. Such a good fucking girl for me, aren't you? Perfect little thing.” He says it right against your ear, voice gravelly and low.

But he flips to degradation so smoothly it makes your head spin. One moment it's “good girl” the next, his hand is tight in your hair, pulling just enough to sting as he thrusts up into you. “Just a greedy little thing, aren't you? Can't get enough. You'd take it all day, wouldn't you? My used-up girl.”

He's a big fan of overstimulation. When you're oversensitive and shaking after coming, he won't stop. He'll hold you down, pinning your hips, and keep thrusting, whispering, “One more, come on. I know you can give me one more. Squeeze my cock again with that tight little cunt.”

He loves making you say what you want in the dirtiest terms. He'll have you pinned, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit, and he'll ask, “What does my girl need? Use your words.” And if you mumble it, he'll stop. “Louder. Tell me you need my cock in your slutty little pussy.”

He has a praise kink for himself too, but only from you. When he's feeling subby and needy, he'll lay his forehead on yours and guide your hand to his cheek. “Tell me Im doing good,” he'll whine, moving his hips so slowly into your wet pussy. And you'll stroke his cheek and whisper all the filthy things hes doing to you, praising him for how hard hes fucking you, how deep hes going inside of you. He comes hard just from hearing it, his thrusts loses rhythm, whimpering mess.

He has a thing for your underwear. He'll pick out what he wants you to wear, the laciest, most delicate things, just so he can tear them off you later. Or sometimes he'll just push them aside instead, fucking you through the fabric until it's soaked.

The ultimate for him is when you're so fucked-out you can't move, and he has to take care of you. He'll bring you water, feed you bits of food, and tuck the blankets around you, all while wearing that soft, sleepy smile. You're his beautiful, well-used mess.

He gets a thrill from you using him for your pleasure. On days when he's more submissive, he'll tell you, “Just ride me, use my cock until you're satisfied. Don't worry about me.” And he'll lie there, hands gripping the sheets tight, watching you take what you need from him, which in turn drives him wild.

Yoongi has a borderline obsession with u calling him by his name. He needs u to say Yoongi, If you're being quiet, he'll slow his thrusts to an agonizing grind, his forehead against yours, and rasp, “Say it. I need to hear it.” And when you finally break, whimpering his name, it unleashes something feral in him. His rhythm turns punishing, his grip bruising, his eyes black with a possessive high. “Again,” he demands, voice shredded. “Louder. Let the whole neighborhood know who's fucking you this good.” He'll fuck you through your climax, chanting “Say my name, keep moaning my name” until you're sobbing it, a broken mantra against his hot mouth. But it's the quiet times that really gets him—your sleepy morning mumble or a soft sigh during a cuddle—that makes his chest feel tight. He collects every time you say it. To him, from your lips, it's proof he's yours. ㅤ♡ྀི

A/N: this is an apology for not posting in a while lmfao, i wanted to post sfw and nsfw in same post bcuz hes just so gentle and hot, I couldn’t just show his filthy side.

Hope yall enjoyed!!